As the pair continued talking, the carriage moved into the Weeds. The Imperial Cloaks were much in evidence here, yet no one seemed to care about them. Shishupal looked back at the city from the carriage window. From this far out, the Virangavat arena resembled some primeval creature rising into the sky on open wings to challenge the moon in the sky.

As the carriage turned away from the city walls, they heard the whistle of arrows, the clanging of swords, the cries of men, loud yet indistinct. Every great city in Aryavrat had a section like the Weeds. It was usually the oldest part, full of immigrants, located on the outskirts, with names like the Ruins, the Shades, the Crows. The Weeds was such a place in Rajgrih, an area of outright lawlessness. It was where the armies of Jarasandh’s allies were currently camped, alongside brothels, smugglers and thieves – the dark underbelly of Rajgrih.

Shishupal stuck his head out of the carriage. Thousands of charcoal briquettes coloured the air with a pale smoky hue. Further ahead, the elephant lines stretched for leagues. Enormous siege engines moved at turtle pace, significantly impeding the progress of the carriage. As they waited, they saw light-haired giants from the Kauntis, who often got into brawls with the lean, dagger-wielding men from the dangerous cities of Kalinga. He could hear chatter in half a dozen languages in the Weeds. They saw all kinds of soldiers; men with axes and men with swords, men in loosely fastened armours and men in chainmail. They saw whores unabashedly trotting from one tent to another, ugly maids fussing over the washing of vessels, and squires fetching spent arrows for archers. He certainly leaves no stone unturned, Shishupal thought, observing the fruits of Jarasandh’s call to arms. The Emperor was clearly intent on the making the next battle with Mathura the last.

They arrived at last at the army camps. Fireflies lit the tents like ornaments. The vast field was a resplendent sight, with rainbow-hued banners of the vassals snapping proudly with the emblems of their Lords. Even in the dark, Shishupal could make out the jaguar of the Hehayas and the vulture of Anupa.

But though they passed several pavilions, they saw no sign of the Valkas or of Dantavakra. A dishevelled woman raced past, giggling and clutching at her dark cloak, her drunken pursuer stumbling in pursuit. As Shishupal’s gaze followed them, he spied a stream in the distance. A young archer was drawing the string of his bow, his chest bare and slick with sweat. ‘Lady Rasha, see that boy? He’s the Contest winner. If that Valka boy is here, surely Dantavakra must be close.’ Saying this, Shishupal opened the carriage door and hastily jumped out.

Had he exercised a modicum of restraint, he would have heard Lady Rasha warn him about approaching the boy at his own peril.

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