Shaka the Great (57 page)

By the time he's done, and has another look between the poles, the grass surrounding the umuzi is empty. But then one of the other scouts entering the village must have signaled, for over to the north men appear: a Thembu legion charging toward the umuzi.

Lungelo pulls aside the loose poles and steps boldly through the opening. Not sure what the agreed signal might be, but reckoning a raised spear will be sufficient, he does just that, and raises the Thembu spear above his head, keeping the haft parallel to the ground.

And the opposite hillside becomes a wave of men.

Shouts and screams. A drumming. A tearing. A tempest moving on a thousand feet.

Screams of pain, of terror, but also, soaring like mad gulls above a blood-red sea, shouts of delirium. Joy.

And here they come, racing between the huts, chasing those who've managed to flee the cattlefold, cutting down everyone in their path—old-timers, women, children, everyone.

Mi tosses the Umkhontho Wamadlozi at Beja, and disappears in the opposite direction. However, as he soon finds out, there is no opposite direction. The Thembus have surrounded the village, and are closing in from all sides. His size and weight carry him forward, knocking aside both Thembu and Zulu. But then he's brought down, ironically, by a dying Zulu thrusting his spear upward as the big man leaps over him. Wounded in the groin, Mi turns around and around—seeing huts, twisted faces, smoke, a woman stabbed through the baby she's clutching to her chest, shields smacking together, a haze of blood, burning thatch … Then four Thembus fall upon him, like wild dogs bringing down a wounded zebra.

Lungelo steps aside, waves them on. An officer shouts some orders and a few soldiers stop to help Beja's “nephew” enlarge the opening. It's only when they've raced on into the village, eager for Zulu blood, that Lungelo
is able to move away. Initially he follows the fence, but then, when there's a curve hiding him from the opening, he jogs off into the long grass. The place where he stored their baggage is only a few meters away. There aren't many rocks, and the slope is exposed, which is probably why a contingent of Thembus wasn't positioned there—but there's enough cover for him to hide in while he considers his options.

“Come here, Boy!” says Beja, still gripping the spear tightly.

He charges to his left, plunging the blade into the gut of a Thembu warrior coming round the side of the hut. Snatching the man's spear as he falls, he withdraws the Umkhontho and uses it to parry the thrust from the next warrior, then drives the second assegai past the soldier's shield and into his abdomen. Transferring this spear to his left hand, he reaches out with his right and grabs the udibi's arm.

“Come!” he hisses, pulling the boy along with him.

They move between the huts and come upon a group of three Thembus who are kicking a graybeard. Without hesitation, Beja falls on them, stabbing one of the warriors in the back. As he brings down another, the third Thembu lunges.

Beja tries to twist away, but his spear is stuck in the second soldier's ribcage, and he can't quite avoid the third man's blade. It slices through his side, opening a fissure of blood. Dropping the Umkhontho, and letting go of the haft of the spear still stuck between the second Thembu's ribs, Beja staggers backward and trips over a body.

Smiling rapaciously, his mouth all teeth, his eyes like those of a leopard enjoying its kill, the Thembu moves in.

But the udibi has at last roused himself from his daze. Rising up through the screams and the confusion, through the billowing black smoke and the flood of movement all around them, he rams the Umkhontho's blade deep into the man's spine.

His hand covering the gash in his flank, Beja scrabbles across dirt slick with blood: maroon dirt, sticky blackness oozing between the bandit's fingers.

Before the udibi can help him up, three shrieking women run past, chased by two Thembu soldiers. The latter all but skid to a halt
when they spot Beja and the boy. Panting and covered in sweat, they reckon these Zulus will be easily dispatched, affording themselves a chance to rest in the process. But, before they can move, the udibi has launched himself at them. He crashes into the smaller soldier's shield, and thrusts the Umkhontho sideways. He's aiming at the bigger warrior's neck, but the man jerks back his head, so the blade of the spear grates across his collarbone.

The boy might have missed the man's jugular, but the resultant spray of blood causes the man to panic all the same. Believing his wound to be worse than it is, he staggers away, clutching his throat, his shield and spear lying forgotten at his feet.

But the boy still has the companion to deal with. The man's shield twisted sideways, the two are now face to face. As the soldier raises his spear, the boy headbutts him, and curls his arm to punch the Umkontho's blade into the soldier's exposed armpit.

And is knocked sideways.

The other Thembu!

But Beja has already seen to him, and the man has merely fallen against the boy.

The boy recovers his balance, and is at Beja's side just in time to slip an arm around the bandit's shoulders to keep the older man upright.

Breathing heavily, with a fern leaf of blood and spit dangling from his lower lip, the bandit glances around. Wipes his mouth. “This will do,” he mutters.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he steps away from the udibi.

“Here,” he says, dipping his fingers into his wound. The boy closes his eyes as the bandit smears blood over his face. The headman's compound will be the first place the intruders sack, explains Beja. That's why they had to get away from there. Now the boy is to lie down among these bodies, and play dead. It's his only chance. Once night falls, he should be able to make his escape. And he can keep the Umkhontho, for it's of little value now. It's far more important that someone survive and get a warning to Shaka, as soon as possible.

“And you?” asks the udibi.

Beja's chuckle becomes a grimace of pain.

“As for me,” he says, “I will go and die like a Zulu! Which is to say I will be taking a few of these savages with me before I eat dirt. But, even then, I will not be done, never you fear. The Great Spirit will have to guard his cattle well tonight.”

A party of infantrymen appears in front of us. One of them throws his machine-gun at us in desperation. He dies under the tracks together with his comrades.

“If only blood wasn't so sticky,” grumbles Porta. “Can't get it off. If God'd thought of tanks when He created the world He'd've made blood that wasn't sticky, and could be washed off with plain water before inspection.”

Heide enters into a complicated explanation, involving red and white corpuscles, of just why blood sticks to tanks.

From
Blitzfreeze
by Sven Hassel (translated by Tim Bowie)

“So, now the king of the Zulus would bend his knee. Aiee! Wasn't that the most frightened soldier you ever saw? The rattling of his teeth announced his imminent arrival before we even saw him.”

“And that one was all, Highness, for all Zulus are bullies at heart. Show them a stern countenance and they flee in terror.”

“But not your men, General?”

“No, nor any Thembu man, Sire.”

“Kobo, you look doubtful?”

“Hai, but it is not because I doubt the courage of our soldiers—”

“—or any Thembu man—”

“Yes, or any Thembu man—thank you, Zibhle.”

“Why do you look so concerned, then? You are my most trusted adviser, speak.”

“It is not our courage I wonder at, Sire, it is theirs.”

“So do I, Kobo. So do I! I wonder that they can call themselves courageous when they are so
lacking
in courage!”

“Now, now, General. Let Kobo speak. What do you mean, Kobo?”

“Merely that we must be careful not to underestimate these Zulus, your Cognisance.”

“Underestimate them? How is that possible? They are the lowest of the low.”

“General, please …”

“I am sorry, Sire.”

“Still, perhaps he's right, Kobo. There was a certain amount of swagger before, then we taught them a thing or two about Thembu terror, and now they grovel at our feet.”

“But look at these messengers, Sire …”

“What about them?”

“First, Shaka sends four emissaries—”

“—who dare to speak of an alliance.”

“Quite, your Horror. And you kill them and destroy a Zulu village.”

“To teach that oaf a lesson!”

“Well and good, Beneficence. Then he sends a messenger and … well, you kill him.”

“To remind the Beetle that I really don't care about anything he might have to say.”

“Yes, and then he sends a second messenger, Sire, who you also kill …”

“To emphasize my previous point.”

“Then he sends a third messenger …”

“Who I killed to see how persistent the Beetle would be, and how desperate he was to grovel. Is this leading anywhere?”

“To the fourth messenger, Sire.”

“Well, him I had killed because I had a headache that day and couldn't bear to listen to those vile sounds that emerge whenever a Zulu opens his mouth.”

“The fifth messenger, Sire?”

“Toothache.”

“The sixth?”

“My stomach pained me.”

“Which brings us to the seventh, Honored Ogre, who you let live, listened to and sent back to Shaka.”

“That's correct, Kobo. I was there, remember?”

“Indeed, Highness.”

“I trust you are coming to the point.”

“Indeed! For now
my
stomach aches from having to listen to him.”

“Or perhaps from having too much beef this evening, eh, General?”

“There you have me, Sire. I admit I overindulged, but this Zulu beef is so puny.”

“Isn't it? And stringy, too.”

“Aiee, that is true!”

“Mighty Buffalo, if I may …”

“Ah, yes, Kobo. Please … continue, or should I say conclude.”

“My point is, Sire, Shaka kept sending these messengers, even when he knew he must be sending them to their deaths.”

“Why should he care how many Zulus die, so long as he gets what he wants?”

“Yes, Sire, but those men also kept coming. Shaka kept sending them and they kept coming, even though they knew the chances of their returning were slim.”

“No one said Zulus are very bright, Kobo.”

“Be that as it may, General, but they kept coming. They had every chance to desert, and knew that no one would miss them because no one was expecting them to return, yet still …”

“They kept coming.”

“Yes, Benevolent Malevolence. And those two things—the will of iron it took to send them, and the courage it took for them to obey—those two things tell me that the Zulus are far from beaten.”

“Hmm, yes. Well, I have always said your counsel as my first minister is invaluable, have I not, Kobo?”

“I am only doing my duty, Sire.”

“Invaluable, Kobo—which is to say it is only valuable in how I choose to make use of it. Indeed, your advice has often proven most valuable when I have seen in it a warning of what not to do. As I do now. Yes, Kobo, I choose to disregard your advice, because it is quite simply the stupidest thing I have ever yet heard spew from your porridge smackers. Aiee! Are you sure you're not standing upside down?”

“How perceptive, Sire. That explains everything.”

“General?”

“Yes, Sire?”

“Shut up!”

“Sire!”

“As for you, Kobo, let me tell you why the Beetle sends them, and why they come. He sends them, Kobo, because he is a bloodthirsty imbecile, and they come willingly because death is better than anything else he can offer them. What say you to that?”

“Your servant, as ever, your Monstrosity.”

“As am I, Belligerent Buffalo.”

“And let me tell you both something else. I do
not
underestimate the Zulus! Haven't I said that many times? I do not underestimate the Zulus. And do you think that when Shaka says he wants to negotiate, discuss this state of hostility that exists between our nations—do you think I open my legs like a trusting maiden? I am not that stupid!”

“Sire, we never—”

“Shut up and listen! Shaka wants to talk? I say, Good! Come to me! And when he does come to me, no matter what he has planned, he'll be in for the biggest surprise of his life.”

“These Thembus are crazy.”

“That's it, is it?” asks Dingane, after they've walked several paces in silence. “You've looked, you have seen the multitudes, and this is your conclusion?”

Big Njikiza shrugs.

“This is your considered opinion, that these Thembus are crazy?”

“Hai, one does not need the Calling to see this is so. One does not need to throw the bones. Some things are easy to divine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“But here, in this instance … hai, Brother, but you will have to say more, because my poor understanding cannot grasp the way
your
understanding works.”

“I don't understand.”