Shaka the Great (64 page)

Outside, Pakatwayo blunders across an empty yard where storage huts have been torn down to allow for the passage of a large body of men. He heads to a section of the perimeter wall that has been cut free and then put back in place, thereby creating a hidden gate allowing that same large body of men access to the city. Should the Zulus attempt to attack from the rear, following the lone slippery, vertiginous path that snakes its way up alongside the waterfall, the men will be there ready and waiting to parry such a foolhardy maneuver. Should a Zulu impi somehow manage to hack its way through the dense bush to the east and west of the city, the regiments can also move to counter it. Or, in the unlikely event that the Zulus make significant headway with a frontal assault, the men can be directed through the gate, and straight down the avenue that
bisects the city. This was the eventuality Pakatwayo had most wished for, even though he knew his bulls had more chance of growing udders. Because those would have been his men out there. And, although Ngoza kept on about what an important role they would be fulfilling, Pakatwayo was well aware that he and his warriors were expected to know their place, their main reward being relief that they weren't Zulus, while all the honors and most of the spoils went to the Thembus. That they might get a chance to come to Ngoza's rescue, then, was a possibility you wouldn't want to relinquish, no matter how faint …

And, well, see … you weren't so stupid after all!

That's his finest regiment, waiting out there. Let it come through the city like a flood, carrying the Thembus ahead of it. Let them know they're not leaderless, even though their king is dead, for he, Pakatwayo, will be there urging them to avenge this betrayal.

A sudden vision of how things might be!

And why not? Why shouldn't that be the way things turn out? Clearly Shaka's aim was to sacrifice his brother and the men with him, thinking that, if they killed Ngoza, the Thembus would panic, as the Mthetwas did when Zwide captured and killed Dingiswayo. It might have worked, decides Pakatwayo, in a mood to be charitable despite the circumstances, but Shaka hadn't reckoned on the secret treaty between the Thembus and Qwabes. And to think he'd vacillated when Ngoza's emissaries had approached him! But that was understandable, for it wasn't to be an agreement between equals. Hai, no, Ngoza was graciously consenting to accept the Qwabes as vassals—or else. Still, Pakatwayo had agreed, and look what's happened!

And there's no time to waste. He kicks down the gate and strides on through the dust.

There are his men, his strong Qwabe men, sitting on their shields and waiting patiently in the sun. A quick glance over his shoulder—no one seems to have followed him; so where are those Zulus?—and he waves his men toward him.

“To arms!” he calls.

More sentries have poured into the hut. Unfortunately for them, they seem to have forgotten the walls are mere animal skins, tied tightly in place, it's true, but easily breached for all that. Instead they come down the corridor created by the hangings, and are thus easily held at bay by Radebe and Njikiza, who have each armed themselves with the long, heavy spears their adversaries carry. In fact, after the first few Thembus had dutifully impaled themselves, the others hung back, and there now follows a kind of fencing, as blades and shafts scrape and bump, parry and thrust, seeking an opening. Leaving Dingane watching the walls in case the guards finally remember these aren't made of thatch and try to outflank the Zulus, the Induna joins the other two, adding his spear to the tangle.

“Hurry!”

An officer who's been resting in the shade of the palisade, a few meters past the makeshift gate, pushes himself away from the wall and ambles toward Pakatwayo.

Last night the Qwabe regiments had camped on the banks of the stream, well away from the gorge and the waterfall.

“You,” calls out Pakatwayo, after another quick glance over his shoulder. “Yes,
you
! Get the men moving!”

The man continues heading toward him.

That's where a raiding force of Fasimbas, led by Mgobozi, had found them an hour before daybreak. A few Qwabes escaped but, chased by Fasimbas, they were steered away from the gorge and the Place of the Buffalo.

“What are you waiting for?” shrieks Pakatwayo.

At first light, Mgobozi had led his Fasimbas up the path alongside the waterfall. The Thembu sentries scarcely paid them any notice before they had their throats slit. Then Mgobozi had positioned his ibutho where Qwabe spies had told them Pakatwayo's forces had been ordered to wait, and where they were ignored by their Thembu hosts, who clearly believed their allies' services wouldn't be called upon.

Without hesitating or deviating from his course, and keeping his eyes on Pakatwayo, the man raises his right arm. And now Pakatwayo sees the ax he's carrying. It's an ax with a blade shaped like a swallow's tail; the kind Zulu generals use to direct men in battle.

Pakatwayo swivels toward the ranks assembled in the long grass, as if to appeal to them—and sees them rise to their feet as one, sees their shields.

Bare feet toughened by marching over thorns; big oval Zulu shields.

Pakatwayo turns back to the man just in time to catch Mgobozi's ax with his forehead.

“Are you awake, Little One?”

The udibi, who has indeed been dozing while he leans against the king's isihlangu, straightens up with a start, almost dropping the shield.

“I … yes, Majesty. I am here, Majesty.”

“Do you see what I see, Little One?”

The udibi frowns. What can the King see? A twinge of panic. Trembling hands. The feeling of being caught out. Where … ? What … ?

“Look up, Boy.”

Reports of a disturbance to the rear of the city have led to movement along the path. Suddenly those smug, sneering ranks have become a mob that is pushing and shoving, doing anything to get back on to the plateau.

As the boy wonders what's happening, figures appear on the summit. Distant shouts. Arms gesturing.

Now Shaka turns to the udibi. “You have stood here with me all this time,” he says, “so it is only right that you should do it.”

“Do what, Majesty?”

“Unleash our lions.”

“M-me, Majesty?”

“You can do it.”

The boy lifts the shield …

“But perhaps you should drink some water first.”

The boy nods: that
would
be a good idea. “Yes, Majesty. Thank you, Majesty.”

Shaka watches as the udibi rests the shield against himself and reaches for a water-sack, taking a long deep gulp.

Shaka extends his arm, and the boy hands him the waterskin. “Now,” says the King, “raise my shield and shout loud enough for the ancestors to hear you!”

The udibi turns.

Takes a deep breath.

Thrusts the shield upward.

And almost topples backward.

Shaka steps forward to help, but the Induna's udibi grits his teeth and steadies himself.

Then, before all the breath drains out of him, he bellows as loud as he can: “Ayi hlome!”
To arms!

It's all Shaka's lions need. At last they've understood, and they're eager to enter the fray, if only to assuage their shame. To think that they doubted Shaka! That they thought he'd actually deliver them to the Thembus!

They surge forward, and sweep past the King. But he doesn't smile, even when he sees the regiments forming into a column on the run, with no orders necessary.

The shame. The thought that, somehow, he had willed this on them: the massacre, the dead babies.

Was this ultimately of your choosing, Oh, King Who Has Yet To Find His Ubulawu?

Circumstance! His regiments undermanned, his children tired. Discipline and morale: needing to draw the former tighter and enflame the latter, so as to pull the people together, invigorate and enflame!

And circumstance had handed him just such an opportunity.

Circumstance, which had been holding him back, had now opened the way for him—just as the little girl had opened the Ntunjambili Rock, in the story. Somewhere deep inside of him, the word “Vuleka!”—
Be opened!
—had been uttered …

But such a sacrifice! He can only be shamed.

As are his soldiers, too … For when it is over, and the Thembu nation lies dying amid the ruins of its own capital, Shaka's warriors refuse their part of the spoils. The memory of their King standing in front of them, facing the enemy in the company of a lone udibi, while they themselves whined and muttered behind his back, doubting his wisdom, his courage, is almost too much to bear. They refuse to be mollified when they're told they could not be informed of the plans earlier lest their swaggering give things away. They had to stand there looking sullen and defeated. And soon it will be recounted how Shaka stood alone that day, clenching and re-clenching his fists so tightly that the bones in his hands were breaking, cracking like thunder, and then re-forming almost instantly, to be shattered yet again. And how the sky grew dark as the King's rage, the thunder within his bones, unleashed the lightning that destroyed his enemies …

And Shaka sends three regiments to the coast, under the command of Mgobozi, to deal with the remaining Qwabe clans. The Induna and the udibi go along with the general. Their iklwas feast and, for close to a month, huts burn and rearguard actions are shattered before they can even be properly mounted. However, let it be said, settlements willing to swear allegiance to Shaka are left alone, their headmen rewarded with cattle taken from their more stubborn neighbors.

The only thing that mars this triumphant campaign is when Mgobozi overreaches himself. For, in a fit of zeal, he leads the
Fasimbas against Faku's Pondoes. Later he will say that he was merely probing their strength and preparedness. If that was the case—and he wasn't hoping to sweep the Pondoes away with very little effort, and a single ibutho—then he found Faku's men ready and waiting. All too prepared, they stood their ground and repelled the invaders. Even more worrying was the fact this force wasn't much larger than the Fasimbas. Fortunately, Faku himself did not reach the battlefield in time, and, suspecting a trick, the Pondo general in charge of the contingent didn't press home his success and turn the Zulu retreat into a rout. The officer escaped punishment only because Faku realized he needed to focus his military resources on preventing his land becoming swamped by the Qwabes and other clans that were fleeing Shaka.

And it's the middle of the day sometime during Untlaba, the Aloe-Flowering Month of the April–May moon, and the regiments are at last returning home. As an antidote to the heat, Mgobozi has led them on to the beach, and they run on the hard sand beside the waterline, where the spray cools them. And the waves sigh and roll forward in a blinding whiteness, as though drawn to the war songs that now echo along the shore.

The Fasimbas, with the general and the Induna, are in the van. Look back, when the shore straightens, and you can see vast brown rectangles, as the orderly undulation of shields and spears and heads becomes lost amidst the breath of the sea. Look ahead and …

What's this?

A man.

Wearing a straw hat, a faded blue coat and white trousers rolled up to his knees, he stands there resolute.

Knowing the soldiers can't fail to see this remarkable apparition, Mgobozi bellows the Zulu equivalent of
Eyes front!

Then, as the column draws nearer to the man, Mgobozi and the Induna peel off, leaving the other officers to hurry the formation along.

“I see it but I do not believe it,” murmurs Mgobozi. “I see it and I am thinking:
Not again
.”

The Induna nods, aware that the general is referring to their encounter with a Sotho hunting party a few years ago.

“Perhaps this one is different.”

“Aiee, indeed he is that.”

As the second formation approaches, the two warriors move closer to the stranger.