Ermene took her place beside Bida, though his attentions grew distracted. Dinga tracked his eyes. Bida eyed her daughter. Despite Ifriquia's youth, his eyes, greedy and grim, locked on her with the mad tinge of lust dancing in them.
Dinga did not acknowledge the songs sang on his behalf, comparing the number of his superior kills to those of Ghana Afer. He had no time for the politics that masked civilization. It was another game people felt they had to play to further separate themselves from their true natures.
Still, the songs flattered him.
The warriors soon gathered, a stirring formation before Bida in order to receive his blessing.
“Go. I will secure a good hunt.” The men left, confident in their presumed success. Bida turned to Dinga. “If you will, come talk with me later.”
* * *
Bida held his audience in a domed pavilion, a massive round structure near the rear of the village, off to itself, yet large enough for three families. A grove separated it from the rest of the village. Behind it, several wooden figures lined the path. Totems, like a shrine, of carved figures. Short, squat depictions of men and women with exaggerated features of long faces and broad flat noses. Their sagging breasts, long necks, and capped heads, seemed carved from hate. Their hollow eyes, more alive than not, stared with life-like intensity from their wooden sockets.
“You wished to meet with me?” Dinga asked, a mocking tone marked his being perturbed by the odd formality of the wish to talk.
“I’ve heard tales, young Dinga, of some wild young men. The sons of certain chiefs who indulged all manner of ... extravagances,” Bida said in a cold whisper. An air of ancient calm settled on him, though his fox-face was still a mask of deceit.
“Indulgence makes one soft,” Dinga said.
“Then you’ve heard the tales?”
“Only offering comment. Please, continue.”
“These young men drew lots for some among their brethren to go explore the desert parts. A foolhardy quest. You see, the desert is a mysterious and powerful place, where arrogant young men may quickly find themselves in over their heads. Then their baser instincts are forced to take over. Friend turns on friend as a matter of survival, until only one remains alive to tell the tale.” Bida crossed the distance between them, his eyes locked on Dinga's. Without thought, his hand brushed against the hilt of his knife at Bida's approach. “It is a blessing and a curse: to do whatever it takes to survive. They were a band. He was their chieftain, though he never asked for it. He was not the oldest or the biggest, but they admired him just the same.”
“He failed them,” Dinga whispered.
“No, he lived,” Bida paused. “You are a child of fate. You have the eyes of one who has seen much, despite your few years. The Soninke’s lost son. I could build a mighty kingdom on your brave back.”
“I don’t have the stomach for politics. Or scheming my way to power,” Dinga's words carried the sting of disdain. A crest-fallen look flashed on Bida's face before he turned away. Still, he salvaged his spurned offer as best he could.
“You have the need to adventure. It is written all over you. Best not to tarry in one place for too long, then. Follow your heart and go your own way.”
The implicit threat—masked as permission—was not lost on Dinga, though he made no attempt to match wits and intrigue with Bida. Though his nature was to be suspicious, he trusted in one fact: that no matter their color or culture, people were people. Self-serving and ever true to their baser nature. “Where do you think the raiders come from?”
“Why do you ask?”
“A wise man does not go out of his way to stir up trouble.”
“Wise words indeed. The Berber nomads range toward the north, not quite to Kush, though east of the Bantu.”
“Then perhaps I shall visit the villages to the south,” Dinga said.
"A good decision."
* * *
Dinga shaved his head with his dagger, his rough scraping aided only by a bowl of water. Bloodshed and violence were all that he knew. The causes mattered a little, but the means remained the same. He had little use for the trappings of civilization, the lie of man. Barbarism was the natural state of man, so he concerned himself with life’s fundamentals.
Food. Shelter. Worship.
Ifriquia entered his hut, then stood at the doorway in silence.
Pleasure.
“You can come in,” Dinga said.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your meditations again,” Ifriquia said.
“I was not in prayer. Merely testing my blade.”
“You have a strange god with strange demands.”
“We all walk in our own ways.” Dinga continued to clean his blade.
“They say that there are prophecies that say Onyame would someday take flesh and become the rightful ghana.”
Dinga smirked. “Did your ghana die without a son?”
“It doesn’t matter. It is the sister of the ghana who provides the heir to the throne. I am Ermene’s eldest daughter. The future ghana’s sister.
“What of Bida?”
“What of an old man with useless bits?”
“He’s neither old nor useless. The shamans of Kawkaw are a powerful lot. More spirit than man, if you believe the tales. Shape changers who speak tongues so ancient that only the shadows understand them.”
Ifriquia approached. Dinga glared, more aloof than malicious, as if he’d forgotten the emotions of friendliness. He struggled to recall the expected response.
“The people whisper that you are destined to rule.”
“It is not yet my time.”
“It is mine.”
She stood close enough for him to feel her heat. It occurred to him that he had never seen so dazzling a beauty. Her unruly locks held at bay by her sleight headdress. Her eyes, brown as fresh timber, matched her perfect ebony body. Full, enticing red lips. She was strong in all the right ways; an independent spirit to match his own. His eyes smoldered with longing for her. In that moment, a warrior’s madness swept him up
