Amazulu

by Walton Golightly

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

1818, south east Africa: on the summit of a low hill, encircled by a foe six times their number, fifteen hundred men armed with cowhide shields and short stabbing spears sit and wait as the midday sun blazes overhead. Calm in the face of the horde gathering below, they know it's a good day for dying? but a better one for killing. At the centre of their formation a tall, broad-shouldered man surveys his troops. Only at his command will they rise and engage the enemy. He is Shaka, his men are Zulu - the best trained foot soldiers in Africa - and the blood spilled in the coming battle will write the opening chapter of their legend. Following in Shaka's footsteps, AmaZulu sweeps across the burned hills of south east Africa's interior, charting the dawn of the Zulu nation through the eyes of the Induna, a battle-scarred captain, and his eleven-year-old apprentice. Aflame with conflict and intrigue, nobility and treachery, it tells the story of an unquenchable thirst for revenge and a genius for warfare that forged an empire as powerful and revered as Napoleon's France or Caesar's Rome.

Release date: June 5, 2008

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 656

Sample

They came from the north. In the beginning there was a chief called Nguni. He it was who led his people out of Egypt and down to the great lakes of central Africa. Here, where the pasture was green and the game plentiful, and the land stretched forever beneath a sky the depthless blue of the Great Spirit’s soul, one tribe became many. Clans broke away and over time evolved their own dialects and customs. Enough similarities remained, though, for this grouping to become known as the Nguni people, the Restless Ones.

Relative peace reigned. Disputes could be settled simply by taking one’s family and moving on. Intermarriages occurred with the people encountered in the new regions and still more tribes were born. And the migration, this slow seeding, this quiet colonisation, spread — across the great Serengeti to the foothills of sacred Kilima-Njaro — the Mountain That Burns — and beyond.

With the Lala people leading the way, the Nguni tribes drifted ever southward, the men hunting and scouting ahead, the women carrying their possessions on their heads, herdboys driving the precious cattle.

In the sixteenth century a chief called Malandela — the Follower — found the country of his dreams on the east coast of southern Africa — fertile land, mighty rivers, good pastures and freedom from the tsetse fly that decimated livestock up north.

In time his son married and moved away to establish his own clan. The son’s name was Zulu, and so the AmaZulu, the People Of The Sky, came into being. They remained a small tribe, but prospered, especially under Zulu’s great-grandson, Ndaba Kaphunga, the Man Of Affairs, and then Jama, He Of The Stern Countenance.

By now the land of the great lakes was just a memory, to be recalled to this day by storytellers as mystical Embo.

Power struggles raged around the little tribe settled in among the green hills between the Pongola and Thukela rivers — the arguments and conspiracies of wealthier, stronger relatives, with the Mthetwas and the Ndwandwes emerging as the dominantforces in a land growing ever more crowded. Under Jama’s son, Senzangakhona, He Who Acts Wisely, the Zulus allied themselves with Dingiswayo, ruler of the Mthetwas. Since the land occupied by the Zulus formed a buffer zone against the Ndwandwes, Dingiswayo allowed Senzangakhona much leeway when it came to military expansion. Not that the Zulu King could ever field more than five hundred men.

While still a prince, Senzangakhona fathered a child with a woman called Nandi. He later denied paternity and it was claimed Nandi’s swolten stomach was due to an ‘intestinal beetle’ called a ‘shaka’. When the child was born, this was the name Nandi gave him, saying, ‘Here is your Beetle, come and fetch him.’

Although Senzangakhona finally married Nandi and acknowledged Shaka as his first-born, their sojourn at the royal kraal was brief and unhappy. Nandi eventually left, taking the boy with her, and, scorned even by her own clan, the two lived the life of refugees, seeking succour where they could. Sweetened only by the devotion of his mother, it was an unhappy childhood the boy would never forget.

*

Senzangakhona KaJama died in 1816. A year later, Zwide, king of the Ndwandwes, assassinated Dingiswayo and defeated the Mthetwa army. All that stood between the Ndwandwes and total paramountcy was the small Zulu state under its new king, Dingiswayo’s protégé, the Bastard Son, the Bull Elephant who had trumpeted his arrival by slaughtering all those who’d shunned his beloved mother — Shaka KaSenzangakhona.

‘Shades of Agincourt, what!’

Oliver Valery de la Vere lowers his spyglass and favours his plump companion with a look of disdain.

Stanley Boyd, his rouge running down his cheeks, his forehead glistening beneath his battered shako, chuckles. ‘History, old chap. History in the making!’ he says, his hand sweeping over the black armies arrayed before them.

‘Aye, but who are we? The English or the French?’

‘Oh, the English, old boy, always the English!’

De la Vere, who was with Saltoun’s Grenadiers at Hougoumont, grunts something noncommittal and raises the spyglass once more.

The plain dips here, before rolling up to the slopes of this strange, flat-topped hill where the Zoolas sit idly on their shields. Only their officers — indoonas, de la Vere believes they’re called — are on their feet, walking up and down, talking to their men.

‘That must be him …’

De la Vere swings his spyglass in the direction his companion is pointing.

A tall, broad-shouldered black man, standing almost motionless on a large flat outcrop of rock on the hill’s northern rim. Shaka.

His kilt is a golden colour, and the cowtails that comprise his leggings are white. He also wears a fur collar and the long tail feather of a loerie rises from his headband.

‘That’s one savage that won’t live to see sundown,’ sneers Boyd. When de la Vere mutters something that sounds like disagreement, he adds: ‘Oh come on! I’m no military man, but even I can see there’s a distinct difference in numbers here!’

This is true and it’s some consolation, supposes De la Vere. But dammit, that Zoola line only seems ragged: even he can see that Shaka’s had his men crowd together on purpose, so their numbers seem even fewer.

And there’s something about the way they’re sitting. A complacency … Yes: the complacency of a disciplined fighting force. The languor of fit, well-trained men. The readiness.

By contrast, the Ndwandwes arrayed before them look more like a mob than the regiments of an army.

De la Vere captures the Zoola King in the circle of his spyglass again. Why has Shaka chosen to array his host in such an odd manner? If he’s right about those ranks, the discipline he thinks he can perceive in the attitude of the men, that’s evidence of an able commander. Why then this? De la Vere’s never seen the like before.

He leaves Shaka, guiding the spyglass downward to examine the gradient. No overhang. The king’s clearly chosen that spot as his command post. If he remains there … well, they have a chance.

When Shaka falls, the battle will be as good as won, the witch doctor has assured them. And as loyal servants of Zwide, king of the Ndwandwes, they’ll be allowed to hunt for ivory to their hearts’ content. ‘We will award no other White Men this right,’ the king has told them. ‘You will have my protection.’ Aye, and their fortunes will be made.

Allowing himself a grin, de la Vere lowers the spyglass, compresses it and slots it into the case dangling from his saddlebow.

It can be done, he decides. Provided the Ndwandwes are able to hold the Zoolas back long enough, and if they seem an unruly bunch, they do outnumber the Zoolas by about five to one. And these savages don’t use arrows — can’t find the right kind of wood for the bows, apparently — they prefer a short, stabbing spear, so when he gets out there, in the heat of battle, he won’t have to worry about missiles coming his way. He should have a reasonably easy shot.

‘Agincourt, old boy,’ says Boyd again. He’s wearing a purple frock coat, britches that were once white, but are now a dusty brown colour with darker stains here and there, a silk cravat he produced for this special occasion and that shako he dug up somewhere in Cape Town. An Incroyable who makes Mr Brummel and his cronies seem like Sans Culottes, he spent the morning pouting until de la Vere retracted his promise to break his fingers one by one if he dared to don his make-up. Now his lipstick has gone the way of his rouge and white powder and he resembles a Grimaldi caught in a rainstorm, or a miller who’s been eating cherries. He’s known as Mafuta, the Fat One, an appellation that causes him much mirth.

‘Agincourt!’ he says, raising his gun. ‘And we have the longbows.’

Oliver Valery de la Vere is more suitably dressed for the bush and wears a brown corduroy jacket over a collarless shirt, riding britches and boots, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Because of his red beard and quick temper, the Ndwandwes call him the Fool Who Set His Face On Fire. However, preferring discretion to valour (or, in this instance, Valery), their interpreter’s told him his ‘native’ name means the Fiery One.

Boyd slaps de la Vere on the shoulder. ‘We’re going to be rich, Oliver. Rich beyond the dreams of avarice!’

Regarded as a delicacy among the Zulu and other Nguni tribes, amasi is made when fresh milk is poured into a leather pouch or gourd and left to stand until the contents turn sour, a relatively quick process given the subtropical climate of the region. The containers are never cleaned out, and every morning fresh milk is added.

Strangely, for such hospitable people, amasi is never shared with anyone outside the immediate family. The fact that Dondo, the inkosi, or chief, of the Khumalos, offers the Induna some from his own stock is therefore a great honour.

He wanted to slaughter an ox, but the Induna dissuaded him, reminding the old man he was there incognito. Instead, the meal the women bring them as the shadows stretch into early evening comprises roasted mealies, samp and beans, phutu, boiled madumbes, beer and, of course, the amasi.

In his mid-twenties, the Induna is tall, broad-shouldered, with heavy arms and strong thighs. He wears a tasselled kilt and is barefoot. His only other adornment is his war necklace, comprising beads and stones interspersed with lion’s teeth. The teeth are an indication of his rank and the other items are relics from the battlefields where he has fought.

Normally, on occasions such as this, he’d wear a civet collar and the tail feather of a blue crane in a leather headband, as an indication that he is Isithunzi SikaShaka, the Shadow Of Shaka, the King’s representative, who speaks and acts with the King’s authority. But this is a secret mission and he wants to pass himself off as a mere wayfarer.

With him is his udibi, a boy of eleven summers, who serves as his apprentice, carrying supplies and extra weapons. Right now he’s beaming quietly, scarcely able to hide his pride at being permitted to sit with the men — who, along with the Induna and the chief, include Dondo’s three eldest sons. And, although he doesn’t much understand or like girls, he enjoys the admiring glances Dondo’s daughter, Nonhlakanipho, keeps sending his master and the way she ensures that it is she who serves the Zulu.

Tempering his happiness, though, is the knowledge that his master is frustrated by the greybeard’s obstinacy.

The boy sneaks a glance at the Induna. Paying Nonhlakanipho’s mini strations no heed, he’s eating without savouring, driven on only by good manners.

Why won’t these Khumalos listen? To the boy it’s all quite simple: Shaka is the Father and he would be the Father of these people too. With his protection no harm will befall them. Why can’t they see that?

‘This is good food, Nkosi,’ says the Induna after a while.

The old man shrugs. ‘Beef would’ve been better.’

‘Be here tomorrow, we’ll have game aplenty,’ says Yanga, the chief’s eldest son.

It’s a provocative comment, for he’s the one who’s consistently argued against the chief heeding Shaka’s warning.

‘Even the finest beef would’ve been spoiled by my son’s manners,’ murmurs Dondo. ‘For this I apologise.’

‘If it was just a matter of game I wouldn’t be here,’ says the Induna.

‘Perhaps that’s all it really is.’ Yanga’s voice is almost a snarl.

‘Silence!’ says Dondo. ‘How many times would you have me apologise for your manners? Be still.’

The boy notes how the other two sons exchange grins. They have no opinion on the matter; they are only happy to see their father and their elder brother quarrel.

And, beside him, he senses the Induna grow ever more impatient, struggling to keep his anger in check. Yanga annoying the chief isn’t making the Induna’s task easier. The greybeard’s irritation is likely to make him reject anything anyone suggests now.

But time is running out. The Induna and the boy have to leave this place at first light. Already they have been detained for longer than the Induna feels is safe.

Hoping the esteem Dondo has for him and the fact that they’re the chief’s guests will help stifle the greybeard’s annoyance, the feeling he must have of being pestered from all sides, the Induna tries again.

‘Will you not heed Shaka’s warning?’ he asks. ‘This is more than the King repaying you for the great service you did him. He regards you as a trusted friend …’

‘Valuable ally, you mean,’ interrupts Yanga.

Before Dondo can respond, the Induna turns to the heir: ‘And what of it? So what if that is also true? Because the time will come when we will have to join together to fight this mad jackal or else he’ll devour us one by one.’

‘Cha! Who would be the vassal of a vassal?’ asks Yanga.

‘We are beholden to no one!’

‘What of Dingiswayo?’

‘We did not serve him. We marched with him!’

‘A lot of good your Zulu loyalty did him!’

‘Enough!’ says Dondo. ‘Leave the past alone.’

There is silence while the old man munches on his mealie. Then he lowers the cob, balanced on the palm of his left hand.

‘I hear you, Nduna,’ he says. ‘I hear your wise words, and beyond them, I hear Shaka’s voice. I, too, regard him as a trusted friend. Shaka is a strong king. The Zulus are a strong, proud people. But this is what I have to ask myself with the welfare of my people foremost in my mind: Do you have the power?’

He raises his left hand.

‘This is the way things are, my friend.’ He has chewed the corn off one half of the cob, leaving only a few kernels on that side. He points to these. ‘Your people. Strong, proud, brave.’

His finger moves across to the other half: rows of maize clustered together on the cob; the ordered, impenetrable ranks of superior numbers.

‘The Ndwandwes.’

He regards the Induna.

‘What can I do? This land becomes ever more crowded. Where can we go? Back north, where our cattle die? South, where we meet the Xhosa and the White Man? East, where the swamps will swallow our people?

‘When Dingiswayo ruled things were different, it is so. He was a wise, just king and I happily forged an alliance with him. But my reasoning then was the same as it is now. We cannot rule this land, we do not want to rule this land, but if we are to stay here, we must make friends with those who do.’

The Induna knows the chief has a point. With the subjugation of the Langeni and Buthelezi clans, the Children Of The Sky have gained more land and their army has grown, but the Zulus remain an insignificant part of the region’s balance of power.

With Dingiswayo dead and the Mthetwas in disarray, the Ndwandwes have emerged as the dominant force. Chances are, Zwide would have ignored the Zulus, expected them to bend before him as a matter of course, were it not for the fact that, as a general in Dingiswayo’s service, Shaka had administered thrashing after thrashing to the Ndwandwe army. Now Zwide is coming for them and the Zulus will have to fight for their lives.

‘You speak of friends,’ says the Induna, ‘but, Nkosi, you must know Zwide can be no one’s friend!’

‘You might be right, Shadow Of Shaka, but don’t you see? I have no other choice! I have no other choice than to take this invitation at face value.’

‘Nkosi, this is why I am here! It’s not that you seek peace with the Ndwandwes. In his wisdom, the King understands your position. You do not anger him by seeking peace with the Ndwandwes. No! But he’s sent me here, in his name, to warn you this is a trap. Zwide cares nothing for your friendship — because of past alliances, because you marched against him with the Mthetwas and the Zulus, and worse, because you warned Shaka that Dingiswayo had been slain and enabled him to withdraw with his forces intact, he seeks your head, Nkosi. Nothing less will satisfy him.’

‘Father, I would speak.’

Dondo sighs and nods.

‘Zulu, maybe you do not mean to,’ says Yanga, ‘but you impugn both our courage and our wisdom.’

‘That was not my intention.’

‘So be it. But tomorrow, we will meet for the hunt. This will give us an opportunity to gauge Zwide’s intentions. Perhaps tomorrow evening we’ll have a different answer to your pleas.’

‘I came here only to warn your father, Cub. And this is my warning: go to that hunt and you will not live to see the sun set!’

*

Early the following morning, the Induna and the boy take their leave of the chief. Instead of returning to the Zulu capital, the Induna leads the boy to where the two hunting parties will meet, and they hide amid the dense bushes on the slopes of a hill overlooking the clearing.

Dondo, his sons and a few other men and boys are the first to arrive. They settle themselves in the shade of a marula tree, and after a while the boys climb the tree to pick the fruit. The men wear leather kilts and are armed only with hunting spears.

About an hour later, the Ndwandwes arrive. There are seventy of them and they are dressed as for war. White stripes are painted across each soldier’s body and they carry fighting spears, with extra assegais clipped to the insides of their shields. Unlike the oval Zulu isihlangu, which is the height of a man, these shields are smaller and rectangular, comprising hide pulled over a wooden frame and strengthened with additional crossbars.

Zwide has warned Dondo not to be alarmed by this readiness for battle — it’s a necessary precaution, what with Shaka’s impis abroad and spoiling for war.

The Khumalos rise and move away from the trees to greet their guests.

And before they know it, they’re fighting for their lives, their flimsy hunting spears no match for the Ndwandwe assegais.

The massacre is over in a matter of minutes with the Ndwandwes suffering negligible casualties. The chief and his sons are beheaded and the warriors move away to join their comrades who have attacked the village. Already, the Induna can see smoke rising from that direction.

When he is sure they are alone save for the circling vultures, the Induna turns to the boy …

… who saw the Ndwandwes drift into a semicircle around the Khumalos … saw the old chief stride forward … the chief who’d shared the amasi with them, who’d laughed on greeting the boy, squeezed his arms and said how he was growing into a fine young warrior … he heard snatches of the ritual greeting carried up to where they hid … then, suddenly, the Ndwandwes hurled their spears … and the screaming began … rage, pain and helplessness …

‘Do not be embarrassed to look on this with wet eyes,’ murmurs the Induna. ‘For, truly, this was an act of evil that could have been avoided.’

‘But why, Master? This inkosi — he wanted peace.’

‘This is the way some are, Boy. This is the way that Ndwandwe jackal is. Remember that too. This is what we face.’

*

Seated on an ant hill amid the waving grass, Mgobozi watches as the Induna and the boy approach. In his mid-forties, Shaka’s most trusted general is short and wiry, and white hairs mat his chest like ash. His thighs and arms bear the scars of many campaigns. He carries a long-handled war axe used to direct men in battle.

‘So!’ he says, grinning, after they’ve exchanged greetings. ‘Which of these fools did you see first?’

‘No fools. Just a wise general.’

Mgobozi laughs. ‘Do not let your own memories of life in the ranks cloud your judgement. This is for their own good. Remember that.’

‘I remember, too, the punishment would fall regardless.’

‘Better that than death in the field.’

‘Cha! There are those who would choose that alternative.’

‘At least they have that choice here.’

‘This is so.’

Mgobozi raises his swallow-tail axe, twirls it in a tight circle. Zulu warriors rise up out of the long grass, move out of the shadows beneath the bushwillows. The general points the axe to the north. ‘Hambani!’ he shouts. Run!

The warriors set off in the direction he’s pointed.

‘We have received word of what happened,’ says Mgobozi. Zwide, he adds, has taken the opportunity to devour all of the Khumalo clans. Only one of the heirs has managed to escape with a few followers: Dondo’s nephew, a young warrior called Mzilikazi.

‘He wouldn’t listen.’

‘All we could do was warn him. The final decision was his.’ The Induna nods.

‘Which is scant comfort. But we are not ready to take on this jackal. We could do no more than warn the old man.’ The Induna nods again. ‘Come, the King awaits your report.’

Mgobozi leads the Induna and the boy through the long grass to where a slight dip greets a flat-topped hill. ‘He’s up there,’ says the general.

As they watch Shaka appears, silhouetted against the sky, stepping up onto a broad rock.

Mgobozi lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘You and I will wait here until those fools hide themselves again, then you will help me find them.’

Breaking into a gentle trot, the Induna makes his way toward the hill.

Zwide KaLanga, ruler of the Ndwandwes and known throughout the land as the Devourer Of Kings, reclines against a mound of cowhides in his hut, picking slivers of meat from between his teeth with a twig while absent-mindedly rubbing his left foot against the breasts of a concubine. In his fifties, he has the ponderous corpulence of a big, strong man grown lazy. Heavy, almost womanish lips perch atop a double chin and his eyes lurk behind the crest of his cheekbones. His kilt of hide strips has ridden up to reveal genitals crushed in the crevice of broad thighs.

Embers in a circle of stones in the centre of the hut cast a pale glow, and the clutter around the fringes — shields and spears, axes and clubs, a pair of elephant tusks, clay pots — throws long, curving shadows up the walls, so that, in one place, the elephant seems to live again, crouched in homage to the Ndwandwe king.

Zwide examines a particularly large fragment of beef, daintily picks it off between his teeth and flicks the twig away.

‘We need a reason.’ His voice is a low drawl.

‘This is so,’ says his son and heir, Nomahlanjana, who’s inherited his father’s belly without first going through the muscular stage. He is sitting on the hard-packed dirt floor, warming his feet at the fire. The top part of his body appears to have sunk into the swollen waterskin of his belly, while that belly, in turn, seems to have trapped his heavy legs — slightly bent and stretched out in front of him.

‘Our allies would become wary were we to attack without just cause,’ he adds.

Zwide snorts derisively. ‘These Zulus grow ever more annoying.’

‘And dangerous!’

Zwide couldn’t capitalise on his assassination of Dingiswayo and annihilate the Mthetwa army completely because of the presence of Shaka’s army on his flank, ready to strike — to avenge the death of the man who had become like a father to the Zulu King. Indeed, Zwide’s soldiers returned home almost empty-handed. Now, to make matters worse, Dingiswayo’s remaining legions have joined up with the Zulus.

All the same, Shaka’s position is precarious. Aside from Zwide and the Ndwandwes in the north, he has to contend with the Qwabes in the south, who also regard the growing nation with envy and suspicion, and with the powerful Tembus in the west.

‘These Old Women — what news have we?’ asks Zwide.

He’s referring to the Qwabes and Tembus. Nomahlanjana essays a shrug that wobbles his breasts. ‘Hot air and foul breath.’

‘Cha! I’ll settle with them when the time comes.’

Both Shaka and Zwide have been working to form alliances with the two tribes, but Zwide has cast the sincerity of his own diplomatic overtures into doubt by devouring the Khumalo clans.

Zwide grins at the memory of that day, three months ago. This one whose hard nipples tickle the sole of his foot, she was one of the Khumalo females his men carried off …

Nomahlanjana has his eyes on the girl too. She’s on her haunches, leaning forward against his father’s foot. Idly he wonders if he can tell her to fetch him a pot of beer without invoking his father’s wrath.

Probably not …

But that gets him thinking about something else.

He straightens, pulling himself out of his gut. ‘Tell me this, Father,’ he says. ‘Did you not help this Beetle’s father when he subdued the Buthelezis?’

Zwide nods. This is so: he had promised Senzangakhona his support.

‘And did he not say you could have three Zulu maidens in return?’

Now it’s Zwide who sits up, kicking the girl away as he does so. ‘Leave me,’ he tells her. ‘Go!’

She hurries out of the hut’s smaller rear entrance.

‘Three maidens, Father.’

‘This is so.’

It doesn’t matter that Zwide never actually fulfilled his obligation: the promises had been exchanged.

‘And does a man not only inherit his father’s estate, but his debts as well?’

‘This is so,’ says Zwide again.

Nomahlanjana slaps his left knee. ‘There you have it, Father. Your excuse.’

‘Cha!’ says Zwide. A clicking, spitting sound. But Nomahlanjana can see his father is pleased.

This is the pretext they need. A reason to go to war that might allay the fears of the other tribes that they’ll be next. For that’s the argument Shaka has been using with the Qwabes and Tembus, urging them to form a three-way alliance with the Zulus to protect themselves against Zwide. To date, though, the Qwabes and Tembus have ignored Shaka’s overtures. With an acceptable excuse, an obvious provocation, Zwide can move against the People Of The Sky — and doubtless, the other tribes will then try to win his favour by refusing to aid the Zulus.

Short-sighted fools!

‘Do you think this Bastard Son will honour his father’s debt?’

Nomahlanjana allows himself a chin-wobbling chuckle. ‘Although they say we are of an age, he and I, I do not know him, but since you removed the head of his beloved mentor, I’d say that is unlikely.’

‘Then we will have our excuse!’ exclaims Zwide, as if the thought has just occurred to him, and Nomahlanjana knows that by morning his father will have convinced himself the whole thing is his idea.

*

When Zwide demands from Shaka the maidens promised him by Senzangakhona, the Zulu King’s response is swift.

‘That impotent hyena is not fit to sleep with the ugliest sow in the kingdom! Never shall a sister of mine wed that sack of pustulence! He wants Zulu maidens? Let him come and fetch them!’

And Zwide begins mobilising his superior numbers in preparation to do just that.

With war looming, it is time for the Inkatha. Shaka summons a sangoma called Mabhubesi, the Lion, to KwaBulawayo. He is renowned across the land as a shaman of great power, a favoured servant of the ancestors who can claim a lineage that stretches back to Zulu, the Father of the nation, and beyond. He will conduct the ceremony.

*

This KwaBulawayo, the first (and smaller) of two capitals to bear that name that Shaka will build, is situated on the right bank of the Mhodi, a tributary of the Umkumbane River.

Typical of most Zulu villages, it’s placed on a slight incline, with the main entrance at the lowest point. The gentle slope means heavy rains will wash dung and other dirt into the vegetable plots below the settlement, enabling the bare ground around the huts to dry out quicker.

Two circular stockades surround the village, the outer fence made of cut acacia trees, with the thorny tops compacted to form an impenetrable barrier against thieves and beasts of prey.

Two hundred or so circular beehive-shaped huts are situated between the inner and outer stockades.

Zulu huts are made by sticking a row of saplings in a circular trench, fifteen centimetres deep and about five metres in diameter. Horizontal rows are then added. The saplings are tied together with grass where they cross and the lattice is bent over to meet at the top and covered with thatch so arranged as to lead off water. The doorway, closed at night by an isicabha, or wicker door, is small and low. The floor is made of clay beaten hard with stones and smoothed. About twice a week, this is covered with cow dung, which doesn’t smell and can be made to shine.

The right side of the hut, or isililo samadoda, belongs to the men, while the isililo sesifazana is for the women; it’s a division scrupulously adhered to. Right at the back of the hut is the umsamo, where the ancestors are thought to live.

During the day, sleeping mats and other articles are hung from the walls, along with baskets containing provisions and beer.

As in any other Zulu village, or umuzi, the largest hut in KwaBulawayo is the indlunkhulu. Built on the highest point furthest away from the entrance, it’s occupied by Shaka’s mother, Nandi, when she’s in residence.

The King’s smaller dwelling is to the right and a little behind the indlunkhulu.

It’s a custom among the Zulu people that the hut of a chief’s first wife will be to the left of the grandmother’s, the second wife’s to the right of the chief’s hut, while the third wife lives to the left of the first wife, and so on. Shaka, however, is unmarried and will remain so. The twenty huts fenced off at the top end of Bulawayo, behind the royal compound, mark the beginning of a harem that will grow to house more than a thousand women.

Cattle are herded into the circular centre of the settlement at night and here, to one side, is the ibandla tree, where the King and his councillors meet to discuss important matters, since the People Of The Sky regard cattle as precious and the isibaya, or cattlefold, as a sacred place.

It is here that the ceremony of the Inkatha will be held.

*

The regiments gather in the cattlefold; ordered rows forming a semicircle around the ibandla tree, where the King and his most trusted advisors stand.

Shaka is thirty, tall, broad-shouldered, with high cheekbones and slightly sunken eyes that occasionally give him a gaunt look. A shade lighter than his skin, these eyes are capable of staring deep into the soul of a man and are said to shine with ubukosi — a natural state of ascendancy, of leadership, more powerful than any birthright. His body is the rippled rock of a warrior able to run all day without tiring and his powerful hands bear the calluses of shield strap and assegai shaft.

Like his soldiers he wears amashoba — leather thongs with long fringes made from a cow’s tail fastened under the knees and over the elbows — and a kilt formed from two separate aprons. The isinene, or front apron, comprises skins cut into circular patches and strung together on sinews to form tassels, which are weighted to prevent the apron from opening in case of sudden movement. The rear apron, or ibheshu, is slightly longer, almost reaching the backs of the knees, and is made from soft calfskin.

In Shaka’s case, though, both his isinene and ibheshu are fashioned from civet pelts, so that his kilt is a golden colour, and the tails of his amashoba are white. He also wears a collar of civet fur and the long tail feather of a blue crane in his headband.

Each of the regiments has added its own flourishes to this uniform — a practice encouraged by Shaka, since, from his own experience in the front line, he’s learnt the loyalty comrades-in-arms feel toward one another will outweigh their loyalty to their masters. And such is the competitive spirit that exists among his regiments, they have to be kept separated when not on campaign, because fights erupt when the warriors encounter each other.

But the call has gone out. They are getting ready for war, and now their rivalry will be expressed only in a willingness to kill more of the enemy than the other impis.

They watch intently as the Lion sets about making the fire according to the old way. He inserts the pehla, or boring stick, into a small cut in a softer piece of wood. Holding this rectangular plank in place with his feet, he rubs the metre-long stick between his hands. When the friction has caused the softer wood to glow, he puts aside the pehla and goes onto his knees, gently blowing on the dried moss he’s placed around the hole. Then he adds twigs … sticks … branches … and something else …

For suddenly the flames explode upwards into the sky — and the soldiers roar their approval, since this signifies the start of a new phase in the tribe’s life.

The cries become war songs, each regiment getting its turn and trying to outdo the other impis.

Shaka watches his men intently. White Men are camping at Zwide’s kraal and this has been regarded as a bad omen. Which is another reason for the ceremony. The regiments need to be reminded of their own strength. They need to be reminded that it’s up to them; it’s what they do that matters, not the machinations of outsiders.

The songs fall away. A hush descends. Wearing only a loincloth and a lion-skin cloak, the shaman raises his arms. The ranks part as a phalanx of four junior sangomas moves toward the clearing in front of the ibandla tree. Here, at Shaka’s feet, they lay a thick grass coil about a metre in diameter.

The Inkatha, the symbol of tribal strength.

In turn, each of the apprentices kneels at Shaka’s feet, carefully picks up one of the articles arranged there and proffers it to the King for his approval. On his nod, the youth stands, backs away from the King for six paces, turns and moves to the Lion. With his head bowed, his arms extended, the junior shaman passes the article to the chief sangoma. The Lion holds it up to the assembly, then empties the contents into a pot containing seawater and ox blood.

Sacred substances: straw from the royal huts, dirt from the floors, handfuls of soil from paths on which the King regularly walks, samples of royal vomit.

Mabhubesi himself fetches the last, the most precious talisman from the King. This is the ibizi, the King’s faeces. It’s wrapped in cabbage leaves, and after holding it up for the approval of the warriors, the sangoma places it in the pot.

Mabhubesi and his assistants will tend the pot through the night. Tomorrow, after the sun has passed its zenith, the impis will gather once more to watch as the sangoma smears the mixture from the pot over the coil. Palm fibre will then be wrapped tightly around the Inkatha, followed by a large python skin. Next, Mabhubesi will call on the ancestors to give the ring magical powers capable of dispelling danger and protecting the King and the tribe from evil.

Stepping into the centre of the ring, Shaka will be daubed with fortifying medicines while praise singers recount his brave deeds. He’ll dip his fingers into a potion made from herbs, bark and human fat and, by licking the dark substance from his fingertips, he’ll acquire superhuman powers. The Inkatha will be complete.

Now, though, while Mabhubesi stirs the pot, orders are shouted.

The warriors will leave the kraal and move into the bush, where trackers will lead each regiment to areas where herds of buck have been spotted. The warriors will then surround the animals and kill as many as they can. In this way, their assegai blades will be blooded and ready for war.

It is Ukugeza Izikhali. The Washing Of The Spears.

*

Shaka distinguished himself as a warrior in the service of Dingiswayo, and later came to lead the Izicwe regiment. At Dingiswayo’s urging, Senzangakhona had finally acknowledged Shaka as his heir, but there were other sons who felt Shaka had no right to the throne — not least because he hadn’t lived with the Zulus since he was six. Thus, when Senzangakhona died, Dingiswayo allowed a strong contingent of Izicwe men to accompany Shaka, to help the Bastard Son claim the Zulu throne.

Declared King, the twenty-eight-year-old immediately set about reorganising the Zulu army. The tactics he had in mind required at least four regiments. A head and chest to engage the enemy and two horns to encircle them. This was the Way Of The Bull.

He called up all able-bodied males and grouped them in regiments — amabutho — according to age. Older, married men, who wore the isicoco, a fibre circlet woven into the hair and held in place with beeswax, went into the Amawombe, or Single Clash, regiment. A second group, comprising men a little younger, aged between twenty-six and thirty-one, who had taken the headring, but had not yet married, were forced to shave off the isicoco and became the Ujubingqwana, Shorn Heads. The remaining ‘bachelors’ who had not yet taken the headring were organised as the Umgamule, Cut Through.

The youngest men formed the Ufasimba impi — the Haze. This was the one age group that would be trained in Shaka’s methods from the start of its career, and the ibutho that would become Shaka’s favourite. It was from Fasimba ranks that he’d choose his bodyguards.

In charge of these regiments, Shaka placed generals and indunas he had personally selected: men who were commoners and, in many cases, foreigners. It was a sly move. Hitherto clan and vassal chieftains had fielded and led their own ‘armies’. It was one of the factors which meant the King’s authority could never be absolute. Now, the commanders of the ‘new’ army owed their elevation and therefore their allegiance solely to Shaka.

Having amabutho grouped according to age-sets and stationed at amakhanda, or special military kraals, also meant able-bodied males were removed from the influence of their home clans. This strengthened their loyalty to Shaka, especially since they could see for themselves promotion from the ranks was within everyone’s grasp, being based on merit and not birth.

Next Shaka dispensed with the flimsy throwing spears favoured by the tribes in the region and introduced a weapon he himself had adapted while serving under Dingiswayo. This was the short, broad-bladed stabbing spear intended for close combat that came to be called the iklwa, an onomatopoeic word mimicking the slurping, popping sound the blade made when it was pulled out of a body. Shaka also had new cowhide shields made, shields that were larger and tougher than the old ones.

While the spears were being assembled by the Zulu iron-smiths, Shaka himself drilled his impis in the new tactics. He ordered them to throw away their sandals and had them run back and forth across a parade ground scattered with thorns to toughen their feet. Soon his men could cover eighty kilometres in a day, trotting tirelessly across the veld and the rolling, trackless hills.

Warriors at this time were expected to forage for themselves, and another important innovation the new King introduced was having twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys accompany the soldiers, carrying rations, water gourds and sleeping mats. One boy would look after three or four warriors, while indunas — senior officers — would have an udibi to themselves.

*

‘Remind us,’ says Shaka, indicating Mgobozi with a languid flick of his hand, ‘remind us why we fight this crocodile!’

Mgobozi is from the Mthetwa tribe. He served with Shaka in the Izicwe regiment; fought shoulder to shoulder with the young Zulu. Soon he too had discarded his sandals and was wielding the short stabbing assegai Shaka favoured. He accompanied Shaka when the latter went to claim the Zulu throne, and stayed on, helping to train the Zulu men in the new tactics. Shaka put him in charge of the Fasimba impi. He would’ve made Mgobozi commander in chief of the Zulu army, but Mgobozi declined the offer. ‘I’ll drill your men in peacetime, Father,’ he told Shaka, ‘but when it comes to war, I seek only to fight!’

All the same, much to the older man’s chagrin, Shaka insists Mgobozi keep himself safe and stay out of the fighting as far as possible.

‘Thrice did Dingiswayo have the Ndwandwes beneath his blade,’ says Mgobozi, ‘and thrice did our Father urge him to annihilate these animals, for many brave warriors had fallen in these campaigns and Zwide and his jackals were not to be trusted, but Dingiswayo did not heed our Father’s counsel. A promise of loyalty was all he asked, for he was a kind man.’

‘It is so,’ murmurs Shaka. Words that are almost a growl.

‘But kindness in these circumstances can be a treacherous concubine,’ adds Mgobozi. It is a necessary rider, since Shaka as King and Father of the Zulu people would also like to be regarded as a kind ruler.

‘It is so … it is so …’ murmur the indunas and warriors gathered around the fire.

Mgobozi goes on to tell how, after a period of uneasy peace, Zwide, without any provocation, fell on Matiwane and his Ngwanes, killing men, women and children and burning their kraals. Only the precious cattle were spared. When Dingiswayo angrily demanded the meaning of this massacre, wily Zwide claimed he’d received news the Ngwanes were plotting against Dingiswayo and had attacked them before they could bring their plans to fruition. He and his legions had been acting out of loyalty to Dingiswayo.

‘It is so, my Brothers,’ says Mgobozi. ‘Zwide offered Dingiswayo a fine repast — of shit!’

Laughter ripples around the fire.

‘And Dingiswayo saw it for what it was, and Zwide sent his sister, Ntombazana, daughter of Ntombazi Of The Skulls. She was to soothe the Wanderer’s anger. Win his affections …’

Shaka smiles, shrugs: ‘She was a woman, this Ntombazana, my Children, and Dingiswayo was but a man. He was taken with her and she took him.’

‘Indeed,’ says Mgobozi. ‘She stole his seed.’

A king’s semen is regarded as the source of his power, a substance so precious it’s not even used in the manufacture of the Inkatha, lest some of it be stolen for more nefarious purposes.

And this is precisely what occurred in Dingiswayo’s case. Wily Zwide wanted once and for all to defeat his old nemesis and this was his sister’s true mission. When she returned to her brother’s kraal, the Ndwandwe medicine men went to work …

‘And so brave and honourable Dingiswayo was cursed,’ says Mgobozi.

He takes a sip of sorghum beer and places the pot at his feet.

‘Brothers,’ he says, ‘brave comrades-in-arms, you were there when, heeding Dingiswayo’s call, we marched on the Ndwandwes! But the charm was already working. We were to march separately and strike together, but Dingiswayo neglected to send out his messengers to inform us of his movements.’

The Mthetwa army halted close to KwaDlovungu, Zwide’s capital. They were to await Shaka’s impis, although Dingiswayo hadn’t told them exactly where his forces would be. Instead, he set out accompanied only by five female bodyguards and was duly captured by a Ndwandwe patrol. The small group was escorted to KwaDlovungu, where Dingiswayo was cordially received by Zwide, who slaughtered an ox in his honour.

The following day, the ruler of the Mthetwas was executed.

‘It is said his women fought bitterly to save him,’ says Mgobozi, ‘but he told them to desist. Do not grieve for me by fighting for a lost cause, he said. To his executioner he said: Drive your blade well and true, my son. And the deed was done. And his head was removed so that this Ntombazi might have another king’s skull to add to her collection.’

‘And his women,’ adds Shaka. ‘His women, my Children — did they return home when Zwide told them to?’

‘No, Father,’ comes the response.

‘No. They encircled their fallen king and drove their blades into their own hearts! Will we be shamed by such loyalty?’

‘No, Father! No! The jackal shall perish!’

The Ndwandwes fell on the Mthetwa army, which was unnerved by the disappearance of their king. The result was a rout. The only reason why the Zulus did not become involved was because Shaka and his men were intercepted by a messenger from Dondo of the Khumalos, informing them what had happened.

‘Now all have become skulls for Ntombazi to gloat over,’ says Shaka. ‘Now this Devourer Of Kings would devour us!’ The men hiss.

‘Know this, my Children: we fight for our lives! Death is the only mercy we can expect! He has sought and found a provocation and now he comes for us. For our women, our children, our cattle! But we have his measure. Believe me when I say this, my Children: the Bull Elephant has his measure. Let him come. He’ll encounter a tempest the like of which this land has never seen. This land …’ he whispers, gazing at the orange faces around the fire, the shadows of the warriors beyond, who loom up behind them, like pillars holding the sky aloft.

‘Brave warriors about to go into battle are told: ‘Be joyful, Embo awaits you!’ And this is so. But I tell you this, my Children: do this, defeat these lice, and this awaits you!’ Shaka spreads his arms. ‘These green hills, these plains and swollen rivers! Standing shoulder to shoulder you have the power to win this land. To rule this land. Let this treacherous crocodile come — let him come! He will taste the gruel of defeat. And you are the ones who will do this. You!’

*

Early the next morning, before the warriors in the sky have extinguished all their campfires, a small group rises and quietly leaves the main body. It comprises the King, Mgobozi, a detachment of ten bodyguards led by the Induna and the Induna’s udibi, who carries extra spears and water gourds for the party.

The King and his Fasimbas have been hunting to the southwest of KwaBulawayo. Now at the languid, loping jog trot favoured by the Zulu army on the move, Shaka leads the small group eastward.

De la Vere and Boyd have come up from the Cape, where de la Vere was able to trade on his family name to finance their expedition. Even those who hadn’t heard of the Sussex de la Veres were impressed by having a member of the titled gentry come calling, even if de la Vere was only a baronet.

Such snobbishness is common in the colonies. While portrayed as places where a man can make himself away from the class-conscious strictures of the motherland, the good burghers nonetheless crave the legitimacy their new-found wealth will acquire through dealings with members of the British aristocracy. The fact that de la Vere was also a veteran of Waterloo made his ingress into what passed for society in the Colony even smoother.

Boyd, on the other hand, is one of those dissolute younger sons a wealthy father has sent away, with a monthly stipend, to indulge his vices on distant shores. Putting his distaste aside, de la Vere had gone out of his way to befriend the fop — for investors were one thing, but a source of ready cash for sundry day-to-day expenses was also to be welcomed.

That distaste was the only obstacle in de la Vere’s ‘courtship’ of Boyd, for Stanley was like the lonely put-upon fat child at a public school, only too eager to win the school captain’s protection.

They travel with three wagons, each pulled by six oxen, and the expedition — such as it is — is a combination of exploration and gain. They’ve heard of plentiful ivory to be found along the east coast. At the same time, they also want to explore the possibility of establishing a lasting relationship with a local tribe, who will supply them with tusks.

They’re accompanied by a group of servants to see to the oxen and an interpreter they hired in King Williams Town. Of mixed blood, he speaks English and Xhosa, which language, their business partners in the Colony have assured them, is not much different to the dialects spoken by the tribes living in the territories around the bay of Natal. His name is Jacob, but they call him Tuppence, although they doubt he’s worth even that …

*

Boyd slots the butt against his shoulder and, keeping the barrel lowered at a forty-five-degree angle, pretends to take aim at a distant spot. Actually, the gun, a two-bore flintlock, with a deep fish-belly curve on the underside of the buttstock to absorb the recoil, is so heavy, that’s about as high as he can keep the barrel raised for any length of time.

‘Bang!’ he says. ‘Loud thunder! You kill many savages.’

‘Warriors,’ interjects de la Vere with a hiss.

‘Right. Don’t translate that. I mean you kill many warriors! Many, many warriors with this magic spear!’

Cha! growls Zwide. How much beer has this fool drunk?

‘What’s he say?’ says Boyd to their interpreter.

Or perhaps, Father, we have not drunk enough beer! says Nomahlanjana.

The Nguni tribes along the east coast of southern Africa have long known about guns, which they call izibhamu. Portuguese sailors seeking a sea route to India — and harbours where their ships could replenish their water supplies and victuals — first introduced the locals to these ‘magic spears’, and the tales have been passed down from generation to generation. Then there’s the Colony in the Cape; since the late 1700s hunters and trappers have been making the two-month journey to this territory.

De la Vere pushes Tuppence forward. ‘Do your job!’

‘No, wait,’ says Boyd, ‘let’s start again.’ He balances the gun across both hands. ‘See? This gun. Gaun. This magic spear. Maggick.’

He turns his head toward their interpreter. ‘Go on …’ Tuppence sighs. He’s showing you his gun. He wants you to look surprised.

And you, Half-breed? What are you doing with these simpletons?

Not to impugn your wisdom, Nkosi, but I am no half-breed. I am Xhosa!

Zwide squints at him. And my cows have pricks! ‘What’s he say?’ interrupts de la Ve. . .