Shaka the Great (12 page)

“How many?” asked Shaka.

“I'm not sure I understand, Majesty.”

“How many survived the wreck?”

“There was no wreck, Majesty. These men have come to seek you out!”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Jakot eagerly, happy to have at last elicited some interest from the King. “They come to seek you out, Majesty, in order to trade with you!”

And their first transaction would inevitably involve asking the Zulu King for land on which to establish a settlement …

“And all this you know, because they are not your masters, and you are privy to their plans?”

“I am there amongst them. They speak. I listen. At times it is as if I am invisible, Majesty.”

“Why do I sense your … companions might wish that it was indeed so. But they have come, you say, seeking my favor?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Shaka glanced around. “Well?”

“Majesty?”

“Where are they?”

“Ah! I have, uhm … pre-empted them somewhat.”

Jakot went on to explain about the botched landing. He didn't, however, go into why he had decided to travel to Bulawayo on his own, but Shaka was grinning by the time he concluded his narrative.

“I see I was wrong to inquire about your masters. I should have asked about your pursuers, for you are clearly a fugitive.”

“Not quite, Majesty. More of an ally.”

Derisive chuckles spread through the ranks of the men gathered behind the King.

“An ally?” said Shaka, after the noise had died down. “Aiee, who knows what we two might accomplish together!”

“Majesty, you jest at my expense, and I do not mean to criticize you in that, for truly it is the kind of jest I might have made were our roles reversed. However, there is a grain of truth in what you say. Your words do indeed point to a path that might prove profitable for both of us.”

Mbopa could no longer contain himself. “You
dare
to place the King of the Zulus on the same path as yourself! Your words, earthworm, point to your entrails and you may yet
profit
from the opportunity to view them more closely.”

“Hai, but this one entertains me, Mbopa. I'll stay my anger a while longer.”

“Majesty,” protested Jakot, “I meant no disrespect.”

“Nonetheless, the hut is now burning. Come now, let us see how you will douse the flames.”

“Majesty, I … What I meant was … Well, I mean …”

“Aiee! Now the granny inside the hut is on fire, too! Listen to her shrieks! Yours will become louder if you cannot stop this blaze.”

“I know their ways, Majesty! Yes, yes, it is so, for I have lived among them. I know their ways, their customs—how they think! I can be of assistance to you in your dealings with them.”

“Should I choose to have dealings with them.”

“Yes, well there you go, Majesty. The choice is yours, but you need to know these men will be persistent.” Although Jakot had often overheard his employers complaining about the lack of official support for their project, he knew they were also determined to proceed, no matter what. There were, after all, fortunes to be made. “And they will reward you!” he added, showing yet again how much a part he was of that society he claimed to scorn.

“Trinkets!”

“Perhaps initially, Majesty, but you should be able to frighten more substantial offerings out of them.”

Shaka led the roar of laughter that erupted among the Zulus, and Jakot allowed himself a wan smile.

As it turned out, Shaka would become enamored with some of those very trinkets the White Men brought him, when they finally came to pay their respects. He was especially fond of English soap, which he came to prefer over the red paste usually used to “wash” the King, and he also insisted his barber shave him with a European razor.

“I can help you, Majesty,” urged Jakot.

“
Help!
” growled Mbopa.

“Serve! Serve you, Majesty! I can serve you! Be of assistance!”

Jakot had traveled far and wide, and Shaka found him entertaining, naming him Hlambamanzi, “the Swimmer,” after hearing of his escape in the waves. He invited Jakot to stay and advise the Zulu court on how to deal with the White Men when they eventually stopped trying to drown themselves and made their way to his capital.

Shaka knew an arrogant conman when he saw one, but reckoned Jakot's knowledge might just come in handy, if only in helping the King decide what
not
to do.

As for Jakot, the realization that these Zulus weren't about to be easily duped was somewhat unsettling. It was a sign that he might not turn out to be as indispensable as he had hoped. He constantly did his best to keep Shaka entertained, but when the Zulus went to war against the Thembus he seized the opportunity to “exile” himself to a kraal closer to the ocean. After Fynn and then Farewell arrived, he began dividing his time between the White Men and the Zulus, favoring the former until he became all but a permanent member of the settlement at Port Natal.

Untlolanja, the Fucking Dog Moon, January 1826

It suddenly strikes him that things are unnaturally quiet.

He's moving among the temporary huts raised to accommodate the massive influx of people that came to attend the First Fruits. The amadladla in this section are empty, waiting to be torn down, but not every visiting family or clan has yet returned home. Various favorites or those seeking favor, contingents from the existing regiments, heads of the war kraals and their retinues, and sundry others (including Fynn and his interpreter) have remained behind at the King's invitation, to celebrate the end of the celebrations tonight.

And by now the darkness should have become a tangled thicket of lamentations, and night should be day as flames of rage leap up into the sky.

Even laughter! He wouldn't have been surprised to hear echoes of laughter: joyful, gleeful, relieved laughter.

Instead …

It seems somehow obscene, this silence.

He clenches his fists, catching and squeezing the urge to keep moving, and forces himself to
listen.

A brief roaring in his ears, then … nothing. Even the air is still. He scratches his nose to reassure himself that his senses haven't deserted him.

He'd heard the shouts and was coming to investigate, when he was suddenly bowled over by a man running fast; a wiry man, now that he comes to think of it, his desperation giving him a strength that belied his size. Dingane had just got his breath back when the Induna's udibi appeared. Since it was clear to the prince that the boy was chasing the man who had knocked him over, he merely pointed in the direction the latter had fled. It was only when he made it to the bonfires, and the milling crowd, that he was told what had happened. Realizing it was the killer he had encountered, he immediately set off after him—and the udibi.

That's what he'll claim, at least. And all of it will be true—except the part about going after the killer.

That's assuming he can go back, of course. Is that an option? And he needs to be sure about this, because if it is an option and he doesn't return within a certain period of time, that won't look good, no matter how eloquently he can explain away his actions.

And isn't this what they want? The conspirators—isn't this part of their plan, possibly even the part they reckoned they could be most sure of?

Do it, kill Shaka—and Dingane will run.

So? Isn't that all the more reason he should turn back right now?

No, he decides as he begins to move again. He still can't be certain. And there's no room for mistakes—not on this night, anyway.

So?

So
, he thinks, as he passes the last of the temporary huts,
Dingane runs.

The irony isn't lost on him. With the exception of Shaka, who was dragged from village to village by Nandi when he was a child, Dingane's probably done more running—more getting away from—
than any of his other brothers. Yet everyone's always going on about how he lives up to his name and
needs
to be surrounded by life's luxuries. It's a trait he's displayed since birth, they'll explain: for when he showed himself loath to be weaned, to forgo the convenience of his mother's breasts, his father decreed he would be named “the Needy One.”

But let them think he's soft and weak, only interested in the privileges of his rank, and the opportunities it affords him to indulge his hedonism. Not only has his reputation shielded him from Shaka's wrath on numerous occasions, but Dingane believes it also saved his life, all those summers ago, when his brother seized the throne.

He halts. Grazing livestock and the tramping of thousands of feet have left the ground bare for several hundred meters beyond the huts, and he's reached the other side, where the veld begins again and the grass tickles his knees. He turns to look back the way he's come. He can see the glow from the bonfires where the feast had been taking place, and there's even some movement, but Bulawayo seems strangely normal.

Has he been bewitched? Has he become an impundulu, a zombie, drawn to where his new master awaits?

No, this is too real. He's too conscious of himself as himself. Besides—he glances again at the orange glow around the distant huts—the heat, the blaze of shock that washed over him when he heard what had happened … no sangoma could conjure up that.

The thing is, he who is so practiced in running, so adept at fleeing, has set off spectacularly ill prepared. He isn't even armed; he has no waterskins, or sleeping mat, or cloak for warmth.

And that's not all he's forgotten. There's Mpande, his udibi. Where is he? Never there when his master needs him!

They share the same mother, and “the Root” grew to idolize his older brother, ready to cover for Dingane when the latter couldn't be bothered to do his chores. Not that he ever received any thanks from the Needy One. Dingane simply thought the younger boy was a fool for taking the blame. It took a while for him to appreciate
his gullible and eager-to-please sibling had his uses, but there are moments when the old harsh attitude returns. And this is one of them. Dingane's conveniently forgotten how earlier tonight he told Mpande to get lost.

If only Mpande were here! He'd be able to send him back for supplies.

Still … not having a weapon is a problem, but as for the other things, he'll be able to manage. Better to be cold than dead.

Or is he deluding himself? Go back, flee—perhaps it doesn't matter. Because what of those living beyond the thornbush walls? How quickly does a loyal vassal put aside his cringing ways and reach for his spear? How long will old foes wait before coming to exact their vengeance, hoping to take back what the Beetle has snatched away from them?

Go back, or keep on running?

Scratching his head, the confusion worse than a swarm of mosquitoes, he glances down. It's dark, but he needs only his sense of smell to realize he's just stood in some shit.

Human shit.

He realizes that because he knows the difference between human, dog and cow shit. In fact, the last has never bothered him, for he loves his cattle and is particularly fond of the smells of the isibaya (another trait he shares with his brother Shaka).

So he knows the difference, and this is human shit.

He hops over to a thick clump of grass, and starts rubbing his foot across the stalks. Hops to another and repeats the process. Casts about for a large stone, so he can scrape his foot against one of its edges. But he can't see one, and now the shit is between his toes. Like mud. Only it's not mud; it's shit. Human shit.

Even if his reaction is a decided overreaction, given what's happened back there in Bulawayo, it wouldn't come as a surprise to those who know him well. Dingane is obsessed with his personal hygiene, so will spend hours bathing in streams, or smoothing his skin with animal fat. His friends remark that he can go out courting at any time, because he's always looking his best (although that's
an exaggeration, as courting necessitates even longer periods spent preening himself).