Did someone surrender? Rain wondered. And then, as if an unsung truce had been struck amongst the soldiers, friend and foe gathered silently in a circle. It was a circle of death. A duel, she thought. Rain knew she could use the break. Her shield arm hurt, and she was not growing any younger. She lowered her shield and walked to the haphazard circle of fighters growing around the two contestants in the middle, eager for the best view of the death that was doubtless on the cards. Rain spied sullen faces in the crowd, faces eager to get on with the killing rather than wait, sick with the blood song, but doing nothing. It was if they were spectators to a play, and it would be rude to disturb by killing other spectators.

By the time Rain wedged herself between the soldiers to see, the duel had already peaked. Yama’s balls! she gasped. It’s the War Mistress. She saw Satyabhama slash at Kalyavan’s head, but the Greek snaked under her blade. He hefted his sword up with furious speed as Satyabhama’s steel swept down. The blades rang together with a finger-jarring clang.

They parted, but Kalyavan was grinning as he thrust forward his sword like a spear. Satyabhama wrenched herself sideways, and his sword hissed past. It caught her elbow greaves, ripping it off. But Satyabhama was already thrusting her own sword at him. But the point of her steel only caught air as Kalyavan slid away again.

What the… She knew Kalyavan could have easily severed her unprotected elbow; instead, he brandished the bloody scarlet edge of his sword at the Greeks, earning their cheers, as he circled her like a predator.

Rain scoffed. Skill and showing off often went hand in hand in accomplished swordsmen. Clearly, Kalyavan had not become what he was by forfeiting chances to strike a pose.

‘My sword is Assyrian steel, War Mistress,’ Kalyavan said. ‘No armour can stop it.’ He smiled at Satyabhama’s set face, blowing her a kiss and waving his two-handed sword in a fool’s flourish. ‘You know the prophecy I carry on my shoulders,’ he said. ‘I cannot be beaten, love. So why fight? Look around. Mathura is doomed. Soon it will be sacked, its false idols torn down.’

‘Perhaps…’ Satyabhama said calmly, taking furious but controlled breaths. Holding her shield to her breast she darted forward, her one-handed sword at the ready. ‘But you won’t live to see it.’