Shaka the Great (30 page)

Seeing the brothers returning, he slipped back among the ranks.

Sigujana and Mhlangana had decided that two men would be sent ahead. Staying away from the path, they'd keep their eyes peeled for any unpleasant surprises—not that Sigujana believed Dingane would stoop to such treachery, but one couldn't be too careful. For the same reason, the remaining men would encircle the king for his protection, as they marched to the rendezvous. When they reached the emissaries, they would step forward and form an intimidating arc in front of the strangers. Sigujana would be in the center; while Mhlangana would place himself to his left and the Induna to his right.

Believing the emissaries to come from Dingane, Sigujana hopes the Induna's presence in such a prominent position will show Dingane's men how he's perfectly willing to forgive and forget when it comes to defectors from his brother's kraal, and their past lapses in judgment—and taste. If that doesn't work, they can at least be counted upon to tell Dingane what they saw, and this will serve to remind his brother that his herd of allies might not be as big as he believes.

Knowing the men to be from Shaka, meanwhile, the Induna simply assumes he's been chosen to stand next to Sigujana because he's clearly the least affected by last night's depredations, and hence
the most alert, and therefore the one the king can count on to spirit him away should things turn nasty.

Birdsong and a sense of busyness just beyond the periphery of one's vision. The
zzz-WIK
of the black-bellied korhaan, its neck stretched skyward, the call coming like a cork pulled from a bottle. The sunbird with its red chest, and its black head splattered with yellow pollen. The red-billed wood hoopoe, called inhlekabafazi by the Zulus because it cackles like an old woman. Blue swallows on the wing, their long thin tail feathers like twin contrails. And in the thatch grass, amid the hidden stones and bumps and in and around the bushes and plants, the wily, wilily willy-nilly of ants and cicadas, robber flies, butterflies and sundry scorpions, spiders and millipedes. And the stamp of sandals, the moving shadows, the strange smells and foreign noises cause only a temporary silence, a brief cessation before the whole business of crawling, creeping, scurrying, stalking and dying resumes.

Two ridges away to the south, the two men were waiting for them by a grove of trees about midway between the king's retreat and the capital. A few minutes earlier, the scouts Sigujana and Mhlangana had sent out had rejoined the main group, reporting that the men appeared to be alone. The Induna hadn't liked that “appeared to be”—they should have made sure—but it didn't seem to bother Sigujana, who ordered the party forward.

As the king's entourage drew closer to the trees, the two strangers moved away from the shade. Neither was armed and, like the Zulus, both wore sandals and kilts, although theirs were longer—a fact Sigujana pointed out
sotto voce
, to the accompaniment of much sniggering, for among the People Of The Sky it was only oldtimers
who wore kilts that length. In addition, the man who moved a few paces ahead of his companion wore a kind of poncho made of overlapping rows of feathers, in layers of red and green, white and black. This prompted Mhlangana to mutter something about an ostrich, but envy sealed Sigujana's lips. He was wearing amashoba around his arms and legs, and had a leopard skin cloak draped across his shoulders as a sign of his status, like the collection of blue crane feathers curving out of his headband, but these adornments seemed diminished by the other man's attire.

Which—the Induna realized somewhat belatedly as the Zulus took up their position, in front of the two men—identified him as a high-ranking official in Dingiswayo's service. Clearly, Sigujana was expected to understand that not only had these men come in Shaka's name, they also had the support of the Mthetwa king.

“Yes, yes,” said the Zulu king, waving aside the feathered man's courtly overtures. “What do you want?”

Stifled sniggers in the Zulu line from those who, like Sigujana, mistook rudeness for forcefulness.

A head taller than Sigujana, but with sloping shoulders and a big belly that the feathers couldn't hide, the emissary tilted himself forward in a brief looming motion that he clearly intended as a bow. “Majesty, I am Ngwadi …”

“Who?”

“Ngwadi, Majesty, son of Nandi. And this is—”

“Nandi?”

“Yes, Majesty. And this is—”

“Nandi?” murmured Sigujana again, turning to the Induna. “Where have I heard this name before?”

Before the warrior had a chance to reply, Sigujana had wheeled on Ngwadi once more. “But where is Dingane? And why have you come here dressed in this Mthetwa plumage?”

Dingane?
thought the Induna.

“Dingane?” said a bewildered Ngwadi.

His companion—older, bow-legged, his chest bare except for the scars of one who has seen many battles, and his only adornment
the fly-whisk in his left hand—stepped forward and muttered a few words in Ngwadi's ear.

“And who is
this
person?” demanded Sigujana, as Ngwadi murmured “Ah” in response to his companion's prompting.

“I'm sorry, Majesty—”

“Pay attention to me, not to him, louse.”

“Yes,” interjected Mhlangana, “this is the Zulu king, therefore do not squander his day!”

“Answer me! Where is my brother?”

“We are here on your brother's behalf, Majesty.”

“Indeed we are,” added Ngwadi's companion, slapping the flywhisk against his right shoulder.

“Who is
he
?”

“He is Mgobozi, my escort, and one whose counsel your brother values.”

The older man's response to this introduction was a wide grin and a languid flick of his wrist, which caused the zebra hair on his fly-whisk to caress his neck.

“See?” Sigujana told the Induna. “You have already been supplanted. Didn't take him long, did it? But this is nonsense! One of the Blood should not skulk and cower, while others come in his stead. Where is he?”

Peering past the two men, he called out, “Dingane! Show yourself, you layabout.”

“Dingane?” asked Ngwadi, while the one called Mgobozi raised his right elbow slightly and sent his left hand across his stomach, so that the whisk could stroke his lower back.

“Yes, fool, and this behavior is very like my brother. So you tell him, wherever he is hiding … you tell him—”

“Majesty, please forgive me for interrupting,” said Ngwadi, as Mgobozi brushed the fly-whisk across his left knee, “but we are not here on Dingane's behalf. We come here in the name of your brother Shaka.”

“He really didn't know?” says Dingane, standing on a cold hillside some ten years later. Elephant-gray mist, lying low in the valleys and ravines. A sky crowned by the disintegrating moon that marks the waning month, Untlolanja giving way to Undasa, the Time of Abundance.

“No, he didn't.”

“Not at all? Didn't have a clue?” He already knows the story, but it never fails to incur the same expressions of disbelief.

“He was like a newly born calf, in the matter.”

“Teetering, about to fall over, and knowing nothing.”

“Not quite, for he thought he knew.”

“Not a calf, then. More a stupid child who sees the fire, but still thinks he can pluck the sweet potato from among the embers. Stupid, stupid child, what was he thinking? Did he really believe Shaka was only a story told to tame naughty children? If he even gave him any thought at all,” he murmurs, as he pulls one of the wildebeest cloaks the Induna has brought with him tighter around his shoulders.

Nodding: “Which, mock him as we might, is a mistake we all made.”

Glancing at the Induna, Dingane continues: “I speak of us, his brothers, for we led the pack when it came to mocking Sigujana. But, in the end, we were just as stupid, because we too forgot about Shaka.”

“But did you? We were often together in those days, marching off to war with the Mthetwas, when someone, not realizing who you were—”

“Because my father wanted me to suffer.”

“Not quite, old friend.”

“Wanting me to act as his spy? That is a better motive?”

“Well …”

“I am reminded of us marching up the hill to meet Ngoza and
his Thembus. Will you now tell me the same thing as you did then: that this is a sign of how I was valued? Trusted?”

“No, I was going to say …” The Induna's words tail off.

“What? Don't let me interrupt you.”

The Induna grins. “I was going to say this was a sign of how much your father valued you.”

“Aiee! All this praise! All this respect! Funny how it always involves me risking my life. But that's my family for you. They have such endearing ways of letting you know how much you mean to them.”

But he has to realize how important it was for Senzangakhona to have someone he could trust—one of his sons, in fact—moving incognito among his most powerful ally's army.

“Think you it was my father? Hai!” Dingane laughs. “I detect Mduli's hand.”

“If so, he rewarded you handsomely in the end.”

“Yes, his leniency in the matter of my keeping one of my father's concubines happy was some kind of reward.” And who might know what would have happened to Dingane had he not been exiled when Shaka came to claim the crown. Not that Mduli could have foreseen any of that.

But, in the end, the blow was merely delayed, the prince tells himself. Because … well, here they sit.

And we were often together in those days, marching off to war with the Mthetwas, when someone, not realizing who you were, would speak of the brave Zulu who had become Dingiswayo's favorite. And you reported all you heard to Mduli, because that was one of the things you were ordered to do—find out more about Shaka.
The Induna's surprised he hasn't realized it before.

Senzangakhona was already ailing by the time Shaka rose to prominence. Mduli, who knew the whole story, knew the truth, would have wanted to find out what he could even as he worked hard to ensure that the rumors and tales didn't reach the king's ears. That would not have been too difficult, given the state of Senzangakhona's health, and the way he had, like his father before him, left the running of the tribe's day-to-day affairs to
Mduli (and Mnkabayi, of course). And, even after that night Dingiswayo took it upon himself to see father and first-born reunited, it's clear the old king didn't really understand what was going on.

Since Mduli would have had to tell Dingane why he needed to find out more about Shaka, that meant Dingane knew the truth about Shaka long before the other princes.

The Induna straightens up as the full import hits him.

He knew.

Which means …

“Mfowethu,” says Dingane.
Brother.
Is he well, not well?

Which means Mnkabayi knew that he knew, too.

Which means that special task she had given the Induna so long ago had another aspect to it.

They were afraid.

He has spoken those last words aloud, without realizing it, and Dingane asks, “Who? Who was afraid?”

They were afraid that if Sigujana's paranoia caused him to move against Dingane, and he failed, then Dingane might choose to ally himself with Shaka, who had the promise Dingiswayo had extracted from Senzangakhona to support any claim he might make regarding the Zulu throne.

But in the end, of course, Shaka fooled them all!

“Mfowethu, old friend, who is afraid?”

“No one. I was just …”

“Cha! No one! You always choose your words so wisely. Do you speak of Mnkabayi? And Ndlela, of course? But why should you be surprised?”

Sometimes it seems to him as if they are doomed to live as the moon, and keep going through the same phases, says Dingane. Doesn't seem to bother the moon but, aiee, it can be vexing if you're a mere human being.