‘The actual ground is wood, but it has been covered with sand to give the impression of earth, and also…to ease the pain of a fall.’ He directed Shishupal’s gaze to the periphery of the arena space, which seemed to slope gently on all sides. ‘A maze of rooms and corridors spans the area beneath the arena, where contestants prepare for their duels above. There is another section on the right…’ he leaned closer to Shishupal, ‘where I’ve heard rumours say the Emperor plans to cage beasts of the most terrifying aspect.’

The stunted shape of Surajmukhi came to Shishupal’s mind. ‘I highly doubt that,’ he murmured. But he had to accede that the arena was glorious with its multiple descending tiers of benches in different colours for the various castes. A true testament to ingenuity and skill. The last time Jarasandh had built something so magnificent was when he had raised the Three Sisters of Mathura.

Shishupal sighed at that memory, and returned to his seat. No matter the present, the past always seemed like a simpler time. Jarasandh was seated in the royal box, his face a hard bargain between indifference and gloom. It’s true for him at least. Shishupal reminded himself to engage in small talk. Now that he was headed to Panchal with the Emperor, he might as well brush up his conversational skills. He’d learned the hard way that success in life was inextricably linked to one’s ability to make polite, pointless conversations with anyone and everyone.

‘Your Grace, this is a marvel! It is a wonderful creation, fit for the Gods.’

‘Yes indeed,’ Mayasur added. ‘I hear Nar Ad Muni is all set to include it in his Wonders—’ Shishupal gave him a clout on his ear. ‘Ow! apologies, My Lord.’

‘Your delinquent squire isn’t far from the truth, Shishupal.’ Jarasandh smiled, barely. ‘Nar Ad is planning to visit. Rightly so. A civilization without vaulting architecture is akin to a man without a soul. Forgotten and foregone. Some day, the Magadhan Empire will fall to dust and nothing will remain of it save for this colossal structure, this Virangavat. That is how I want Magadh to be remembered. Or at least that’s what I thought when I had started construction more than a decade ago.’

Shishupal remembered sadly how the Emperor had once been a guffawing buffoon, when Shishupal himself had been a child; a man who drank till his liver revolted, and danced until his legs gave way. Unlike Shishupal’s father, Jarasandh had led his army, fighting multiple but lesser foes, often breaking into booming laughter the moment their weapons touched his shield – a sound that struck more terror into their hearts than his mace. But that laughter was something for the history scrolls now.