Shaka the Great (53 page)

Inhale. Hold the smoke. Exhale. “Of course,” he continues, the word extending into a hiss, “the soldier who has killed in battle must then be cleansed. But is this not simply another kind of command he needs only to obey without thinking? For, my Brothers, I tell you, this is when the troubles begin.”

Mgobozi passes the rhino horn back to Radebe.

“When a soldier begins to think too much, to question the orders of the ax during battle …” he says, referring to the swallow-tail ax that senior officers carry to direct troop movements, “when he looks past the warm glow of the cleansing ritual, and sees the ghosts in the darkness beyond, when he begins to think too much and be tormented, there is trouble. He might as well leave his iklwa at home, for all the good it'll do him in battle.”

“And so,” says the Induna, having recovered his voice after several mouthfuls of water, “the good soldier must be a puddle.”

“Indeed … but we have strayed from the path here. You already mentioned those terrors who claim they are my wives—that is why I am happy to be a good soldier.”

“Who must, of necessity, be a puddle,” interjects the Induna.

“Yes, and there lies true contentment for me, in the ebb and flow, crash and clatter of battle. For there, where
forward, forward, ever forward
is the only way to go … why, a warrior has no time for worry.”

“What are you thinking of, my love?”

Shaka grunts in the darkness. “I was thinking, let that old goat make haste. Let him be as quick as he is garrulous. I need his counsel.”

“Mayhap they are even now on their way back.”

“Yes, but if that's the case …” Well, the moon is still full and Shaka knows his old friend too well. The return journey for him will involve a detour. “That one can smell tomorrow's feast today, and so he will offer to keep the Nduna company. I do not begrudge him that, but I only hope he will be quick about it.”

“The Thembus are preparing their spears?”

A wry chuckle. “Oh, yes, and, in a manner of speaking, you could say they are the spears I myself have given them.”

“They have learned from your achievements?”

Shaka nods.

“But have you not said that it is who wields the weapon that matters?”

“That is so, but what concerns me more is the Qwabes. They are weaker than the Thembus, but if they join up with Ngoza both will become immeasurably stronger.”

Because then geography will come into play. If those two tribes can coordinate their efforts, Shaka will end up fighting on two fronts. He and his generals have considered—and rejected—a variation on the strategy he used against the Ndwandwes when they came looking for war a second time. To attack the Thembus now, say, and leave a rearguard to draw the Qwabes away from the main force, and lure them further from their homeland until Shaka can dispense with the Thembus, that would be suicidal. His army is still too weak to be split up in this way, especially when you consider
the rearguard would need to be almost as big as the main force, because it would have to engage the Qwabes and win, if the latter choose to break off their pursuit and seek to link up with the Thembus instead.

There is this fact too. Soshangane burned numerous Zulu settlements as he stalked through the kingdom, and the people and the land itself haven't fully recovered from these depredations. Shaka doesn't know if they can face another “retreat.”

And, as Mbopa has warned him, he mustn't forget that his enemies will be expecting just such trickery.

“You have taught them too well,” murmurs Pampata.

“This is so.”

“But their feet remain tender, I think. They might imitate us, but they'll never be us! They'll only ever be hobbling somewhere behind us.”

“Nonetheless, they can still prove irksome.”

In sending emissaries to the Thembus, Shaka is simply hoping to play on Ngoza's vanity. Let him savor the thought of the mighty Bull Elephant groveling, and desperate to win his friendship! Let him enjoy the thought of Shaka's fear for a while …

Pampata runs her fingers over Shaka's chest. “So it is a matter of being patient, beloved.”

And of handing over the initiative to Ngoza—something that makes Shaka want to roar with frustration!

Although Pampata's right when she speaks of the need for patience, he's worried he might have been too successful in convincing Ngoza that the Zulu army is more vulnerable than it really is. And he's haunted by the sense that these feverish preparations, this back-and-forth between the Qwabes and the Thembus, are merely the deluded to-and-fro of ants oblivious to the descending foot.

Who's fooling who … ?

What if Ngoza strikes first? Although not as badly off as Shaka has led the Thembu ruler to believe, the Zulu army
is
in a weakened state. Morale and discipline might be good, and shields and spears plentiful, but the amabutho are undermanned. They'd be hard
pressed to deal with a Thembu invasion, especially if its accompanied by a Qwabe incursion from the south.

Patience? Yes, he needs to be patient. But what if Ngoza is more reckless than he's bargained for?

This is why he needs Mgobozi, for the counsel of his old friend will help ease the pain of waiting. More than that, Mgobozi's wisdom will help him formulate a strategy to deal with a war on two fronts, should that dreaded likelihood arise.

“I hope they have not met with any mishap.”

“Mishap? Mgobozi? Hai, no! He is the mishap that befalls others, never fear.”

Shaka chuckles. “This is true.”

“So is this,” whispers Pampata, her hand enfolding his hardness.

“Let it speak,” says Shaka, rolling on to his back.

“Your wish is my sweet delight, Beloved.”

As it turns out, at this very moment, both Mgobozi and the Induna happen to be holding a prick as well—although in this case each has his hand around his own prick.

“You are right. We have untied this distance very rapidly,” says the general as they both piss. Below them stretches the veld: shades of turquoise and purple under the same moonlight that attends the Qhumbuza being held a few kilometers to the north. “And just as well, for it makes my teeth ache to know that we must leave any Qwabes we encounter unmolested.”

“Even though we are supposed to be still at peace with them?”

“Cha! Peace for them is merely a way of biding their time before they can next strike.”

“This is so, General. And, who knows, your iklwa might yet get to feast.”

“Yes … aiee! I almost stepped into your puddle.”

“My apologies, General.”

Mgobozi lays a hand on the Induna's shoulder. He murmurs that he meant what he said, just now, about puddles and lakes. But the
Induna … there are those, like the Induna, who are something else altogether.

“Hai, General!”

“It is so.” For as long as great deeds are praised, Shaka's name will be remembered. This is so. “But,” continues Mgobozi, “it is your muscles and sinews, and the muscles and sinews of those like you, who will bind this land together, give it its strength and ensure there are future generations to discuss great deeds and praise Shaka's name.”

“Hai, but that also could be said of any and all Zulus!”

“Perhaps,” chuckles the general.

“And what of Mgobozi?”

“Oh, he will be remembered, too. Long will they speak of the torments he suffered at the hands of his wives.”

Philani could be making the whole thing up. That's the thought the udibi finds lingering with him, when he opens his eyes that morning.

What would the Induna do?

The boy smiles to himself. The Induna would urge him to think it through, to tell himself this story and see how it sounds.

A river that eats children …

Perhaps, there, Philani's imagination is in danger of leading them astray. Because of its very obvious source—one of the Cat Man's stories—one might be tempted to dismiss everything Philani says. But, as tempting as that might be, the udibi feels that if the Induna were here, he'd say that such a dismissal would be dangerous.

What if the child really did come across a body?

If he did, that raises an ominous possibility.

It's easy to imagine a corpse being washed down a river and becoming snagged in an inlet … and then becoming unsnagged again. But the river runs past the village, through a shallow ford in constant use. A body is sure to have been found, noticed, and no one's reported finding one. Neither has anyone reported coming upon a body further upstream.

To the udibi that implies that, after Philani saw the body, someone came looking for it and removed it. And why do that, and so surreptitiously, too, unless you had something to hide—like the fact you were responsible for the body becoming a body?

There are at least two villages further upstream that the boy knows of, for he and the Induna passed through them on their way here. Does one of these settlements harbor a killer?

What is he to do with this story, these thoughts and suspicions? He can speak to Nkululeko, who'll take him seriously simply because he is the Induna's udibi. That's the obvious and the right course of action. But why take to him mere suspicions? Why not ensure he can hand Nkululeko certainties? Won't that make the Induna even more proud of him?

Into the kraal comes the bull singled out for sacrifice, accompanied by five other beasts. The animals were chosen a few days ago from the herd of the induna yesigodi who is hosting the Qhumbuza—not that he himself had much say in the matter. It was the ancestors who guided his feet and his eyes, as he and his brothers moved amidst the cattle. Hock, withers, neck and horns taking shape amid the brown and white, the black and gray, solidifying, seemingly called into existence by his gaze. A sense of knowing.
That one, there
…

And, when it was removed from the herd, there were those other cattle who tried to follow it, thereby identifying themselves as its izinceku. These are the men who tend to the king's pots and eating utensils, as well as his food, and it's a fitting nickname for, in this context, the izinceku cattle are the ones who look after the sacrificial beast. And this afternoon they follow it again into the cattlefold in the center of the village, accompanied by the host's brothers and closest friends, who take the place of the herdboys today, just as they did when the bull was selected, guiding the animals toward the middle of the byre.

The whistling and clapping of the men sets off another movement, a silent surge. The cattlefold is empty … then it's not. Seeming to have appeared from nowhere, the villagers move forward, like a giant's cupped hands coming together to enclose the animals and herders.

Then those hands part, one fingertip at a time, at the top end of the cattlefold, where the ibandla tree is, to allow Nkululeko to enter the ring.

He's a short, stout man, with a pot belly and heavy buttocks, but he manages to look regal as he strides forward. He is wearing
amashoba, and the isinene and ibeshu that form the Zulu kilt. Draped around his shoulders is a quagga skin. This is the isiphuku, the cloak kept specially for such occasions by the oldest woman in the family—in this instance the last surviving wife of Nkululeko's great-grandfather. The cloak was already ancient when she was a young makoti, a new bride, never thinking she'd one day become the isiphuku's guardian.