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.
Mbopa's interpreter said that she wished to greet them, and that Shaka, despite saying nothing directly to them, was much pleased by their arrival.
Somervile bowed, saying that he perfectly understood the king's greeting, that it was most gracious of him to leave his ndlunkulu to come to them at this hour, when affairs of state must be pressing (he presumed the visit of the brothers to be such), and that they waited on his pleasure with complete ease.
Pampata turned and spoke to Mbopa in a way that denied them hearing. His face betrayed disquiet. He spoke some words by return, but Pampata was insistent.
He stepped back, gave her a long and searching look, and then withdrew, followed by the interpreter and the serving-girls.
Hervey moved to Somervile's left side, allowing himself a free hand to draw his sabre. Somervile merely smiled encouragingly.
Pampata looked each of them in the eye, searching perhaps a little longer in Fairbrother's, and then addressed Somervile directly. How she knew that any of them would understand, Hervey could not suppose, save perhaps that she had been observing them discreetly.
'Shaka is a great man and a great king,' she began, almost defiantly. 'You are, I know, repelled by the sights of death all about.'
Fairbrother made sure that Somervile and Hervey had understood.
Hervey had, but again he wondered how she knew their minds. Perhaps, though, she too was repelled by the sights of death.
'But let not your unknowing of our ways deceive you: without Shaka there is no nation, and with no nation there is no peace. When Shaka accomplishes his purpose, which will be soon, there will be peace throughout all the land.Without Shaka there will only be war.'
This took longer for Fairbrother to translate, and he was not sure that he did so entirely faithfully, but the essence of it at least was clear – as much by the speaker's inflection.
Somervile felt able to reply, if in a distinctly unpolished mix of Xhosa and Zulu. 'Madam, why do you say "without Shaka"? By what means would the nation be without its king?'
'I do not fear the white man.'
Somervile narrowed his eyes, and looked at her intently. 'I would not have you fear us, madam. Who is it that you do fear?' He glanced at the door to suggest what he meant, his voice lowered.
Pampata stood proud, despite the peril in her words. 'I fear Shaka's brothers. They are not his true brothers but only the sons of his father. And I fear Mbopa. None of this I fear for myself but for Shaka and his people.'
'Why do you speak with such . . .?'He could not find the word, and turned to Fairbrother: 'Urgency?'
Fairbrother looked at Pampata, shaking his head. 'Sheshile?'
She nodded. 'Because the people are tired, they do not understand why they must mourn for Nandi so much, and Shaka's brothers would take advantage of that. Even now, as we speak.'
Somervile realized that here was a course he had not considered. What was His Majesty's interest in such an eventuality as Pampata was suggesting? His India instinct was to see advantage in the overthrow of a ruler who did not wholeheartedly support the Company. 'What do you wish me to do, madam?'