Shaka the Great (33 page)

Mduli had even allowed Sigujana to think it would be that simple: meeting Dingiswayo face to face and reminding him how easily a favorite might rebel once he had a taste of power. Therefore rule
in their favor here, and the bonds between the two tribes would be strengthened. It might have worked, but Sigujana had chosen to follow his own path. And Mduli knows he should be angry with the callow fool, but he can't be, because the path Sigujana chose shows him to be anything but a callow fool. He has stood up to Dingiswayo tonight. Suddenly, without any warning, he has acted like a true Zulu king. Mduli's plan might have worked, but it also involved the swallowing of pride, the tacit acknowledgment that it was acceptable for Dingiswayo to meddle in the Sky People's affairs. Mduli had realized that, of course, but what else could he do with a drunkard on the Zulu throne?

Tonight, though, Sigujana had raised his chin. Tonight the Blood had spoken. And see how stunned Ngwadi and Mgobozi were. Their plan had collapsed on them like a poorly made hut, so their only recourse had been to slink away into the night. Mduli suspects they would have liked to leave the king's presence with the air of reasonable men whose attempts to please and appease had been rebuffed, and now the other party must suffer the consequences, but such superciliousness had been beyond them. And Mduli has only to glance at Ndlela to see he's thinking much the same thing, in fact is as impressed and surprised as the graybeard himself. There will be consequences, have no doubt about that: messy, dire, dangerous consequences. For as a child, Shaka was known for his tantrums whenever he didn't get his way. More importantly, there's Dingiswayo's response to consider. (However, who's to say Mduli's original plan might not still work? Choose someone with the right skills—Ndlela springs to mind—and delay the departure of Ngwadi and Mgobozi, so that the induna and his escort reach the Mthetwa capital first, where Ndlela will explain to Dingiswayo the advantages of leaving Sigujana on the Zulu throne.)

But when Mduli, Ndlela and Mnkabayi come together a few minutes later to discuss what has transpired and make plans for the immediate future, they are like three tired travelers who have been heading into a gale the whole day. They can merely shake their heads in wonder and, after some desultory conversation, the only thing
they have decided is that Ndlela should warn the guard commanders to ensure their men are especially vigilant; to watch all the approaches to the homestead and make sure the Mthetwa emissaries don't slip away.

Then they repair to their sleeping mats where, of course, their tiredness will be dispelled by thoughts too restless to be disciplined by the shutting of eyes.

Only Shaka is of a mind to make a noise, to whoop with joy and punch Sigujana's shoulder and tell his brother he didn't know he had it in him. Tell him how proud he is of him. How it doesn't matter how short his reign was—he can take his place among the other Zulu kings with squared shoulders and a straight back.

Sigujana's finest hour … what a pity it's also one of his last.

But he doesn't want to be here!

Still, a revelation of sorts.

Time moves differently for a king wearing the Imithi Emnyama. There's an overlapping, a slow-motion speeding up, sluggish minutes as wide as the mighty Thukela, and hours banished with a blink. And when he steps from the shadows on the opposite side of the hut, it's as if he sets off a displacement that bow-waves across to the others, forcing them out of the indlu. A blur of movement that catches itself and stops, whenever he looks that way, pays attention. There's Mhlangana with his blank face—there's an emptiness inside that one that's disturbing—but the fact that he's lost his sneer shows that Sigujana has surprised even him. And there's Mduli suddenly looking his age, while Ndlela manages to appear a little more composed, but only just.

And, of course, there's Ngwadi. And Mgobozi.

Shaka grins. When they reported to him what happened here, they downplayed this encounter. Doubtless they reassured themselves
that other events had rendered this meeting a mere side show, and scarcely worth mentioning, but the truth was that they had both been bested by a Zulu king.

Shaka turns back to Sigujana. Fires flare and subside, as time leaps forward … and Sigujana lies on his sleeping mat.

I never knew, Mfowethu.

Shaka moves closer, would reach out and calm his sleeping brother if he could. For Sigujana sleeps in an anthill tonight, his breathing shallow, his arms and legs twitching and jerking, his head rolling from side to side.

I never knew, and so I have betrayed you these many seasons, these many moons.

Ants scurry to and fro beneath Sigujana's eyelids, becoming whimpers as they finally escape out of his lips.

I have betrayed you by adding my voice to the many calumnies uttered against you, speaking of you with disdain when in truth you proved yourself worthy of my ministrations, and the energy we expended, when many said a child leaping out from behind a bush could have scared you into submission.

Yes, the Night Medicine has brought him here, to show him something he surely needs to see …

… but why now?

He has brought them to him. He has separated them. He has even visited their kraal, beating a path for the muthi, should it require him to go there. But even with them right here …

… not
here
, of course, but beyond the walls of his hut of seclusion at KwaBulawayo …

… even with them in his capital he cannot seem to reach them!

Are these White Men protected by some kind of spell?

But they don't think that way—Fynn has told him so!

And if Fynn is lying and there
is
some kind of spell he would feel it as a barrier, or if the izilwane sangoma was more skilled, he would feel a subtle but insistent pushing away that many a Night Muthi man less experienced than himself wouldn't even notice.

What is going on?

Why can't he get to them?

However, he also knows frustration is a slope that will see him crashing back into his own hut, so best then to keep moving.

One last glance at his brother. What happened will happen soon and he'd better not be here, because that will be as bad as having been here (and he wasn't, of course, since that would have cast further doubts on the legitimacy of his claim, for one heir cannot be seen to be directly involved in the death of another). Then he backs away, passing through the thatch as though it's a waterfall.

Turning, he catches sight of the Induna.

Another grin.
You saw me.

Someone was sent to relieve him, shortly after the meeting in the royal hut broke up, but the Induna hasn't yet returned to his quarters. Instead he leans against a nearby storage hut, close to his king, and dozing. His shield lies face-down next to him; his spear is resting across his lap.

You saw me—which was surprising because, as far as I know, you're not dead—but obviously you'll forget the incident, because you have never mentioned it to me.

The Induna's head jerks up, and Shaka quickly steps behind a hut.

Blearily the Induna looks around, and Shaka shuts his eyes and presses his knuckles into his eye sockets, and pulls his fists down his cheeks, stretching the skin taut, smearing red into black as he realizes he's back in the hut of his seclusion.

And there's a scream …

A scream and a thrashing about, as the king the King left behind reaches the end of his own time.

Launching himself to his feet, clutching his spear but leaving his shield behind, the Induna is first into the hut.

Sigujana rises up, as though to greet the Induna, then drops back on to his sleeping mat, his fingers clawing the air.

Movement, and voices outside, but the Induna daren't turn around, and he refuses to be distracted. Instead he watches Sigujana closely
as if the two of them are involved in a duel, each waiting for the other to let down his guard.

He watches as Sigujana raises his head.

Watches as the king howls like a wounded dog.

Watches as the king howls, then points in the direction of his own feet.

The Induna moves forward, his eyes scanning the hardpacked dirt beyond the king's sleeping mat.

A shiver of movement, a sliver of darkness.

And Sigujana howls again as a spasm tosses him on to his back.

And now Ndlela is in the hut, too, pushing through the sentries who hover around the entrance but are too scared to cross the threshold.

He sees the Induna kick a pot out of the way, but knows enough not to say anything. Instead he turns his attention to the king. Sigujana writhes in agony, his skin wet mud, his lips foam, his limbs no longer his to control. Ndlela glances back at the Induna; sees him reach for a rolled-up sleeping mat leaning against the thatch, and pull it aside.

And, as he pulls it aside with his right hand, the Induna brings his spear into play. But, when he raises his left shoulder and extends his arm in a downward thrust, the warrior realizes he's got it wrong.

Stupid, stupid, to be wielding his assegai in such an awkward fashion—underarm and then, as his elbow locks, relying on his wrist to angle the blade even further downward. And he pulls back just in time to save himself time: precious seconds he would have wasted trying to recover his balance or to pull his blade free from the floor; precious seconds during which he would have lost sight of his quarry.

That's something you don't want to do, because this one has a habit of turning and attacking. It will rear up and launch itself a meter high.

Think! Put aside your fear! You're aiming at a crack in the night, at a slender stream of piss, at a slithering nothingness. Think!

Ndlela turns and ducks out of the hut, calls the other senior indunas to join him. They are to make sure the men return to their posts, for an attack might be imminent. One of the officers from Ndlela's own regiment pushes his way through to him. As soon as Ndlela had heard the screams, he sent this man to make sure Ngwadi and Mgobozi were in their hut and to double the contingent guarding them. Now the same officer reports that the emissaries are where they're meant to be, and Ndlela's instructions have been followed.

“Good!” says Ndlela. “Now get back there and tell those two that I proffer my apologies, but they are to remain in their hut until further notice. Tell them I said it's for their own safety.”

“It will be done, Master.” The man gazes past the Induna. He swallows, takes a breath. “Master, the king … ?”

“Go! Be gone!”

The Induna wrenches another pot out of the way and pounces. A downward movement; his knees hit the ground first, then his right palm, fingers splayed. Wielded like a knife in his left fist, his spear is raised, then strikes true.

And strikes again, as the snake squirms and twists, like Sigujana on his mat. It twists and turns, its head flaring and flattening, for this one is like a cobra in that regard.

The Induna brings his blade down yet again. And again. And one more time.

Then, keeping his hand as high up the haft as possible, he gingerly raises the spear and steps into the light, so that Ndlela can see how he's caught the cause of the king's suffering.

The snake's dorsal scales are the color of an assegai blade, and its belly is a pale gray. It's the reptile's mouth—as tenebrous as the moonless night and the dark day thereafter that the Zulus dread—which gives the creature its name: black mamba.

He remembers confusion, panic, fear. And a rushing to and fro. The sense of things happening simultaneously, time compressed, cause and effect mixed together like milk and porridge, but a poisonous porridge. People fleeing the flames, yet engulfed at the same time. But he also remembers how wiser minds remained calm, ensured that the homestead was encircled by spears; men facing the darkness beyond but also holding back the terror behind them.

Ndlela had him wait, with the snake draped over the blade of his spear, while two of the elders hacked away a portion of thatch at the rear of the hut. The Induna then passed the snake through the hole, twisted the assegai, and let the creature drop on to the small ihawu shield held ready by Ndlela. For there was a chance the mamba was an umhlangwe—a familiar employed by a wizard, an umthakathi. If so, it would have returned to continue its attack, if carried out through the hut's doorway, even though its body was split into two where the Induna's blade had sliced it.

Ndlela carried the shield round to the front of the hut and carefully placed it on the ground. Then he ordered four of his best warriors to equip themselves with torches and spears, and to guard the shield lest the umthakathi tried to retrieve the snake and use it in a ritual that would see the whole tribe cursed. Ndlela also hoped to let a Zulu sangoma examine the reptile the following morning. The shaman would look for signs that the mamba had been doctored, smeared with insila—dirt stolen from the king—and other substances, and so confirm that it was an umhlangwe.

The Induna smiles in the darkness as the wind stalks the slopes beneath their hideaway, making the grass rustle like rain. That was the one thing of which there was no doubt: it had not been an accident. The snake had been sent by a wizard—or somehow introduced by the Mthetwa emissaries. It was even possible that one of them was the wizard.

And, while Ndlela was seeing to the dead snake, Mduli had been dealing with Sigujana. The king had started vomiting. Every time he took a breath it was as if he had been stabbed, and he seemed shrunken by the pain and the flailing—although every now and then an especially harsh spasm would cause him to stretch out and twist and claw the air.

Where was the king's inyanga?

After Mduli's voice became a bellow, it was Mhlangana who admitted the inyanga was dead. A few weeks previously, Sigujana had wanted to see that if one drank until one vomited, the amount one vomited would be the same as the amount of beer one had drunk. He had chosen the inyanga—who had annoyed him for a reason Mhlangana could no longer remember—to do the drinking and the puking. Unfortunately, the inyanga had passed out between the drinking and the puking; immediately losing interest, the king and his cronies found something else to occupy themselves. When they later remembered the inyanga, he was dead, lying on his back with his mouth full of vomit.