“It shows he is a leader with great compassion,” said another.
“And when we walk out the front door,” said the first aide, “you will pass a hundred examples of his compassion.”
“They were enemies of the state,” said the second.
“And is that ugly thing a friend of the state?”
“She is a friend of Tchaka’s,” I said. “His only friend. I would be very careful what I said of her.” I was going to add the old adage about the walls having ears, but he looked at me with such sudden terror in his eyes that I realized he was thinking only of my ears—and my mouth.
“I did not mean—” he began quickly.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m a brother, not an informant.”
He thanked me, but he also managed to get out of my presence as quickly as he could.
I went to a local restaurant, and while I was seated at a table, waiting to be served, I was joined by Peter Zondo.
“Is what I heard true?” he asked.
“Probably,” I said. “But suppose you tell me what you heard anyway?”
“The Princess—or is she the Empress?—didn’t eat her breakfast, and the universe has come to a stop.”
I was about to tell him not to be so sarcastic—but then I realized that he had properly assessed the situation, at least in regard to our, universe.
“It is true,” I said at last.
“Ten thousand women throw themselves at him, and he saves his affection for that,” he continued contemptuously. “The man is sicker than his pet.”
“What do you want me to say?” I replied irritably. “That at least he cares for something?”
“You know what I want you to say—and to do,” said Peter.
“What do you think will happen if someone—not me, but someone—killed him?” I asked.
“We would be free of a tyrant,” he said, puzzled by my question.
“How do you know that the man who killed him, the man who could kill him, would not be an even greater tyrant?”
“There are no greater tyrants!” said Peter passionately.
“There have been,” I said. “Caligula, Stalin—”
“And Rome and Russia and Brazil and New Zealand all survived them!” he interrupted.
“Keep your voice down,” I cautioned him.
“You see?” he said. “We are his brothers, his most trusted advisors—and we dare not speak our minds in public.”
“You are welcome to speak your mind,” I said, becoming annoyed with him. “Just don’t speak it at my table.”
He held his hands up, as if to cut off the conversation. He lowered his head in thought for a moment, and finally looked up at me. “If you will not do what we have discussed in the past, will you at least consider one other thing?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“Do you not even wish to know what it is?”
“You’re going to tell me whether I ask or not.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice until no one else could hear it. “Kill Nandi,” he hissed.
I just stared at him.
“Maybe it will bring him to his senses,” he continued.
“You mean the way he was before he found Nandi?” I replied sardonically.
He got to his feet. “You are hopeless,” he said contemptuously, and walked out of the restaurant without another word.
Late that night I found myself too restless to sleep, so I decided to take a walk. Eventually I wound up in front of the Royal Palace, and I could see the light on in Tchaka’s suite of rooms. He had never had any trouble sleeping, and I knew he was sitting up with Nandi, trying to make her comfortable.
I should have kept walking or returned home, but instead I remained looking up at his room for another ten minutes. Then, just as I was about to finally leave, the night air was broken by the most agonized, heartbroken scream I have ever heard in my life.
It did not come from Nandi.
Well, at least that’s over with, I thought.
But I was wrong. It was just beginning.
19.
Nandi was given a royal funeral with full military honors. British monarchs never received a more formal send-off. She was wrapped in the flag that bore her likeness, then placed in a small golden casket, which was carried to her tomb—an indoor mausoleum in one corner of Tchaka’s office—by four large soldiers.
But before she was brought to her final resting place, Tchaka announced that he would speak at the funeral. There were perhaps five thousand people in attendance, most of them doubtless feeling slightly ridiculous, as I myself did. I kept wondering what he was going to say, for the Zulus do not speak over their dead.
Finally he stepped forward, and all eyes turned to him.
“Cetshwayo has lost its queen, and the Zulu Empire has lost its empress,” he said, and I was struck by the fact that no one dared to even smile, let alone laugh. “This is the greatest tragedy to befall us since we left the Earth,” he continued, “and I hereby declare a mourning period to last until one year from today. This period will be observed on every planet and by every citizen of the Empire, no matter how far-flung.”
Then, as the crowd was about to relax and begin dispersing, he spoke again. “For one year, no subject of the Empire will imbibe any intoxicants. No one will take any stimulants. No one will indulge in any sexual relations.” A brief pause. “I will not permit these guidelines to be ignored.”
Then he turned and entered the Palace, followed by the four men bearing Nandi’s casket.
There was an immediate troubled buzzing among the attendees. Did he mean it? A whole year? Just us, or every world? Married citizens too? A hundred worried questions, a few disbelieving remarks, and finally the crowd dispersed.
An hour later I was summoned to Tchaka’s office, along with most of my half-siblings. If he had been crying, there was no trace of it.
“I will enforce the period of mourning,” was his way of greeting us.
“It may turn the people against you,” said Bettina.
“Then we will have to find work to keep them busy, won’t we?” he replied coldly. He looked at each of us in turn, then stopped when he came to Peter Zondo. “Peter, you look unhappy.”
“I am unhappy that Nandi has died,” replied Peter carefully.
“Do not lie to me,” said Tchaka severely. “You have a problem. Tell me what it is.”
“I have mourned the passing of loved ones before,” said Peter. “So has everyone else. But I cannot recall anyone ever abstaining from all pleasure for an entire year as a sign of mourning.”
“It happened once before,” replied Tchaka.
There was a long uneasy silence. It was obvious Tchaka was waiting for Peter to ask the question, and finally he did: “When?”
“When Nandi died.”
“But she just died yesterday,” said Peter with a frown. “I do not understand.”
“Not this Nandi,” was the reply. “Nandi, the mother of the first Tchaka. That is what gave me the idea.”
“It is a dangerous idea,” said Peter. “There are certain things the people will not put up with.”
“There is only one thing,” answered Tchaka with absolute certainty. “Weakness.” He suddenly turned to me. “Do you agree, John?”
“Ask me in six months,” I said.
