As they climbed into her chariot, Krishna was filled with a familiar sense of dread. Whenever they were out together, she always insisted on driving the chariot. One could not master everything after all. A simple rule of life, really. Satyabhama, however, seemed ignorant of this limitation the Gods had placed on Mortals. No one would have dared call her a reckless driver to her face, unless they could carry off a broken nose. And since the alert Mathurans, each one a guerrilla warrior in their own right, always removed themselves from her path with their usual agility, no accident had ever besmeared Satyabhama’s speckless career as a charioteer. Sighing, Krishna followed her into the chariot. But to his surprise, Satyabhama did not take up the reins. Dahanu, her loyal charioteer, was confused, but seeing Krishna nod, proceeded to handle the reins himself.

‘My Lady,’ Krishna flashed his dimples, ‘you look tired.’ His fingers slid down the back of her neck, tracing its shape, his touch feathery soft, trying to erase her unease. ‘You should stop putting yourself through this war-drill ordeal every day.’ He noticed a book lying on the floor of the chariot. Picking it up, he asked, ‘How’s the book?’

‘The Fall of Chakras, in two volumes. They say it’s one of the great Vedan classics. Load of rubbish, I say,’ she snorted condescendingly. ‘Full of devious Daevas, knights in shining armour, stern Acharyas with their mighty rosaries, and Queens with even mightier breasts. Magic, action and romance in equal measure. It’s utter shit.’

‘Surely there must be something to keep you busy other than boring books? Perhaps you could do something with your fellow wives, a team activity to boost morale.’

‘And what would the great Lord Krishna suggest?’

‘Rukmini can teach you embroidery. Jambavati has a vegetable garden.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Love you, too’ Krishna smiled. The best method to unravel Satyabhama’s knots was to get a rise out of her. It was when she was calm that it spelled trouble, for Satyabhama had a dark unforgiving side. And it seemed he was under its shadow today. ‘Satya, has Jambavati troubled you again?’ The cold war between his second and third wives was the favourite tavern tale of Mathurans.

She answered by unravelling her purse and handing him a parchment. Krishna looked at her, amused, as he unhooked the diamond studded knot of the gold strings of the parchment. The broken seal showed a saffron stag. Panchal. He began to laugh as understanding dawned, but hastily swallowed his mirth when he saw her grim face. ‘It’s not like that,’ Krishna said reasonably, putting an arm around her shoulders.

‘Then explain!’ she snapped, pushing his arms away. ‘Why is that Princess of Panchal sending you ravens? Do you want a new wife to bring you yet another region, for clearly, I brought nothing with me? Yes, I’ve precious little money, no royal blood, and do not deck up in jewels like an idol. But you listen to me Krishna, if yet another wife of yours enters the Walls of Mathura, the Yaksha of Goverdhun himself will not be able to keep me from beheading her.’