Upon the north bank all movement ceased, and a massive stillness settled over the serried ranks of black warriors. The stillness seemed more menacing than the preceding movement, and an expectant hush filled the valley, a sense of mounting tension which became unbearable, until Hassan swore and made a gesture as though to rise.
‘I will not pander to the whims of a savage. This is an insult. We will go. He must come to us if he wishes to talk.’ But the gesture never matured, and he sank back upon the cushions and fretted in silence until his brother spoke.
‘It seems,’ said Omar, ‘that the world we know has changed, brother. What was true yesterday, is true no longer.’
‘What is your advice?’
‘Let us find the new truths, and examine them. It is possible that we shall still find something to our advantage in all of this.’
On the hills opposite them there was a disturbance, a stirring of the ranks, the way the tops of tall reeds move when a lion passes through. The sheikhs strained their eyes, calling out to their guards for advice of what was happening, but any reply was lost in an ocean of sound. The earth shook beneath the stamp of hundreds of thousands of feet, the air quivered with the drumming of spears on shields, and from the densely packed hills a single voice from the throats of that black multitude roared the royal salute to a king.
The storm of sound rolled across the valley, and died in echoes against the sky and the southern hills. Again the stillness and silence, then a large war canoe with fifty rowers a side was launched from the sandbank and shot across the green waters towards the island.
A man stepped out onto the white beach, and walked alone up the bank to where the sheikhs waited beneath the fig tree. The very fact that he came without an escort was a mark of contempt, a sign of his strength and invulnerability.
He wore a cloak of leopard skin and sandals upon his feet but he carried no ornament nor weapon. He stood tall and gaunt over the sheikhs, and they seemed to shrink in significance beside his bulk.
He looked at them with the fierce yellow eyes of a bird of prey, eyes that seemed to rake their souls.
‘I am Manatassi,’ he said in a soft deep rumble. ‘I am the Black Beast.’ They had known enough not to be surprised that he spoke their language fluently.
‘I am Hassan, Sheikh of Sofala, Prince of Monomatapa and Viceroy of the Chan Emperor.’
‘You love the yellow metal,’ Manatassi said it like an accusation and Hassan was taken off balance. He blinked and glanced at Omar.
‘Yes,’ said Omar. ‘We love it.’
‘I will give you enough to glut you,’ said Manatassi.
Omar licked his lips, an unconscious expression of greed, and he smiled.
‘You must have much of the precious stuff?’ Hassan asked, this direct approach to trade was distasteful. This man was a savage, he did not understand the niceties of diplomacy. Yet gold was worth a little gaucherie, especially in the quantities this self-styled black beast hinted at. ‘Where does it come from?’
‘From the treasure house of Lannon Hycanus, Gry-Lion of Opet and king of the four kingdoms,’ said Manatassi, and Hassan frowned quickly,
‘I do not understand you.’
Then you are stupid,‘ said Manatassi, and Hassan flushed dusky rose beneath his brown skin and a retort rose swiftly to his lips, but he felt his brother’s cautionary fingers press his wrist.
‘Explain it to me,’ said Omar. ‘Do you intend to war with Opet?’
‘I will destroy them - destroy their people, their cities and their gods. I will leave not a trace of them, not a single living one.’ The giant Negro began to tremble, a little white spittle wet his full purple lips and a light sheen of sweat greased his battered features.
Omar smiled delicately. ‘We heard of a battle at a place named Sett.’
Manatassi roared, a sound of pain. He leaped towards the sheikh and from under his cloak he drew the clawed iron hand and held it in Omar’s face. Omar scrambled backwards, and clung to his brother.
‘Do not mock me, little brown man, do not mock me, or I will tear out your liver.’
Omar moaned with terror and sweat ran down into his beard.
‘Peace,’ Hassan intervened hurriedly. ‘My brother meant only to remark that the legions of Opet will be difficult to destroy.’
Manatassi gulped for air, still shaking with his rage. He turned away and walked to the edge of the island and stared down into the water. His shoulders heaved, and his chest panted for air, but slowly he calmed himself and came back to them.
‘Do you see them?’ He pointed to his army that still darkened the hills.
‘Numbers alone - will they be sufficient?’ Hassan asked. ‘You challenge a mighty foe.’
‘I will show you,’ said Manatassi, and he lifted the iron claw. Instantly one of his war captains ran from the canoe and knelt before him.
Manatassi spoke a few words in the Vendi language and pointed out at the river. The captain sprang to his feet with an expression of joy lighting his dark face. He saluted, went bounding away down the bank, leapt into the bows of the canoe and was sped swiftly across to the north bank.
The sheikhs watched with puzzled interest as a new movement began amongst the massed warriors on the far bank. They moved forward in two thick columns, swarming into the water, and Hassan exclaimed mildly, ‘They carry no weapons.’
