Shaka the Great (59 page)

“Are you all right?” asks Shaka, keeping his eyes on the heights before them.

The boy nods, his ears aflame with embarrassment. But a nod won't do, since the King still has his back to him. “Yes, Majesty,” he wheezes.

“Deep breaths, Boy. You will not choke.”

As his breathing returns to normal, the boy tries to work out what Shaka is examining so intently.

You can clearly see the path that leads up to the summit. It zigzags between the trees and bushes, now emerging to follow an outcrop of rock, now disappearing behind bracken ferns and silver sugarbushes, tree-fuchsias and cabbage-trees.

That's the same path the Induna and the others will be taking. As his eyes get caught in the rhythm of the track, the udibi realizes it's as if they'll be swinging, in wide arcs, from this end
to that, from that end back to this side, climbing slightly higher each time.

It's a reminder this is not a place an army can easily attack. Any force, no matter its size, will be forced to move along that path in slender columns, like ants, and like as not will be crushed like ants, too, slaughtered before they even reach the top.

But to talk? Is that all Shaka can come up with?

Philani dead, bloated, gray. Missing an arm. That's why he won't—can't—believe Shaka would even contemplate some kind of accord with the Thembus. Because Philani is dead.

And because of the babies.

And everything else.

But especially Philani.

And especially the babies.

Herdboys dead in the veld, hunted down by contingents of Thembus, who then drove the cattle away. Burned huts, burned bodies; dead livestock, dead humans. And a king standing amid the carnage. A few survivors, the boy among them. Reporting to Shaka, describing what has happened. Broken voices. Hoarse voices. The Fasimbas here with the King; three other regiments abroad, roaming the countryside. But the Thembus have already been tracked back to the Place of the Buffalo, where they doubtless await Shaka's response—or are getting ready to strike again.

A massacre. Charred corpses. Bodies torn apart. Groups here and there, shields and spears and tangled limbs bearing testament to an attempt at a holding action. Signs that women fought fiercely to protect their children; and that those children fought alongside their mothers. Curled fingers, scraps of flesh caught under the nails. Human meat trapped in the clenched teeth of six-, seven- and eight-year-olds; their older brothers clutching iklwas, sticks, broken pots
even. And many Thembus fell, but the surprise had been total. There was no stopping the wild animals that fell upon this village, then rampaged through the huts.

A massacre.

And at the entrance to the umuzi, impaled on sharpened stakes, their tiny heads removed and replaced by heads torn from dogs, is a row of babies. Zulu babies. Blood-stained snouts, lolling tongues, bared incisors above chubby stomachs and curved arms and legs. In some instances, if the dog had been big enough, or the baby small enough, the infant's head has been forced between canine jaws opened unnaturally wide.

Shaka, who insisted on being the first to enter the village, had immediately ordered his older indunas to begin disposing of the little bodies. But is that to be it? A burial and a forgetting? Broken bodies thrown together, then relighting the fires so that the destruction begun by the Thembus could be finished. A decree that no Zulu settlement be built on that site ever again. Indicating a willingness to negotiate a treaty with the savages who did this.

Or is it, as some say, that Mgobozi hasn't deserted Shaka; and that the King is merely playing for time while the general goes to fetch the Qwabes, so that together they might bring down Ngoza!

But Philani … always, amid the howl of tormented spirits demanding their deaths be avenged, his dreams return to Philani. The little boy who befriended him. The udibi knows, in the way he knows the sky is blue, that others died but Philani's the one whose loss he truly feels. Deep inside, his gut twisting like fat in the fire. Like the limbs of those trapped in those burning huts.

Always, he's back there, wading through rotting flesh, looking and hoping, knowing he was silly to even think Philani might have survived.

He'd finally found the child. Had at least made sure his body was taken care of.

Scant comfort, though, because there are the dreams still. None
of the battles he's endured has ever left behind such a legacy of thrashing around and sweating. It's a fever even the cleansing ritual couldn't vanquish.

The udibi straightens up with a start. Lost in thought, he's been looking without seeing. The sun has shrugged off its pigeon plumage and is easing its way across the veld. And now he can see that enemy soldiers line the path that leads to the Place of the Buffalo. The udibi can make out their shields, and the bristling of spears.

He shoots a look at Shaka, but the Bull Elephant stands immobile, his gaze still fixed on the slope.

“Aiee, Zikhle! Do not let your excitement tire you out so soon.”

“Sire …”

“He reminds me of one trying to make fire the old way, Kobo.”

“Sire …”

“Mayhap he's about to give birth, Highness.”

“Now you are being too cruel, Kobo. Shame on you!”

“My apologies, Sire.”

“This one is way past childbearing age.”

“H-highness …”

“What is it, General? Have our guests roused themselves?”

“Y-yes …”

“And you rushed here to acquaint me of this fact. Would it not be wiser to husband your strength for the more important tasks? I would not want you to miss out on all the fun.”

“Y-yes, Sire, I u-understand but …”

“But?”

“The Beetle, Sire.”

“What about him?”

“He's just standing there.”

“So?”

“Perhaps it would be best if you came and saw for yourself, Highness.”

“Sire, if I may …”

“You may, Kobo.”

“That would not be a good idea. Everything is ready, and any deviation should be avoided. Hai, maybe this is what the Beetle wants. Although I can't see why the fact that he's, er, standing there, as the general claims, should be the cause for so much concern. Least of all a fast run undertaken by one who should perhaps stick to a more sedate pace.”

“Highness! How dare he imply I might not be speaking the truth, or might be confused …”

“Be that as it might, General, I agree with Kobo for once. I don't think we should deviate from our plan.”

Anyway, so the Beetle stands there—so what? If that's how he chooses to spend his last few hours upright, who is Ngoza to interfere.

“The setting of the sun! It is more likely us who will set here today.”

“Then so be it. So long as we take some of these crocodiles with us. Yes, you! I see you.”

“Do not taunt them, Njikiza.”

“I am sorry, Nduna.”

“They are unsettled enough.”

“This is true, Nduna,” chuckles the big man.

The Induna's comment wins him a disbelieving glance from Dingane, though. “Hai! You, too, Nduna? Have you also gone mad?”

“No, we just need to be careful of …”

“Frightening them? You were going to say frightening them, weren't you?”

The Induna nods.

“Frightening them! You're as mad as he is.”

There they go, to meet with the monster.

See their finery. Feathers and tails. Isn't that a sign of their courage? A way of mocking the monster, even as they obey his imperious summons?

We would send them on their way with our war cries, but the indunas among us tell us to keep quiet. And our cheers are left to wither in our throats, for it is the King's wish that we clench our teeth.

That's what the indunas tell us. That they give us a reason for this order is surely a sign they too are disgruntled. They, too, would raise their voices and tell those savages to come down here and taste Zulu steel.

Yet the King would have us remain as silent as he is.

And there he stands, apart from us.

The sun is climbing ever higher, growing ever hotter, and there he stands, unmoving, watched over only by a single udibi. He carries a shield to protect the King from the sun, and waterskins so he might quench his thirst, yet he also is ignored by the Bull Elephant.

Just as he ignores the four brave men who pass him on their way to meet the monster.

Just as he ignores us, his brave warriors who want to fight.

But there they go …

And we must remain silent.

And docile.

It feels as if we are already captives … We have lost a battle we didn't know was being fought, and now, abandoned by our King, we await our fate.

The four are dressed for the occasion. The Induna, Njikiza and Radebe wear amabeshu made of black calfskin. Dingane's, however, are white and slightly longer, as a sign of the prince's rank. In addition to the weighted strips of skin that form the isinene, the front piece of each man's umutsha bears additional ornamentation in the shape of monkey and genet tails. As a further sign that
he's a member of the royal family, Dingane wears a leopard skin over his shoulders. The Induna's rank is signified by his necklace of lion's teeth and stones taken from the battlefields where he has fought.