prophecy that his father had repeated, and he wondered that Gandang could have uttered it in the presence of one who was not Matabele.
'I do not understand,' Ralph said.
'No matter.' Gandang waved it away with a graceful pink-palmed hand. 'Tell me, Henshaw. Are these guns of yours of the kind that swallow a round ball through the mouth and place the life of the man that fires them in more danger than the man who stands in front?'
Ralph smiled at the description of the ancient trade muskets, many of which had survived Wellington's Iberian campaign and some of which had seen action at Bull Run and Gettysburg before being shipped out to Africa in trade; the barrel worn paper thin, the priming pan and hammer mechanism so badly abused that each shot fired threatened to tear the head off any marksman bold enough to press the trigger.
'These guns are the finest,' he replied.
'With twisting snakes in the barrel?' Gandang asked, and it took Ralph a moment to recognize the allusion to the rifling in the barrel.
He nodded. 'And the barrel opens to take the bullet.'
'Bring me one of these guns,' Gandang ordered.
'The price of each is one large tusk of ivory,' Ralph told him, and Gandang stared at him impassively for a moment longer. Then he smiled for the first time, but the smile was sharp as the edge of his stabbing spear.
'Now,' he said. 'I truly believe that you have come to Matabeleland to see how tall stand the trees.'
'I am leaving you now, Henshaw,' Bazo said, without lifting his eyes from the thick yellow tusk that he had brought from his father in payment for the rifle.
'We knew it was not for ever,' Ralph answered him.
'The bond between us is for ever,' Bazo replied, 'but now I must go to join my regiment. My father will leave ten of his men to escort and guide you to Gubulawayo where King Lobengula awaits you.'
'Is Lobengula. not at Thabas Indunas, the Hills of the Chiefs?' Ralph asked.
'It is the same kraal, in the days of Mzilikazi it was Thabas Indunas, but now Lobengula has changed the name to Gubulawayo, the Place of Killing.'
'I see,' Ralph nodded, and then waited for it was clear that Bazo had more to say.
'Henshaw. You did not hear me say this, but the ten warriors who will go with you to the king's kraal are not only for your protection. Do not look too closely at the stones and rocks along the road, and do not dig a hole, even to bury your own excrement, else Lobengula will hear of it and believe that you are searching for the shiny pebbles and yellow metal. That is death.'
'I understand.'
'Henshaw, while you are in Matabeleland, give up your habit of travelling at night. Only magicians and sorcerers go abroad in the darkness, mounted on the backs of the hyena. The king will hear of it, and that is death.'
'Yes.'
'Do not hunt the hipopotamus. They are the king's beasts. To kill one, is death.'
'I understand., 'When you enter the presence of the king, be sure that your head is always below that of the Great Elephant, even if You must crawl on your belly., 'You have told me this already.'
'I will tell you again' Bazo nodded. 'And I will tell you once more that the maidens of Matabeleland are the most beautiful in all the world. They light a raging fire in a man's loins, but to take one of them without the king's word is death for both man and maiden.'
For an hour they squatted opposite each other, casionally taking a little snuff or passing one of Ralph's cheap black cheroots back and forth, but always with Bazo talking and Ralph listening.
Bazo spoke quietly, insistently, reciting the names of the most powerful indunas, the governors of each of atabeleland's military provinces, listing those who had M the king's ear and should be treated with care, explaining how a man should conduct himself so as not to give offence, advising how much tribute each would ask and finally accept, trying to give it all to Ralph in these last minutes, and then finally glancing up at the sky.
'It is time.' He stood. 'Go in peace, Henshaw.' And he walked out of Ralph's camp without looking back.
As Ralph's wagon, with its escort of warriors, climbed out of the low veld, so the heat abated. The air was so sweet and clean that it made Ralph feel as though the blood sparkled and fizzed in his veins.
Isazi was infected by the same elation. He composed new verses to sing to his bullocks, lauding their strength and beauty, and occasionally he slipped in a reference to a 'feathered baboon' or some other fanciful and unlovely creature, while rolling his eyes significantly in the direction of the bodyguard of Matabele warriors that preceded the wagon.
The forests thinned as they climbed, becoming open woodlands of shapely mimosa trees, the paper-thin bark peeling away to reveal the clear smooth underbark, and the branches loaded with the fluffy yellow flower heads.
The grass cloaked the undulating earth, thick and sweet, so that the bullocks fleshed out after the enervating heat of the lowlands, and they stepped out with a new will against the yoke.
This was cattle country, the heartland of the Matabele, and they began to encounter the herds. Huge assemblies of multi-coloured animals, red and white and black and all the combinations of those colours. Smaller than the big Cape bullocks, but sturdy and agile as wild game, the bulls with the hump and heavy dewlap of their Egyptian forebears.
Isazi looked at them covetously, and came back to Ralph at the forewheel of the wagon to say: 'Such were the herds of Zululand, before the soldiers came.'
'There must be hundreds of thousands, and they would be worth twenty pounds a head.'
