Warrior

to the byre, his red cloak wrapped about him, watching as the best of his cattle were driven in from the grazing ground beyond the little stream of Nyakamubi.

Fairbrother marvelled at Shaka's defencelessness. But who would dare try to discover if the praise-name Si-gi-di were without foundation? Did not the absence of guards tell all who might ponder on it that Shaka himself believed? And who, indeed, would challenge such a form as this? Even seated, Shaka was a colossus. In the ndlunkulu he had towered over them, long-shanked; but now Fairbrother saw that the stature came as much from the length of his back, ramrod straight, his shoulders square and broad.

He watched from the cover of an impala lily, not so much hiding as not revealing himself, while the cattle, lowing peaceably, tramped by, the herd boys dancing about them, conscious of Shaka's keen eyes on their endeavours, death the penalty if he found fault.

He heard voices behind him and to his right, a sort of marchsinging, more praise-names for Shaka. He turned and saw five warriors of the Izi-Kwembu, one of the regiments from the north, the head-dress distinctive: the tail- feathers of the blue crane. But in the head-dress too was the red-lory feather, otherwise the preserve of the Fasimba. These were, indeed, warriors of especial bravery, the bringers of news from the campaign against Soshangane.

As custom prescribed, the warriors halted at six spears' length from their king, raised their iklwa and in unison gave the royal salute: 'Ba-ye-te! Nkosi! . . . Hail, O Chief!'

Shaka remained seated, but raised both hands and motioned them to be at ease.

As one, they squatted, waiting to learn their king's pleasure. They might wear the red-lory feather, but the campaign was going ill; they did not expect that Shaka would heap praises on them.

Fairbrother strained to hear his reply. But Shaka spoke softly, seeming strangely unmoved. They appeared to be speaking with one another as equals, Shaka listening carefully, and respectfully, to their reports.

Not many yards beyond the mound on which they sat was a hedge, free-standing, unconnected with the byre, but plainly serving some purpose, for it was too straight to be made by Nature. Suddenly from behind it leapt Mbopa, angry, shouting. And Fairbrother supposed it was indeed its purpose – to conceal the royal guards, so that Shaka was not as defenceless as supposed.

Shaka turned, more curious than startled. Mbopa rushed at the warriors, waving his spear and cudgel. 'Cowards! Traitors! How dare you disturb Si-gi-di with your lying tales! Be off! Go to the guards and have them put you to death in the manner of felons!'

The Izi-Kwembu sprang to their feet.

Shaka seemed transfixed.

The warriors bolted.

But they bolted not towards the kraal, to death at the hands of the Fasimba; instead they ran north, an act of disobedience that only seemed to prove Mbopa's claim. He railed in front of his king, as if at the Izi-Kwembu still; as if . . . intoxicated. 'See, Nkosi! See how the cowards first lie to you and then defy you!'

And then, as though they were answering the cry of alarm, Dingane and Mhlangana sprang from behind the hedge and raced to Shaka's side.

Fairbrother froze: this was not the moment to be discovered skulking like the jackal.

He crouched lower as Mbopa's railing continued, turning to look for his line of retreat.

There was none but that would expose himself to Mbopa and the brothers.

He reached for his pistol, wondering how its one shot might be of best use (indeed any use).

Mbopa ceased his rant, and Shaka rose, as if from torpor.

Fairbrother's every muscle was tensed for flight.

And then came a cry like no other he'd heard. He froze, like Lot's wife turned to the pillar of salt.

Into Shaka's flank plunged Dingane's spear.

But the regal cloak deflected the point, so that instead it pierced his arm.

Shaka spun round.

Dingane thrust again, deep into his side.

Shaka reeled.

Mhlangana drove his spear into his breast.

Shaka threw his arms wide, and like a child betrayed, cried, 'It is you, sons of my father, who are killing me!'

Fairbrother pulled back the hammer of his pistol.

Shaka now stretched to his full height. The brothers shrank back in the astonishment of men who had inflicted mortal wounds to no effect. Was this chief immortal?

'What have I done, Dingane?' The voice was sorrowful, not angry. 'What have I done, Mhlangana, that you kill me thus? You think you will rule this country? I tell you, you will not, for I see the swallows coming. The white people have already arrived!'

The brothers stood rooted with horror.

Mbopa, who had watched as the adjudicator at a combat, stepped forward, and without a word, Brutus-like, thrust his spear beneath Shaka's ribs.