Shaka the Great (29 page)

Given the reason he's at court, the Induna also feels he has to be extra careful about drawing attention to himself.

Ironically, though, Sigujana has shown every sign of being flattered by the Induna's defection to his camp, and he hasn't sought to victimize the warrior. Quite the contrary; he's castigated those who've attempted to cast aspersions on the Induna's loyalty. Even the king's brother, Mhlangana, has come in for a public tongue-lashing after sending a few sneers the Induna's way.

This is not to say that the Induna has been admitted into the king's inner circle—his izilomo, where Mhlangana acts the major domo—but he is getting close. The gate might remain shut, but he's allowed to look over the fence because Sigujana values his counsel on at least one subject. He is forever quizzing the Induna about Dingane's intentions, as if the Induna is in constant contact with Dingane, or is blessed with a unique insight into that prince's psyche.

This is also why the Induna is one of those that Sigujana orders to accompany him when the emissaries arrive the next morning, after the party.

Hungover, panicking at this sudden and unexpected intrusion of the outside world into his realm of drink and debauchery, Sigujana for some reason believes they've been sent by Dingane himself. That makes the Induna just the man he wants at his side, and it also helps that the Induna happens to be one of the few still upright and seemingly sober at this hour.

After drinking a lake of water the previous night, the Induna had made his way back to his hut to sleep. Rising early, he washed, broke his fast, and is standing amid the slumbering bodies draped around the remains of last night's fires, when Sigujana finally drags himself out of his hut. Blearily, the king listens to the messenger, then spots the Induna. “You!” he calls, momentarily forgetting the warrior's name. “Nduna! See what this fool wants. And ask him why my brother feels the need to add pomposity to his impertinence, by sending others to speak in his name.”

“As you wish, Majesty,” says the Induna, moving forward while the king allows himself to be led away by one of his servants.

He was standing amid the snoring, groaning bodies trying to remember the dream he'd had last night. However, the opening of the pot is too narrow and he just can't get his hand in. The memory of the dream was still fluttering behind his eyes as he woke up, but it vanished while he was readying himself for the day. It was only on returning here, to the scene of last night's dismal merriment, that he remembered.

An ax embedded in his head, dust in his throat …

The surge of resentment at having to sneak away.

Fresh air, then.

And hesitation.

Rummaging for the will, if not the courage. The drunk's dilemma: knowing it will be better this way, but feeling his body rebel nonetheless.

The decision.

Moving further into the darkness.

On his hands and knees, and then the finger thrust into his mouth.

The gagging.

Then the flood.

A dog barking in the bushes, but trying not to make a sound. Not quite succeeding, though, it being a process hard to control once initiated.

Still, despite the vile taste in his mouth and the burning in his throat, he'd felt better when he straightened up.

But there was tiredness, too. He had known his evening was over.

Find some water, then find his hut.

That the first task meant moving closer to the flames, and the drums and the sweaty limbs and the shouts and screams, didn't worry him as much as sneaking away had. He had successfully disentangled himself, now he could circle the fringes unnoticed.

He'd found some water, was sucking the skin dry, when a voice next to him spoke: “Now, which one is your king?”

Running the back of his hand across his mouth, the Induna turned to face a man several summers older than himself.

Noting the stranger was unarmed, the Induna asked him who he was referring to.

Now, the morning after, he wonders if the man had been speaking to himself because, as soon as the warrior spoke, the stranger had glanced at him as though seeing him for the first time.

And, having seen him, was seemingly determined to commit his features to memory, for he'd stood a long while gazing into the Induna's face.

Hard to see his eyes in the darkness, or judge what he meant by this long hard glare, but it was enough to unsettle the Induna.

And it was the memory of that same unease that struck him when he returned to the gathering place this morning. The call that awoke the echoes.

That stare? He can't be sure, but thinking about it now, it's as if the stranger had been taken by surprise, was staring because he couldn't believe his own eyes. Yes, it was as if he, and not the Induna, had seen something out of the ordinary!

“Your king,” he said at last, his eyes now on the strutting, staggering warriors only a few meters away. “Which one is he?”

Even there and then, caught in this dream that might not have been a dream, the Induna was struck by that odd choice of words.

Your king.

Stepping over the slumbering bodies, trying to find the exact spot where they had then been standing: who was this man?
Your king
implied he wasn't one of them, wasn't a Zulu, in which case he should not have been there. Yet the Induna had done nothing. He hadn't raised the alarm or tried to detain the stranger.
Why?

Because things became hazy after that … The next thing he knew, it was today.

What happened to the man? Where did he go? The Induna
would surely have known by now if he had intended to make mischief.

Or had it all been just a dream?

Just as the messenger hurries into sight, seeking the king, the Induna remembers something else. Here was one who seemed to be an outsider, who spoke of
your king
, yet, on his face, the black and red muthi sangomas applied to a Zulu chief at the time of the First Fruits. Yes, Imithi Emnyama—and worn out of season, too.

But the arrival of these other strangers—a little more strange since there's no doubt they aren't Zulus, and thus far more ominous than some chimera in the night—meant the Induna had other things to think about.

“My brother …” began Sigujana, not elaborating, not even mentioning that he was referring to Dingane. Consequently, when the Induna questioned the messenger and learned that the emissaries were from Shaka, he was more than a little surprised.

All Zulus had by now heard of Shaka's rise to prominence in the service of their powerful ally. Few doubted his bravery—or, rather, they were willing to tolerate the blather of the Mthetwa praise singers—it was his claim to be Senzangakhona's eldest son which they treated with disdain.

Some said the poor benighted brat spawned by Nandi had died during the great famine known as Madlathule, Eat And Be Quiet, and this Shaka was an impostor used by Dingiswayo in an effort to gain greater control over the Sky People. And just how stupid did he think they were, for this Shaka could scarcely speak their language! Others believed Shaka to be Nandi's son, but not Senzangakhona's; and that, impregnated by another, she had shamed the Zulu king into marrying her—but eventually got what she deserved.

Yet here was Sigujana blithely speaking of “my brother.” Curious.

While the king lethargically went about piecing his consciousness together, and some of his servants set about waking up all the other men, the Induna sent the messenger off to tell Mnkabayi what had transpired. Unfortunately, the queen was at a homestead a few kilometers away from the capital, so it would be some time before she got there.

And Sigujana was ready to meet the emissaries much sooner than the Induna had anticipated. Although the warrior wasn't to know it, this was an indication of how nervous Dingane made Sigujana. He would not be able to enjoy his new status fully until he knew what Dingane was planning to do. It was an anxiety that showed itself as Sigujana pushed aside his servants and shouted for the favorites he'd chosen as his guard of honor to get a move on.

The Induna decided that, in the same situation, he'd also want to get this meeting over and done with so he might learn what this mysterious brother had in mind. Had Sigujana ever even met Shaka? The Induna didn't think so—and he knew Dingane hadn't. He and Dingane had campaigned with the Mthetwas and, although there were times when they saw action, the Zulu contingents were mainly used to cover the main force's flanks or look after the cattle, while the battle itself raged a few valleys away. They rarely even camped alongside Dingiswayo's legions. So both he and Dingane had heard the stories, but they had never seen Shaka in the flesh.

“Shesha, shesha!” bellowed Mhlangana. And here was another brother, thinner than Sigujana, taller than Dingane. What did
he
think?

Is this some secret the royal family has kept from the tribe?

“Shesha, shesha!” urges Mhlangana again.
Hurry, hurry!

After the chosen ten had formed up, Sigujana's inspection of his bodyguard was brief. His gaze moved along the line, which had already become an arc, as those on the fringes moved forward and inward so there could be no doubting their enthusiasm. Then he nodded.

A ruler with a little more experience might have noted how the men themselves were as ragged as the formation they'd assumed.
Knowing there was little he could do about the bleary, bloodshot eyes, the sagging shoulders and the other signs of last night's drinking session, he could have still sent them away to spruce themselves up. For kilts were awry, and only some of the men had managed to pull on amashoba, while others preferred to spend the extra time required for that in throwing up. Some were wearing headdresses, others not, and, while all were carrying spears, their shields didn't match. In their haste, a few of the men had even picked up the smaller ihawu they used while dancing.

Sigujana, however, was more interested in ferocity, and clearly believed this component was all present and correct. And he wasn't wrong; for being awoken while their hangovers were flowing full-bore had indeed induced a sullen aggression in his men.

Would the king like to say a few words? wondered Mhlangana.

After a slight hesitation, Sigujana nodded. Why not? Get them even more riled!

“My brother has at last emerged from the thicket,” he announced. “But, coward that he is, he's still wary of wandering too far. Instead, he sends two emissaries who now have the effrontery to interrupt our rest. But that is not an impudence I will hold like a blade to their throats, for it is time we cleared this field of such weeds.”

So let his men swagger forth and show his brother—and these creatures of his—the way things stand.

“But please, my brave warriors, restrain yourselves! We would not want them dying of fright before they can report back to my brother. Is that understood?”

As expected, Mhlangana answered for the men. “As you wish, Majesty—until you wish otherwise, of course.”

Sigujana joined in the laughter.

“Yes, well,” he added after taking a mouthful of water from a gourd proffered by a servant, “a hiding may yet be in order.” But there's every chance his brother will see reason, isn't there? This last question was aimed at the Induna, and was largely rhetorical, since Dingane was known to be circumspect where his own safety was
concerned. This nonsense was simply that, nonsense—and it was the prince's way of throwing a tantrum. And, before the Induna had even stopped wondering why Sigujana should be asking him to comment on what Shaka might or might not do, Sigujana and Mhlangana were already discussing how they would deal with the emissaries.

Putting aside his confusion, the Induna moved to where he could see down the main path leading away from the group of huts. It was still too early, and his messenger was probably only now drawing in sight of the homestead where Mnkabayi was tending to a sick relative. But that didn't stop him from wishing she'd hurry up and get here.