Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  Shaka kaSenzangakhona, Inkosi, or hereditary chief of the Zulu, had immigrated from Africa in his mother’s womb. Although he never returned to the land of his conception, he had considered himself a Zulu first, Bilalian a distant second.

  It was certainly possible that this sense of loss of his identity—along with the loss of right of royal succession, had warped Shaka.

  Kai was not the only one who pondered these things, but none of these thoughts were ever shared in the presence of Zulus, who were seen as wild-card allies at best, and at worst, potential threats to the social order.

  “Kai!” one of the delegates called.

  Kai turned, mortified that his given name had been shouted. Perhaps foolishly, he had entertained the notion of slipping quietly from the room, but that hope was now as dead as Shaka. He bowed slightly to the speaker, a man perhaps ten years older than himself, with speckles of gray lightening a sparse beard. “Sidi Akmed. Salaam Alakum.”

  “Waalaykum salaam. Peace be unto you and yours.” Akmed was a rotund man of mixed African and Persian blood, like Fodjour’s mother Allahbas. He owned extensive holdings in Wichita and had placed Bilalian cotton, teff, and wheat in successful competition with Egyptian goods. Kai admired his boldness. “Tell me, my friend. You, more than any of us, have had congress with these Zulus. What do you think of them?”

  Kai considered before answering. “Phenomenal warriors, stout allies. Fearsome enemies.”

  Akmed meditated on this for a moment. “And your impression of their Shaka?”

  Kai tried not to let his distress manifest in his face. “He was … singular.”

  “And died in the assault on the mosque?”

  “So I hear,” he replied. “But no outsider was invited to his funeral, so I cannot say.”

  Akmed watched his eyes carefully. “Your brother died in that same assault, didn’t he?”

  What does Akmed know? Surely, nothing. “Yes. Shaka and my brother died on the same day.”

  “Two great warriors,” Akmed said without apparent irony. “Allah called them home.”

  Indeed, Shaka was said to have died in the assault on the Mosque of the Fathers. Because Kai had always maintained that his brother died in that battle, and had never told anyone that it was a Zulu umkhonto, not an Aztec’s war axe, that had slain Ali, no one had ever imagined there to be motivation for Kai’s own murderous act. So far, he had gone unaccused.

  There were only three living witnesses to that dread day’s events: Kai, Fodjour, and Kebwe. And those three had sworn secrecy.

  Shaka’s younger brother approached Kai. Cetshwayo’s limp, the result of an old hunting injury, was more pronounced than it had been just three years before. Regardless, the man remained an onyx wedge. Kai steeled himself. Cetshwayo seemed both distant and polite. “Salaam Alakum.”

  “Waalaykum salaam. It is good to see you.”

  “And you. My condolences on your losses since last we met.”

  “And mine to you on the death of your brother.”

  “Yes,” Cetshwayo said. “We have both lost brothers.”

  “They died as warriors.”

  The Zulu prince displayed little emotion. “Yes,” he said. “We speak again, later.” Then he turned away. Kai watched him, uncertain of how to respond to this borderline rudeness.

  Before he could decide on a response, one of Cetshwayo’s liveried slaves approached him with a note. The thin-lips bowed deeply, then backed away. The note read: “The Wakil’s company is requested tonight at suite 107, Plains Hotel.”

  According to conversation after conversation, as the Caliph fielded Egyptian requests for ships, guns, gunpowder, and men for the upcoming conflict, New Djibouti, Wichita, and even parts of New Alexandria fought to stay out of the looming conflict. This increased the very real chance of separation between north and south, the probability of secession, and the possibility of civil war.

  Even now, Egyptian ships floated in both Djibouti Harbor and the mouth of the Brown Nile. However benign their stated purpose, the implicit threat was obvious.

  One of the Caliph’s most powerful allies, Admiral Amon bin Jeffar, was present at the territorial summit. Respected by both the Senate and the military council, bin Jeffar traced his descent directly from Alexander and the Abyssinian princess who had given him sons.

  Bin Jeffar’s retinue appeared: two lieutenants, a male secretary who appeared to be of Egyptian-Afari extraction, and rather surprisingly, a striking blond slave woman.

  Kai turned to a delegate, a supple man a bit taller than himself named Negash. “Bin Jeffar arrives.”

  “Indeed. One-third of the Triumvirate.” Negash made a spitting sound. “Triumvirate” referred to the three most powerful men in New Alexandria: the Caliph himself, bin Jeffar, and an industrialist named Dosa. “They will drag us into this mire, no doubt about it.”

  “Still, his reputation is—”

  Before he could develop his theme, bin Jeffar himself approached them. He was slender, a bit paler than Kai, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Unusually dark-skinned for an Egyptian. The blond slave woman followed him a respectful step behind.

  “Captain Kai ibn Jallaleddin ibn Rashid,” the delegate said, “allow me to present the honorable Admiral Amon bin Jeffar Sephenamen.”

  Kai bowed deeply. “Your bloodline beggars any compliments I might offer. Allow me to say simply that it is an honor.”

  “I knew and admired your father,” bin Jeffar said mellifluously. “No empire easily sustains the loss of such men.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Despite his natural caution Kai liked the man immediately, then reminded himself that the Admiral was a professional politician. It was bin Jeffar’s gift to make himself plausible. Kai took an emotional step backward.

  “I am certain,” said bin Jeffar, “it would be his fondest hope and dream that you exceed him.”

  “You ask too much, I am afraid. I am a simple scholar, more at home in books than in the Round.”

  One of the admiral’s dense eyebrows arched. “Or on the battlefield? No modesty, please. I read both your report and the official inquiry into the events at the mosque. You performed commendably. These are dire times. The strong must stand and bear their share of the load, or the nation suffers. I think I will see more of you, Captain.” A delegate on the far side of the room had raised his hand, attempting to catch bin Jeffar’s eye. Finally, he succeeded. “Pardon. I must conclude an earlier conversation.”

  “Of course.”

  Bowing, bin Jeffar excused himself. His entourage followed. With the conversation ended, Kai had an opportunity to appreciate the woman who had followed bin Jeffar at a proper distance. She wore a checked kalasiris sheath dress, with broad shoulder straps and a collar studded with semiprecious stones. Her pale hair was tinged with strawberry, a shade he had seldom seen. In turning, she displayed unusual grace and poise, a suggestion of strength of spirit that, in combination with her well-proportioned face and form, aroused his curiosity.

  “What do you think?” delegate Negash asked.

  “Most impressive. Statesman, mathematician, historian, naval commander—is there anything at which he does not excel?”

  “Keeping ghosts from his bedroom?” Negash glared at the girl. “She is pretty enough in her limp-haired way.” He sniffed. “It is still distasteful the way he parades his weakness in public.”

  “Who is she?” Kai asked.

  Negash shrugged. “A pleasure slave, probably.” He leaned closer. “I hear that she actually accompanied bin Jeffar to court. Quite the scandal, really.”

  “Why do you ask?” another guest queried, cruising closer to the conversation.

  “She just … looks familiar. Never mind. What do you know of the admiral?”

  “The Pharaoh’s bloodline, that much is certain. I believe he has ambitions.”

  “A fancy one,” said another guest. “He’s written books on numerical theory, apparently invented a gun-sight and a table for calc
ulation of munitions trajectories.” The subject seemed to have its own fascination. “He has a vast estate south of Azteca: cocoa, and a silver mine, I believe. Quite the polymath. Some think the Pharaoh chose the wrong Caliph.”

  “Hmm,” Kai said, mind still drifting in other directions. “Humor me. Would you know if that woman was born here?”

  The second guest stroked his beard. “I heard she was a wild ghost, born in Germany or Eire. I forget which. Does it matter?”

  Kai shook his head. “She seems good breeding stock. I thought of making an offer.”

  “Lavish attempts have been made and rejected,” the second guest said. “He will not sell.”

  “True? Ah, then, best forget the wench.” Kai spoke the words, and the other guests appeared to accept them at face value, but his eyes followed the girl carefully.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kai’s hotel nestled between a clothing shop and a silver smithery in one of Radama’s trendier sections. The sun was far enough beyond its zenith to cool the air without threatening immediate darkness. Kai strolled the clay sidewalks, enjoying the sights and sounds when he heard the universal call of tradesmen in the market.

  His heartbeat quickened. Like most Bilalians, he loved a good marketplace, a place where fruit, fowl, meats, leather goods, pottery, honed steel, and a thousand other delights were offered to passersby, with the bargaining as great an attraction as the eventual purchase itself.

  A rag-swathed wretch sat on the street corner, shaking his wooden begging bowl at passersby. “Alms. Alms,” the mendicant cried.

  Two pedestrians tossed coins into the bowl, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small grubby man stumping for their gelt.

  “The blessings of Allah upon you,” said the beggar. “Alms. Who will give me alms?”

  Kai watched, and smiled in recognition. A second’s visual search spied a tiny, well-appointed cafe across the street from the beggar’s corner. This month, their day traffic would be lighter than usual, and Kai had no trouble finding the ideal table at which to sit and watch.

  A waiter approached him. “Yes, Sidi?”

  “Coffee, please. How long has that beggar been there?”

  “All week,” said the waiter disapprovingly. “Should I have the filthy rogue beaten?”

  Kai almost smiled at the thought. “No. No. Just the coffee, please.” He sat, watching.

  “Alms …” the small man called.

  As the afternoon waned Kai sipped his coffee, mind drifting with the flow of the traffic. Most pedestrians walked around the tramp, others dropped coins. A discourteous few hissed at him. Finally, Kai settled his bill and walked across the street.

  “Alms?” the mendicant asked.

  “Here.” Kai dropped a small rectangular coin into the old man’s cup.

  The beggar didn’t look down into the bowl, but heard the sound of silver against wood and smiled. He continued to chant. “Blessings upon you. Alms … alms …”

  Kai walked on, took up a position on the next block, and continued to observe.

  Finally the shadows deepened, and the streets emptied as the faithful journeyed home to break their fasts. The old man picked himself up, sorted through the change in his bowl, and dumped it into a prayer fountain. He approached Kai.

  “El Sursur,” Kai said to Babatunde.

  “Young Wakil.” The two embraced.

  Nearing sixty, Babatunde was the son of a Yoruban prince and a shepherd girl of Yoruban and Turkish extraction. Denied palace comforts and tutors by reason of his tainted blood, by the age of twenty he was renowned for his poetry and scholarship, and holder of a spiritual lineage at least forty generations old, extending back through Nur Addin Qwami and Jafar al-Sadiq to Bilal and ultimately, to the Prophet himself.

  Tiny enough to have been nicknamed “the Cricket” by Kai, Babatunde had been tutor and companion to Lamiya almost as long as the Wakil could remember. That this stern teacher would become Kai’s master in esoteric Islam was a surprise. That he would, with the death of Kai’s entire male clan, become like a second father could never have been conceived at all.

  “So … I know you have no need for money. Why were you begging?”

  His tutor smiled. “Why, for them, of course. And for you.”

  Kai shook his head. “If I ever live long enough to understand you …”

  “Hah! We should both live so long. Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “What?” Kai asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Aren’t you going to buy me supper?”

  “The best in town.”

  Babatunde took Kai’s arm. “I know just the place.”

  “This should be memorable,” Kai said that with a glance at Babatunde’s clothing. And a quick sniff of the air that had grown more pungent in the Sufi master’s presence.

  More important than memorable, this promised to be amusing.

  “Wakil!” Their eager Fulani restaurateur bowed his skeletally tall frame low. “Welcome to our humble establishment.”

  Then in the next moment, the server saw Babatunde gliding in behind Kai, and paled. “Ah! Guard! Another of the street people has wandered in.” He spanked his skinny palms together. “Remove him!”

  “He is my guest,” Kai explained, concealing his smile as he awaited the explosion.

  The restaurateur seemed torn. On the one hand, a wealthy customer with a jangling purse. On the other, his haughty clientele might well bolt to a competitor at the distressing sight of this street wretch. “Ah … but… I …”

  Feeling merciful, Kai slipped a gold rectangle into the owner’s bony hand. “A sensitive and resourceful man can arrange these things.”

  The man’s fingers rose halfway to his mouth before it paused, as if realizing that to bite the coin would be an insult to his benefactor. “Perhaps a private booth?”

  “Very private,” agreed Kai.

  The server clapped again. “The Wakil has great understanding. At once!”

  Babatunde looked up at Kai guilelessly. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing gold cannot solve.”

  Swiftly, and no doubt wishing that they could have sheltered the newcomers with a rolling curtain, the waiters escorted Kai and Babatunde to a darkened, extremely private booth in the back of the restaurant. Guests glared from both sides and covered their noses with handkerchiefs as they passed. In his heart, Kai wasn’t certain what he enjoyed more: reuniting with his tutor, the prospect of a meal, or the discomfiture of the other guests.

  Ah well, he supposed. I’ll finish maturing one day. But not quite yet, merciful Allah. Not quite yet.

  Despite the meal’s shaky beginnings, their table now groaned beneath the weight of a feast of lamb in various configurations: kabob, pastry, wrapped in grape leaves, cubed and set in a bed of long rice. Kai’s gustatory habits changed little with the coming of Ramadan. Babatunde himself had suggested and refined Kai’s regimen as a means of increasing physical and mental powers. As he had phrased it: “To use this method is simple: one has air for breakfast, prayer for lunch, and two or three bountiful dinners.”

  Babatunde himself declined to embrace such a severe regimen, but he was blessed with the sort of inner fire that allowed him to eat all he wanted of almost everything and never gain a kite.

  Kai had already finished his first meal and had now slowed to picking at his second. He watched Babatunde as his teacher feasted on lamb sambusa pastries. “So…,” he said as his appetite receded. “It has been eight weeks since last we supped. I wonder if I should ask of your adventures since last we met.”

  “Awful,” said the Yoruba. “Just awful. As you recall, I came to see an old colleague before he left for the Continent. After his departure, a week remained before you would arrive. Boat, horse … ah! Whenever men try to move faster or farther than they can walk, there is travail.”

  “Have you seen the steam dragon?” Kai asked. “I hear that it has a spur from New Alexandria almost down to our capital. Another is und
er construction traveling inland from the harbor. They say it can travel at forty miles to the hour!”

  Babatunde looked almost ill. “There will be a reckoning, I swear to you. But no, my days have been fairly peaceful.…” He regarded Kai shrewdly. “But you, my boy. What has been happening with you? I know my pupil. Something troubles you.”

  Kai smoothed Cetshwayo’s invitation on the table between them. Babatunde examined it, read it, examined it again.

  “Ah,” he finally said. “Well—it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?”

  “Still a surprise.”

  “But a delightful one, I would think.” He nibbled at the corner of his pastry and then chewed thoughtfully. “But I doubt a bridegroom’s jitters could furrow your brow.” Babatunde’s gaze was steady. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “Yes,” Kai said. “I would. More than I can say … I’m just not quite ready yet.”

  Babatunde nodded. “Very well, young Wakil. Age has taught me nothing if not patience. To my room then, and a bath.” He sniffed his underarms. “I stink!”

  “I’m glad you’d noticed.” Kai considered leaving an additional sum, but knew he had already paid enough for five such feasts and decided against it. Drawing as little notice to themselves as possible, they left.

  Immediately after they vacated the booth, a small squadron of waiters descended, cleaning, swabbing, and scenting the air with perfume …

  And gathering napkins and tablecloth to be burned.

  The Zimbabwe hotel represented two-storied functional elegance at its finest. Nonetheless, as Kai’s guest Babatunde’s appearance attracted little overt attention until the slave boy opening their room door wrinkled his freckled nose. “Bath in dere.”

  “I think I can find it,” Babatunde said, mustering his full dignity.

  “Please,” Kai said.

  “Is this how you treat your elders now?”

  “Whenever possible. I will see you in the morning?”