Shaka the Great (74 page)

Various dignitaries, meanwhile, have entered the isibaya through a side gate and lined up to Shaka's left, between the servants and udibis and the King himself, well within his line of sight, but far enough away for one to never be sure if he's looking in one's direction.

Shaka's brothers, his aunts and members of his inner circle are in this group … but not his mother, for she has gone, left him. Desperately his eyes seek out Pampata. There she is, flanked by Kani and by Mgobozi's wives. In good hands, then, and she is his beloved. But not his mother, not Nandi, who
should
be here … even if she never could understand his obsession with the White Men, with
these
White Men—and now his eyes seek out Farewell and Fynn and King. But she should be here, anyway, because this is no ordinary harvest festival. For these are the first fruits of a new way of living, a new way of doing. And see how tasty they are. How succulent! How sweet! And she helped him get here …

Hai, never mind these savages from King Jorgi, she'd said; he'd do better to find his Ubulawu. And he wasn't being facetious when he'd told her he regarded his army as his Ubulawu. But, in a way, she too was his Ubulawu, for it was her strength and wisdom that led him here. It was she who gave him the courage that helped him face all the sneers and taunts when he was a child. And how much greater were the indignities heaped on herself! Yet she never let herself be cowed, never let him forget that he was the royal heir. She should be at his side today!

A twinge of anger, even now, as he considers all the ingrates who remain behind while she has set with the sun. And his bellow, as he approaches his regiments, is real.

The shout goes out: “Ima! Ima! Ima!”
Stand! Stand! Stand!

And all the regiments rise to their feet.

And the praise singers, who've quietly entered the isibaya behind Shaka, also come to life. They move forward, each addressing a different section of the semicircle. “They hate him!” they bellow. “They hate him!”

It's a harangue answered by the refrain: “Ima! Ima! Ima!”

“They hate him! They hate the King!”

Again, “Ima! Ima! Ima!” There's something onomatopoeic about that word, an effect strengthened by the repetition, the low rumble
that rises to a growled exhalation.
Stand! Stand! Stand!
And since they are on their feet already, it's as if they swell in size, seem to climb even higher. “Ima! Ima! Ima!”

“They hate Phunga! They hate Mageba! They hate Ndaba!”

“Ima! Ima! Ima!” The army will stand. The army will fight. The King will reign.

Now the call changes.

The praise singers have fallen silent and begin strutting up and down, glorying in these reassurances. Suddenly, they wheel round, as one, to face the regiments and punch the sky.

“Bayede! Bayede!”

The royal salute is first picked up by the regiments, then the civilians. It echoes across Bulawayo and the surrounding plains, and reverberates even further afield, adding to the whispers and rumors as it shimmers across the veld. It'll reach the izilwane at the Cape, and some say it will even travel as far as the Great Lakes—rumors fading into myth but still carried along by a sense of unease …

And she knows, just knows, that she'll be able to spot him, even from this distance. And there he is!

Pampata sees him, too, and nudges her, and is about to point him out when she realizes Kani's already seen him. The two women exchange a smile, before Kani turns to seek him out again.

She knows he has much on his mind, but she can see by the way he stands that he has pushed that all aside, to be here and only here. Like Shaka, he has little time for rites and rituals, but he will participate with all due solemnity today for the sake of his men.

And won't that alone give this ceremony more potency? She has heard him tell his udibi that one of the great secrets of power—of gaining power and using it and seeing it increase—is knowing the difference between acting and enacting. Which is the difference between words and stories, trying to be and being, tears and laughter—although these things only give you a glimpse of that difference. For, ultimately, it can't be explained or described, only experienced.

A smile: that's what she'd learned that night …

The wedding festivities finally over, it was the first night they were truly alone as man and wife. And suddenly everything came rushing back. It was all to no avail, the way she'd sought to cleanse herself … The way she'd gone to find the Induna to signal her intention of marrying him (a custom permitted by Zulu society and known as ukubaleka) … She'd had Nandi's support and Pampata's help, and Shaka had eagerly gone along with the womenfolk, standing in for Kani's father, but it was all pointless. She was dirty, for Zwide infested her body, and she'd never be rid of him. Her husband would never be able to have all of her, no matter how much she wanted to give of herself. And because she'd gone to baleka the Induna, that was her
fault as well. She'd pulled him down along with her. What he must think of her! How he must despise her!

There was a time when her heart soared like a fish eagle whenever she saw him. Here was the man for her and he would be hers, for she knew her charms were not insignificant. And she knew how to work her wiles. And here was one worth the effort. Her knees turned to sand whenever she wondered how his lips would feel as they caressed her skin.

But that girl, that silly young girl, had died when her family was butchered. Only the need to take care of her remaining siblings continued to animate her, but it was a weak flame threatened by the slightest breath of despair. And it was blowing a gale, those first few months. She was trapped in a tempest, where the only thing she could do was keep her head down and keep on pressing forward. Somehow the flame wasn't extinguished, however—and when she became Zwide's concubine it grew stronger. Here was a way to avenge herself. Patiently, she worked at becoming his favorite and then, when that goal was achieved, she planned how she might make contact with Nandi.

All of this required a certain deadening within her. She had to be like Shaka's soldiers marching back and forth across a parade ground strewn with thorns to toughen their feet. She had to toughen her heart, her very being. It was the only way to keep madness at bay. And there was always that option of seeing how many times she could stab Zwide before his bodyguards rushed in and put her out of her misery. But that was too easy, for Zwide had to be made to suffer—and the only one who could ensure that was Shaka.

And when it had come to pass, and she'd seen the Induna again, she had thought perhaps all was not lost. Love never went away completely; like the paths at the time of the Uzibandela moon, it merely vanished from time to time—and it would find you again no matter how far you ran, or sank. She'd thought she was incapable of love, that same girl who'd admired the Zulu officer who regularly visited her father was gone forever but, seeing the Induna again, she realized she could be that young girl again—in his arms.

That first night, though, when they were truly alone … she realized she'd been wrong. She was still dirty, and therefore worthy only of her husband's scorn.

And the Induna himself had noticed how she was trying to distance herself from him. He could have taken her by force, but he didn't, for he knew that would only increase the hold Zwide had over her. She would struggle, despite herself, because of the memories that fingers biting into her flesh, or the knee pushed between her thighs, would evoke. And that would make the memory of Zwide stronger, like fanning coals into flames.

And that night, the night when they were alone as man and wife for the first time, he told her about a special kind of muthi …

White muthi, he called it. Those thoughts he could see moving across her face, and haunting her eyes … white muthi would see them vanquished.

He could spend forever seeking to reassure her about how little her past mattered to him, and how, when he did think about it, it was to dwell on her courage, but she wouldn't listen to him, he observed gently. Only the white muthi would help.

There were things no one could tell her, things she would only believe if she experienced them for herself. And the white muthi would let her do that. The white muthi would set her free.

Did she want to try it?

She knew of the white muthi the King used toward the end of the First Fruits, and realized this couldn't be that, but of course she wanted to try it. Well, she was with the right man, the Induna had said, trying to lighten the moment—for he knew the secret of this other kind of white muthi.

She would sleep tonight, and tomorrow she would go down to the river with her sister and she'd bathe, and let the warm sun caress her. And she was to have only a light meal, before retiring as soon as it got dark. In her hut, she was to wait for him. She would be naked, and there would be no torches or fires lit.

“And you will bring me the white muthi?” she asked.

“And I will bring you the white muthi,” said the Induna.

“And I will be healed?”

“You will be released from Zwide's grasp. He will torment you no more. You will be free.”

Kani did as he suggested, and that night, in the dark, he came to her.

She heard him enter the hut, was surprised to find herself trembling …
trembling like the young virgin she had never really been, having had her maidenhead stolen by one of Zwide's generals before being passed on to Zwide himself (who had the officer executed after Kani became his favorite concubine).

And there was movement.

And then he was on top of her, and her legs were apart, and she was wet, so wet …

And it was only later, after she had got her breath back and was moving in rhythm with him, that she thought to ask about the white muthi. Not that she was unhappy about the direction things had taken, but … Well, where was it? Where was this white muthi he had told her about?

His reply was a whisper in her ear: “I carry it inside me.”

Fynn watches Shaka watching his warriors. The emissaries from King Jorgi have been placed between the Zulu dignitaries and the first of the regiments. They have a perfect view of the proceedings, and one might be tempted to feel honored and flattered that one has been given the best seats in the house, as it were, but Fynn has noted that they're also directly in Shaka's line of sight. He can watch them carefully while appearing to be admiring his own regiments. It's a form of craftiness wholly in keeping with the King's character, decides Fynn. Because it's yet another reminder that one is at all times surrounded by thousands of spear-carrying warriors one is loath to use the term, but there's no getting round the fact that Shaka's hospitality has been very much like a double-edged sword. He gives freely, but with the knowledge that the day will come when he will expect to be repaid.

Fynn has already seen how Shaka has tested their loyalty in little ways, allowing them to return to Port Natal after a visit, then sending for them before they've even got halfway home. Farewell and the others see this as capriciousness, and a form of showing off, but to Fynn it's more like the flexing of muscles. His companions give the matter little thought, their eyes focused on the ivory and the gold (although the latter has so far been sorely lacking). They will bow and scrape, thinking they have the advantage over the Zulu king because they are merely indulging him, but it hasn't occurred to them that he might instead be indulging
them
—while he sizes them up and decides how much use they can be to him.

Take Farewell's casual references to King George. He's happy to let Shaka think they're as close to their king as Shaka's own advisers are to him. He expects Shaka to be impressed, but it hasn't
occurred to him Shaka might see through the subterfuge. For one thing they appear a bedraggled, miserable bunch compared to the Zulu King and his inner circle. What sovereign would allow such a motley crew to represent him? More importantly, how will Shaka react if he decides he's been lied to? The thing is, Fynn suspects the Zulu king has realized that already—and remains unperturbed only because it's something he expected. Shaka is willing to be used (up to a point, of course), because he will be using them in turn. Quite how he will use them remains to be seen. There are their guns, of course … but Shaka and his men remain unimpressed by these signs of the White Man's superiority.

Fynn has warned Farewell about this. For, as he'd found during his stay in Delagoa, when he had hiked south until he found a Zulu village, the Zulus he met showed no fear and very little interest in such dunnage as he was able to carry with him, while his Brown Bess attracted no comment from them at all. And, if one thought about it, there was no reason why it should have. Farewell had only to listen to his own arguments for establishing a trading station to deal directly with Shaka. That undertaking was in large part feasible because the Zulus (and the other tribes in the region) had been trading with Europeans for generations. So of course they would know about guns!