It was only by winning the Contest a few years ago, that Shishupal had managed to wangle his way out of the Yamuna Wars, disgusted with the Yaksha’s gut-wrenching war tactics. He had never met the Yaksha personally, and hoped never to do so. The Emperor’s disappointment at the boon Shishupal sought had been crushing, but Shishupal knew he had no other choice. He was all for shock-and-awe and could digest most war crimes, but he drew the line at crimes against humanity.

In the arena, he saw an unhorsed warrior in a blue cloak, holding a long trident in one hand, swing aside to deliver a backhanded blow with his trident to the foreleg of his pursuer’s horse. The crowd oohed and aahed as if on cue. The move toppled the horse and flung its rider to the ground, the injured horse falling on top of him. The blue knight raised his trident triumphantly to the crowd, beaming, his infamous crooked teeth showing between bruised lips. Dantavakra. Shishupal would have recognized his brother’s teeth anywhere. Clearly, the idiot had thrown caution to the wind by refusing to don a helm. The crowd seemed to appreciate this for their cheers drowned the screams of the man buried under his horse, even as his squires rushed to his aid.

Disinterested, Shishupal turned to survey the arena. He could picture how, when stripped bare of humanity, the galleries and stairs stretched over each other like the petals of a rose. Construction was still underway. He saw masons working atop high bamboo scaffolding, shouting in a foreign tongue, even as groans of pain rose from the other end of the arena, where another warrior had just vanquished his foe.

‘This arena is quite something,’ Shishupal observed to his squire Mayasur, a half-breed who had come to the city to seek his fortune. Not many forestfolk ran amok in cities. Certainly not any Rakshasas. It had just been Shishupal’s ill fortune to have the only one in Rajgrih assigned to him. He had strictly instructed Mayasur to never smile or take off his hood in public. His sharp canines and the thickness of his hide in a robustly boned face, could frighten even the most liberal of the seculars. But, despite his sheer mass, big even for a Rakshasa, Mayasur was a man of scrolls. ‘You look like you’ve something to say. Spit it out.’

‘I did not wish to interrupt you, My Lord…’ Mayasur gushed excitedly. ‘But it’s not an arena. It is technically an arena within an amphitheatre. Though there is a Contest currently in progress, it can be easily used to stage shows and dramas. The overlapping tiers you see there have been designed in a manner to empty the place in minutes without causing a stampede.’ Mayasur stepped to the balustrade that guarded the front tier, pointing downward.

He’s my squire and he beckons me! Shishupal shook his head, but obliged. Sand filled the floor of the central arena, but it seemed at odds with the ground around it.