It was spread out over many square miles of open p below the bald-headed granite hills that gave it its name The Hills of the Chieftains'. The furthest hill was the evil, 'Place of Killing', Bulawayo, and from its sheer cliffs those condemned to die were cast down.
The stockades formed concentric circles, dividing the city into its separate parts. Always the huge open cattlepens were the centre of Matabele life, their cattle the source and store of their wealth, and now that the outlying herds had been brought in for the festival, every pen was filled with the multi-coloured herds of fat beasts.
Standing at Zouga's shoulder, Gandang used his stabbing-spear to point out with pride the city's features.
There were sections for the unmarried girls, and the unblooded regiments, and another huge area for the married quarters; the huts were uniform in size and laid out in orderly patterns, the thatched roofs shining golden yellow in the sunlight. The earth between them was swept clean and beaten hard by the passage of bare feet. There is the King's hut. ' Gandang pointed out a single huge conical structure in its own separate enclosure. And that is the compound of the King's wives, a hundred other huts, within a high guarding stockade, and it is death to any man who enters that gate.'
Gandang led Zouga down to a small grove of acacia trees outside the main stockade. There was a stream within a few yards of it, and for the first time in days they were free of the close press of humanity. Although the plain without the city walls was thick with the temporary dwellings of the visiting impis, the area around the grove was empty, as if it had been placed out of bounds to the common people.
When will I see the King? ' Zouga asked.
Not until after the festival, Gandang answered. There is ritual and cleansing that the King must undergo but he has sent you gifts, you are much honoured. ' And he pointed with his blade at the line of young maidens that left a gate in the stockade. Each girl carried a large earthenware pot balanced easily upon her head, and she did not use a hand to maintain that balance.
The girls moved with that peculiar straight-backed grace, hips swinging in lazy rhythm, the hard unripe fruits of their breasts bouncing and jostling at each pace.
They came in to Zouga's little camp in the grove and knelt to offer the gifts they bore.
Some pots contained thick millet beer, tart and effervescent, others the clotted and soured cow's milk, imaas, that was so much a staple of the Nguni diet, and others again, big chunks of fatty beef, roasted on the open coals. You are much honoured by these gifts, Gandang repeated, apparently himself surprised by the King's generosity. 'Yet Tshedi, your grandfather, was always his good and trusted friend.'
Once the camp was set up, Zouga found himself again the victim of idleness, with long days of waiting to fill.
Here, however, he was free to roam about the city and its surrounds, save only the forbidden areas of the royal enclosure and women's quarters. He sketched the fascinating bustle of preparation for the festival. During the heat of the day the banks of the rivers were lined with men and women, their velvety black skins shimmering with water as they bathed and cleansed themselves for the dances. Every tree for miles about was hung with the kilts and furs, the feathers and plaited ornaments that were airin& the creases and rumples of travel and packing were being allowed to drop out of them as they billowed and flapped in the light breeze.
He passed groups of young girls plaiting each other's hair, smearing and rubbing each other's bodies with oil and coloured clays, and they giggled and waved at Zouga as he passed.
At first the problem of hygiene that this huge assembly presented puzzled Zouga, until he realized that there was an area of thick undergrowth beyond the city walls where both men and women went at dawn and in the short twilight. This area had its own population of crows and kites, of jackal and hyena that served as the city's cleansing service.
Interested further in the running of the city, he found that all bathing and washing of clothing was allowed only below a certain spot on the riverbanks marked by a distinctively large tree or other feature, and that the women filled the water pots for drinking and cooking above this point.
Even the huge cattle-pen in its very heart helped to keep the city clean. It acted as a vast fly-trap. The insects laid their eggs on the fresh cattle dung, but before they could hatch most of them were deeply trampled'by the hooves of the milling herds. The brilliant sunlight and the untainted wind completed the process of keeping the area relatively clean and the smells interesting but not Unbearable.
Zouga should have been content to have reached this haven, instead of leaving his assegai-riven corpse for a hyena's feast in the wilderness, but he was not.
He set himself tasks to fill the waiting days. He drew sketches and maps of the city, noting weaknesses in the fortifications, and where an attack would have the best chance of penetrating these and reaching the King's private quarters.
He sketched the uniforms of the various impis. He noted the colours of their shields and other means of identifying them in the field. Asking innocentseeming questions of Gandang, he was able to estimate the number of warriors each regiment contained, the ages and battle experience of the warriors, the names and personal idiosyncrasies of their Indunas, and the location of their regimental towns.
He found that much had changed in Matabeleland since old Tom Harkness had drawn his map, and Zouga noted these changes and drew his conclusions from them.
As a further exercise to pass the waiting days he began drawing up a battle plan for a campaign against the old King Mzilikazi, the requirements in men and weapons, the logistics of supply and resupply, the lines of march, and the most expedient methods of bringing the impis to battle, for Zouga was a soldier, a soldier with a dream which might one day become reality only through military action.
Unsuspecting, Gandang was flattered by Zougals interest and he answered every question with pride. in his nation's might and its achievements. Despite this work Zouga had given himself, the days dragged past. The King will not give you audience until after the festival, Gandang repeated, but he was wrong.
The evening before the festival began, two elderly Indunas, blue heron feathers nodding above the silvery woollen caps of close-cropped hair, entered the camp in the acacia grove and Gandang greeted them with deep respect, listened to them attentively, and then came to Zouga. They have come to take you to the King, he said simply.
There were three small fires burning before the King's hut, and over the middle one crouched a wizened apelike figure, who crooned a low incantation through toothless gums, rocking on his haunches and occasionally adding a
