Shaka the Great (62 page)

“That I can well believe,” interjects Dingane. “Yes, I can well believe that, since here I sit listening to a talking turd.”

Before either of the Thembus can respond, Dingane addresses Ngoza, his voice oozing politeness: “And I thank you for your concern. Doubtless you have also heard that Shaka and I don't always see eye to eye. There are even some who say I plot against him. But rest assured, just as I am my father's son, I'm my brother's brother, especially in a matter such as this.”

Ngoza regards Dingane with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I can see that now. But tell me this. Since you are so close, would you like to die like your brother?”

“Of course! We both fully intend to die of old age.”

“If you think that, you are both fools.” Ngoza holds up his hand. “But we are not here to bicker.”

Dingane shrugs.

And the Induna sees how the bodyguard's attention has begun to wander. Even the billowing anger in Ngoza's voice has failed to remind him of the importance of his assignment, and the need to be extra-vigilant.

“No,” says Ngoza, as if to reassure himself. “Enough of this small talk. Tell us why you are here, Dingane KaSenzangakhona.”

Looking left, looking right, making sure the other sentries are out of earshot, Dumo brings his face up close to Njikiza's. “They don't know it in there, little man, and I'm not supposed to tell you, but none of you will leave this place alive.”

Njikiza meets Dumo's glare. Then yawns.

“The King wants to know since when has it become Thembu practice to butcher women and children?”

“Hai! Let's be serious,” says Ngoza. “They weren't women and children. They were Zulus!”

“Aiee! My knees tremble, but it'll take more than bad breath to best me.”

“Not much more, though.”

“It speaks. Amazing! Now start working on your last words.”

“Last words?”

“You heard what I said,” hisses Dumo. “Today you die. Today the ford runs dry, Watcher!”

“I also heard that you weren't supposed to share this far-fetched possibility with me.”

“For you I make an exception.”

“Why? Would you bore me to death?”

“Oh no, I have something far better in mind … or should I say in hand.”

“Not that! We'll be here all day if you try to whip me to death with your pizzle.”

“Besides,” adds Kobo, “since when has killing women and children bothered Shaka? We follow his lead in this matter.”

“Listen to your chief, minion,” says Dingane. “He's right. These were Zulu women and children. That's what makes them different.”

The punch doubles Njikiza over, and brings the other two sentries running. There's a silent, tense struggle as they grab Dumo's arms, a man on each side, and force him back a step. Anguished whispers, for they don't dare disturb the meeting behind the partitions.
What is he thinking?
He'll get all of them into trouble! Even if the king
calls him his favorite weapon, Dumo mustn't think he can do whatever he likes …

Casually, Dumo raises his arms and breaks free of his comrades. But his palms are open, placatory. They mustn't worry. Everything is fine. He and the Zulu are merely having a discussion.

After the two have retreated to their posts, trailing anxious glances behind them, Dumo steps up to Njikiza again. “You will die today, Zulu, and I tell you this, since you asked, so I can stand here and watch that knowledge fester behind your eyes. Because
that's
what guides my hand to my prick: watching a man who knows he's about to die, and seeing how he prepares himself for the Great Journey.”

“Let us not overlook the more important issues here,” says Ngoza.
“Let us not be distracted by the flames, and instead look to the coals.
That your king professes perplexity is what perplexes
me
. How else did he expect me to respond to his arrogance?”

“On the battlefield,” says Dingane.

“Hai, then none of you would have been here!”

“This is true,” interjects the Induna.

“Yes, see—even
your
minion can see that,” grins Ngoza.

But Kobo has caught the double meaning of the Induna's words. When their eyes meet, the chamberlain inclines his head ever so slightly, acknowledging the fact the Induna's throw was a good one, and the spear hit the target.

“So it was for your own good, Zulu,” continues Ngoza. “Even you must see that. Let a few fall so the others can learn how they might prosper.”

“But that is not all,” says Dingane.

“Well … a tribute every season would be a fine way of ensuring the lesson won't be repeated.”

“Not that we really need anything you might have,” adds Kobo.

“Hmm, do not discount their women. We might be able to accommodate a few of those.”

Kobo makes a show of trying to suppress a shudder. “As you wish, Sire, but not for me. However … it's the principle that matters.”

“Precisely.”

“A way of measuring their allegiance.”

“Quite.”

“Yet …”

“What is it, Kobo?”

“Perhaps, in addition to this, we require something a little more meaningful.”

“Require?”

“Yes, I will not say ask, for asking implies there's a choice involved.”

“Whether to say
yes
or whether to say
no
.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Whereas Shaka has no such luxury.”

“Exactly. You have seen to that, Sire.”

“Hai, no, it was nothing.”

“Birds,” says Dingane addressing no one in particular. “I am reminded of birds.”

“I can see why,” says the Induna.

Ngoza: “Birds?”

Dingane: “Birds.”

Ngoza: “Is it the heat, do you think, Kobo?”

Kobo: “I couldn't say, Sire.”

Ngoza: “For he seems delirious …”

“Quite the contrary,” says Dingane. “I was merely saying this reminds me of birds.”

“What does?” asks Ngoza.

“This …” Dingane indicates the space between Ngoza and Kobo, with a lazy hand. “This exchange, this delicate to and fro—it reminds me of birds. The one chirps, the other answers. The one sings, the other chirps. Or perhaps the exchanges between a soka and his beloved, perhaps
that's
what this puts me in mind of. Sweet words swapped as if no one else existed.”

“Very well, then. A tribute every season and we get to deal with
the Portugiza. You want to deal with them, you deal with us. What else, Kobo?”

“That's all for now.”

“Yes, for now. There, Zulu—since you would sneer at sweet words, is that bitter enough for you?”

Dingane scratches his chin, rubs his neck.

“You surely aren't …” Kobo turns to his chief. “He's surely not thinking about it! I mean, there is nothing to think about. Doesn't the fool know that?”

“Clearly not. What say you, Zulu?”

“Hmm, yes,” says Dingane. “It's not so much what I have to say on the matter, but what our neighbors might have to say about an agreement of this nature.”

“Agreement?” Ngoza raises a finger. “No, there is no agreement. We say, and you do!”

“Nonetheless, Sire, he raises an interesting point …”

“Yes, he does.” Addressing Dingane, he inquires, “Are you talking about your cousins now?”

The Needy One shrugs.

“Is it their opinion on the matter that concerns you?” Ngoza turns to his chamberlain. “For we have heard the whisperings, have we not, Kobo?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Malandela's sons, the brothers Zulu and Qwabe, who both went off to live in different valleys. And some say the bond of blood beguiles a man so that he will see foolishness as loyalty, and the Qwabes have entered into a secret alliance with the Beetle. What say you, Zulu? After all, that would go a long way to explaining your brother's rather strange behavior.”

“Strange?” asks Dingane.

“We had expected a little more … well, gnashing of kingly teeth and pounding of thorns. Instead, he comes here meekly. He cringes, he cowers, he sends you to sit here. Strange behavior.”