Shaka the Great (34 page)

There was little an inyanga could have done, anyway. Moving fast, striking multiple times before its prey can react, a black mamba can bring down a buck. Just one bite contains enough poison to kill fifteen men, and Mduli and two of the other elders could only try to make Sigujana's passing a little less painless.

The Induna, meanwhile, had been sent by Ndlela to keep Mnkabayi informed of developments. She had remained in her hut, with guards posted outside. Unlike tonight, she'd been quiet and ruminative. She listened to the Induna's report and nodded, and then it had been as if he wasn't there. Although, when he had at last asked permission to leave, she had told him to stay a little longer. “Ndlela knows where you are, and he will send for you if he needs you,” she said, before looking inward again, like a wayfarer contemplating the embers of a campfire—although this was a fire only she could see.

Unlike tonight …
when she had known what to do. When she had taken charge—the Induna glances at Dingane, who seems to have dozed off beneath his wildebeest cloak—when she had told
the Induna not to follow his udibi, who had seen the assassin, but to go and find Dingane instead.

“Make sure your waterskin is full and take an extra cloak,” she'd added. At the time, wanting to be with the boy who was no longer a boy, the Induna had been annoyed, thinking that such a womanly thing for her to say. But Mnkabayi had clearly suspected that finding Dingane would take the Induna some way from the capital.

What is going on back there?

Does Shaka now writhe like Sigujana did? The Induna stifles a shudder, still remembering how the pain had pulled Sigujana's skin tight around his skull. As if death's decay was already beginning.

But Shaka has Fynn … Fynn and his special muthi: izilwane muthi but effective, for all that. Remember the old woman? Assigned to watch over Fynn when the White Man had first been summoned to KwaBulawayo, as part bodyguard, part jailer, the Induna had witnessed how Fynn had opened a large wooden box that one of his half-breeds carried, and then healed a sick old woman at a village where they'd stopped to rest.

Shaka had scratched his head on hearing that. He allowed that he was impressed, but he couldn't understand why the White Man should waste his muthi on one who was so close to making the Great Journey anyway.

Of course, he saw things differently once Nandi fell ill—and Fynn was the one he sent for. Shaka wouldn't let any of the Zulu inyangas touch his mother … But that is not a time the Induna wishes to dwell on. Nandi's death was very like a mamba bite, one that left the nation howling like Sigujana did, Shaka's pain being the venom pumping through its veins.

Aiee, and no matter how much you and your family suffered, you were always coming across those who had lost even more. Like Mbopa.

The Induna turns his head to gaze out at the sky, as if turning away is enough to rid oneself of such thoughts.

But Mbopa—where is
he
? What is
he
doing tonight?

He remembers how, at the height of Shaka's depredations, the prime minister had suggested that the Induna return to his home
kraal. Driven insane by Nandi's death, Shaka was of a mind to condemn everyone around him, even his most loyal servants. He was seeing plots and disobedience everywhere, explained Mbopa, and even when he recovered, those he had accused would be forever untrustworthy in his eyes. It was better, then, that the Induna absent himself. “You who have served our Father so valiantly, I would not see you being so tainted,” said Mbopa. “For the time will come when our Father will need trustworthy men—men whose loyalty is beyond reproach—and I would rather you become one of those he turns to.”

Is Mnkabayi doing the same thing now? Is she simply trying to protect him?

Cha! He should be on the trail of the assassin, and ready to restrain the other hunters, for the man must be questioned before he is executed.

Is
that
why he's been sent away? So the assassin can be killed before he's made to talk? Another thought he wants to avoid, because that means Mnkabayi is …

Dingane stirs and yawns, catches sight of the Induna watching him and laughs. “I was asleep,” he says.

“This is so,” says the Induna.

“Some things never change.”

“This is so.”

“When we marched together to fight Dingiswayo's wars for him, you would always shake your head and say you couldn't understand how I could manage to sleep even if we were sitting on our shields, facing Zwide's jackals.”

“Especially then.”

“And what would I then tell you?”

“What else was there for you to do, and it wasn't as if you were going to be left behind.”

“No,” grins Dingane, “more's the pity.”

“I thought your sleeping was a very princely thing to do, for it helped the men stay calm.”

“Yet it irritated you.”

The Induna chuckles. “That was my envy baring its teeth, for I wished I could fall asleep as easily.”

“And under such circumstances?”

The Induna nods, in his mind seeing Mnkabayi again, hearing her tell him to go and find Dingane, then get him out of the way. It would be good to shut his eyes and escape these thoughts, if only for a little while.

“Well, as you said, it's a princely thing, you might say a knack vouchsafed to us princely things,” says Dingane.

The wildebeest cloak rises and falls as he shrugs. “And here we sit,” he says, “and it is as if we are in the ranks again.”

“Drawn up,” murmurs the Induna.

“Yes, and waiting.”

Waiting for the enemy, knowing dawn will be his herald, the sign the swallow-tailed axes have been waiting for, when they will rise up into the air, straining to break free from the generals who hold them, and pulling the Zulu Bull to its feet …

Knowing there is nothing to do, and nothing that can be done, until then.

“And, because it is as if we are sitting here awaiting the call to arms, and some things never change, I sleep,” says Dingane.

Ndlela led the Induna to the rear of an empty hut, where Mnkabayi was sitting on a tree stump. It was early the following morning and she had positioned herself there, with two of her servants, so she could overhear what was being discussed by the elders and officers only a few paces away.

She didn't have to strain her ears either, for the men were agitated and unsettled. Before Ndlela and the Induna arrived, they had been discussing whether a Smelling Out was called for, and which sangoma might carry it out—and the thunderclouds began darkening
Mnkabayi's visage, for at this time, in 1815 or thereabouts, the nation's most influential sangomas were The Lion and Nobela. And, because they were the most influential, with Nobela preferring to let the Lion garner the reputation while she herself gathered power, Mnkabayi loathed them the more.

Now the men were mired in irrelevancies, such as adumbrating Sigujana's profligate ways, as if these had led to this.

“Go and tell them to keep their voices down,” she told Ndlela. “Tell them they make our guests grin and our own men look off toward the hills.”

Turning her attention to the Induna, she asked him if he felt rested. Feeling his cheeks grow warm, the Induna stammered an apology. He had waited for her to dismiss him last night, but she hadn't, and he hadn't meant to fall asleep inside her hut …

“Nonsense,” said Mnkabayi. “It was a mere morsel of rest, I know, but better than nothing. We all need to be as alert as possible today.”

The Induna bowed his head.

“Now,” said Mnkabayi, “Ndlela says you have something to say to me—and a request to make.”

The Induna nodded. Perhaps she was right about sleep being a muthi that revives, refreshes and sharpens, because something had bloomed in his mind while his eyes were shut. The snake had been real: that's what he had realized on waking up.

It was no phantom that had slithered out of the spirit world. It was no shade called upon to kill for an umthakathi. It had been used as a weapon, and was thus as real as a spear or iwisa. And, if it was real, it had to have been deliberately introduced into Sigujana's hut in some way.

The Induna swallowed, then proceeded to ask Mnkabayi's permission to examine the royal hut.

There were numerous reasons why she might refuse to grant this request. For one, although Sigujana's body had been removed, his possessions still remained. These would be sorted through by his servants, under the watchful eye of an elder such as Mduli. A few items would be buried with the king, but most would be destroyed,
crushed, obliterated, burned, and their remains hidden lest they be used by sorcerers to attack the entire tribe. Therefore it would not do for someone to be left in the hut unattended, before this sorting has occurred.

Then there was the matter of the dead man's umkhokha, which would be seeking vengeance.

And this one, this young man before her, the one who she must strive to keep at arm's length, no matter how much it pains her—she would hate to see him placed in such jeopardy. Yes, yes, he is a warrior, a soldier, and she aches until she hears of his safe return, the pain intensifying then because she can't seek him out, or see for herself that he has escaped major injury. On the battlefield he has his prowess to aid him, but when it comes to an enraged umkhokha, a spear and shield are useless.

But this one, this young man before her, pondered a moment, his brow furrowed, then—hesitantly and with due deference—asked if he might speak. Mnkabayi nodded, her eyes never leaving the Induna's face, even when his shyness caused him to look away.

He's going to be searching for the spoor of Sigujana's killer, he insisted, so might not the king's umkhokha be restrained, held in abeyance, because he is after all seeking to appease it?

Mnkabayi conceded that he had a point. And they listened a moment to one of the graybeards gathered in front of the hut wanting to know when they were going to discuss the king's funeral arrangements, because there's the matter of protocol, of assigning guest huts to the village heads and clan chiefs who will come to pay their respects (although the king will have been buried long before then)—and have messengers yet been sent to the tribes currently on friendly terms with the Zulus?

Mnkabayi frowned at this. She knew she shouldn't be surprised, but she still couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“Very well,” she said, turning to the Induna. At least here was someone with a definite plan of action. “You may examine the royal hut, but stay on your guard.”

The royal hut's entrance—the ikotamo, or door-arch—was slightly larger than normal because this was a king's dwelling (and would be considered as such until after the funeral, whereupon the indlu will be collapsed—not pulled down but made to fall inward). In other words, there was an opening right there that a tubby baby rhino could fit through, never mind a snake. But a Zulu hut also had a door of sorts. Inside the indlu, a stout upright post is planted on either side of the ikotamo. A square wickerwork screen is slid between the thatch and the poles to cover the doorway at night. The gaps between the intertwined leaves allow some light through, so the isivalo can also be used on windy days without having the interior too gloomy. When the entire family is away from home, the wicker door is put in position and held fast by a wooden bar thrust crosswise through a series of loops, one in the center of the isivalo and one on either side of the door arch, as a sign that the family is away, and might be for some time.

Here too there were cracks and gaps that a snake could easily use. But the king's hut was permanently guarded, with the sentries even more vigilant last night. A snake would have been one of the dangers they knew to watch out for.

Straightening up, turning away from the hut's entrance, the Induna looked over to where the counselors stood, a throng of senior indunas, also isifunda, who act as judges in outlying districts, and izilomo, men of influence at court …

“… what is to be done? What are the precedents?
Are
there any precedents?” The question is aimed at Mduli, who in turn defers to the oldest counselor present. Talking in a slur that a great-grandson has to “translate,” he says he can remember no other situation quite like this one.

“But what are we talking about exactly?” asks a senior induna in Mduli's service.

“What does he mean?” responds a graybeard. The elder is an isifunda
who from time to time manages to pluck up the courage to dispute Mduli's decisions, and his present tone suggests that the induna's question was a waste of breath. How can anyone
not
know the trouble they're in?

At a nod from Mduli, his man explains himself. “We speak about precedents, but precedents for what?”

“For what?” asks the isifunda, with disdainful disbelief. He spreads his hands. “For this!”

“What Nqoboka means,” interjects Mduli, “is we need to know what
this
is! We need to know the nature of the beast we are dealing with!”

“Beast,” sneers Mhlangana. “He is a Beetle.”

Instead of the laughter he was expecting, a glare from Mduli is the only response he gets. And now one of the counselors is saying this is why they should be waiting for the sangomas. They need to be guided by the bones here; the bones will help them see beyond …

The Induna circled the hut. It was newly built, with the thatch still tight. In three places he found what appeared to be holes. Two were at ground level, the third a hand's width above the hard-packed dirt. However, when he inserted his spear haft, it did not penetrate all the way through in two of those holes. With the remaining opening, one of those at ground level, he was able to push his spear haft deeper until, with a modicum of exertion, he could force it through to the other side.