Warrior

This, beehive-shaped like the others, was a dozen yards in diameter, and well lit by oil lamps. Inside were several of Shaka's serving-girls holding earthen basins, his 'sisters' as he called them (or 'harem lilies' as the warriors, less reverently, knew them). The party washed their hands and then seated themselves on the rush mats in the middle of the clay floor; or rather squatted, for Isaacs had told them that to sit would give offence to their host.

More serving-girls appeared with hollowed gourds of beer, and then others with wooden trenchers and spoons. Bowls of boiled maize were brought, and sweet potatoes, mashes of pumpkins, fermented sorghum, clotted milk. Evidently, whispered Somervile, the mourning hunt, i-hlambo, the washing of spears, was over, even though the warriors were not yet returned.

They ate respectfully.

When the remains of the honoured meal were cleared away, the serving-girls (six of them, festooned with beads which expertly covered their modesty, unlike those at the Fasimba kraal) assembled in line opposite the door, as if waiting on the party's further pleasure.

'Are we to dismiss them, do you suppose?' asked Somervile.

Fairbrother shook his head. 'I think it best to wait for Mbopa to return.'

The serving-girls dropped suddenly to their knees, eyes lowered, anxious.

Shaka's silent presence was so compelling that the party rose as one.

And they were, as one, taken aback, for Shaka stood taller than any man Hervey had seen since coming to the Cape – a towering column of sinew and muscle. Even Somervile was without a word.

It was Mbopa who at length broke silence. 'Baba! Unkosi! Ndabezita! . . . Father, King, Illustrious Sir, these are the men who have come from Um Joji.'

Somervile made a deep bow, deeper than he would have made even to King George, for he did not wish any misunderstanding on so simple a business as the courtesies due to rank. 'May I present Colonel Hervey, chief of my Guards,' he began, in the little Zulu that Isaacs had been able to give him. 'And Captain Fairbrother, his aide-de- camp.'

Shaka remained wholly impassive. Hervey searched his face for something of his character, but saw nothing. The eyes, though large, were no window on what lay within. His features were regular and strong. His cropped hair was flecked with grey, which only increased the impression of hard-willed power. There was no mark or blemish to his skin. He wore a claw necklace and a skirt of leopard tails – nothing more, as if to say that in this simple garb of the warrior was all there was to know of him: no sumptuary was required to proclaim the supremacy of Shaka Zulu!

Mbopa spoke. 'Si-gi-di . . . (He who is equal to a thousand warriors) accepts these cordial greetings, and bids you take your ease before feasting with him this night, when his brothers, whom he has only moments ago received, shall be present also.'

Somervile needed only the briefest words of clarification from Fairbrother before bowing once more, and returning his answer. 'Be pleased to inform He who is equal to a thousand warriors that King George's embassy is honoured to accept.'

Mbopa's interpreter spoke quickly and surely.

But Shaka did not wait on further words, turning instead, and without letting his eyes meet any, leaving with the same air of brooding power.

The serving-girls remained on their knees even when he was gone, as if fearful that the 'Great Crushing Elephant' (one of Shaka's many praise-names) would reappear and find their temerity in rising too quickly an affront, and their lives thus forfeit.

'I think I might have a cheroot,' said Somervile, as if he were at a drawing room, taking out a silver case from his pocket and offering it to the other two.

None of them was certain of the propriety, but they soon filled the hut with tobacco smoke. The serving-girls seemed to find it pleasant, and certainly amusing.

Somervile blew a perfect ring, which rose intact to the roof. 'Finelooking fellow, Shaka. Can't but wonder what he'd make of our own esteemed sovereign.'

Hervey had expected something rather more ambassadorial by way of opinion. He smiled nevertheless. 'We must hope he is not acquainted with the portraitist's art of flattery.' One of Shaka's presents was a print of Sir Thomas Lawrence's portrait of George IV, which Hervey knew, from direct observation at Windsor only six months before, was no longer – if it had ever been – a faithful likeness.

'It would not do for Shaka to be put in mind of his fat halfbrother,' said Fairbrother.

Isaacs had spoken much of Shaka's half-brothers during yesterday's ride – their character and which of them would succeed to the throne. Dingane thought of nothing but women, a milksop; Mhlangana was a fine warrior but no statesman; Mpande was fat and self-indulgent; Ngwadi, Nandi's son by a commoner, was beloved of Shaka, but lived many miles distant, and had a lesser claim on the throne than any. Was there truly no son, a son of which even Shaka might be unaware? To which Isaacs had replied that if there were such an heir, and his name were to become known, his life would soon be at an end, for Shaka had a most unnatural fear of sons, and the inevitable challenge of the young buck. And even if his identity were to escape Shaka's knowledge, he would not long survive Dingane's spears.

Mbopa now returned, and with him a woman of about Hervey's age, tall and severe, though handsome. The serving-girls paid no formal respects, except for their glances, one to another.

'Pampata?' suggested Fairbrother, his voice lowered confidentially (Isaacs had spoken of – warned them of – Shaka's favourite).

They rose.

Unlike the serving-girls, Pampata wore the sidwaba, the longer, hide skirt of the betrothed or married woman, with a necklace of plaited cow-hair and feathers between her high, unsuckled breasts. Her hair, like Shaka's, was cropped, and stood proud. Her eyes were bright, active, intelligent. She spoke in a slow, measured way, lower in pitch than a white woman. Her bearing was one of dignity, if not authority, and at once commanded all attention.