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cushioned couches, a small luxury permitted in these strenuous times, were arranged in a circle a little distance from one another. An attendant glided across the room with a tray carrying cold pomegranate juice and honeyed barley cakes, presenting them to the kings assembled. I suppose the only advantage of having only a handful of allies was the fact that there were fewer heads involved in making decisions. I could only imagine the chaos in the Kaurava camp tonight without Grandsire.
    Early on, while congregating our forces at Upaplavya, in our ally King Virata’s kingdom of Matsya, we had decided to restrict the war council to include only twelve kings. While some of our minor allies grumbled about being left out of the decision-making body, the strength and overall experience of our war council allayed their concerns.
    There was me and my brothers—Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva. As the prime beneficiaries of the conflict, it was only natural that all five of us be included.
    The other members of the war council were Drupada, the king of Panchala and our father-in-law, his eldest child, the lady Shikhandi, who managed the Panchala troops, and Dhristadyumna, Drupada’s eldest after Shikhandi and the commander-in-chief of the entire army.
    He was a curious one, my brother-in-law, a man of average height and build, soft-spoken and polite to a fault, regarding every question or comment placed at him with serious thought and a diffident smile, which, it seemed, took all the effort in the world to conjure. Yet, in matters of war, especially the theoretical and logistical aspects of it, he was exceedingly competent. At least that was what Arjuna thought, and in the minds of most, that was enough. It also helped that the numbers brought in by his father Drupada accounted for most of our original seven akshauhinis.
    Apart from the Panchalas, there was King Virata, the ruler of the Matsya kingdom, the next largest contributor to our cause. A quiet, brooding kind of man given to occasional fits of violent temper. At seventy-odd years of age, Virata had the distinction of being the oldest soldier in our army and, as the joke went, had probably been forgotten by Yama, the God of Death. He was still able to lead from the front, though, and willing to prove it to anyone who thought otherwise.
    Satyaki represented the Yadava confederacy who supplied troops to both sides of the field. A good soldier, if slightly unhinged. I never saw him upset or nervous on the battlefield. He seemed to treat the war like it was a game, chatting with his victims as he made to kill them, occasionally even letting them go, to Dhristadyumna’s annoyance.
    Then there was Prince Chekitana of Chedi, the youngest of our council, he of the upper lip yet unwilling to yield hair. His father had committed to our cause on the condition that his son be given a place in the main council. The boy knew his place. He did not offer his point of view, and questioned strategy more as a student than as a stakeholder.
    The twelfth and final member of our council was, in my mind, probably the most important—Krishna, a Yadava prince like Satyaki, and a cousin of ours. His cunning had saved thousands of men over the past ten days and resulted in the slaughter of over twice as many. But more importantly, his understanding of the frailty of the royal ego and ability to gently guide not one but many of them towards common ground made him invaluable. Whenever a council meeting threatened to disintegrate into chaos, it was it was to him that we’d look for clarity.
    His slight but lithe figure and dark, almost blue complexion was a calming presence in our camp, lifting the morale of the troops ever so often. He was a fine warrior in his own right, a good bow and swordsman.
    What really set him apart was his skill as a charioteer.
    Krishna was like a god behind the reins. Twisting and turning his chariot through odd angles and narrow spaces, balancing it on one wheel and