Despite seclusion and lowered voices, their conversation was not private. From just outside the barn, Conair watched, fascinated as the two Zulus conversed sharply in their native tongue.
Conair was bright enough to know that what he had seen was dangerous. The Empress’s niece was kind, and small smart funny Babatunde even more so.
If anything, he should talk to the little shaykh. If anyone would know what this might mean, it was he.
“Nandi,” said Chalo. Her words had leached some of the heat and urgency from him, but still the steel remained. He knew the call of duty, had pledged his life on the field of honor as all Zulu men must do, and knew that the strictures guiding their women were no less severe. If this was the life the ancestors had crafted for them, then so be it. But he would rather have died in the Aztec Wars than utter the words that his lips formed next. “I need to know that you are well,” he said. “That you are happy. If you tell me that you are, then I will leave, and never bother you again. Can you tell me that?”
After a pause, Nandi said, “I am happy.”
Chalo gazed into her face, seeing both the lies and the truth there, knowing that he had to accept both. “I love you,” he said finally, knowing that these were the last and truest words he would ever say to his childhood love. “And in a better world, you would have been my woman. We would have built a life together, and raised more cattle than there are blades of grass in a meadow. Instead, you belong to this … man. The Wakil.” He finally broke off his gaze, but it seemed that the effort was as painful as splintering one of his own bones. “I pray that you tell me truly. And that you know that if your feelings ever change, mine will stay true.”
“Chalo…,” she said, and brushed his scarred cheek with the back of her hand.
His own rough hand covered hers, and then he stepped back. “So,” he said, his aspect changing from suitor to young warrior. “You are married, and have given this man your promise. I must respect that, if I respect you. But I remain your servant, now and always.” His eyes no longer met hers: he was looking slightly above her brows, at her hairline. His chest heaved, the effort to restrain himself as taxing as any battle. Then, without another word, he slipped back into the shadows, and was gone.
Although Chalo took every precaution, and mingled with the crowd as if he were just another parent searching for his scampering children, the Persian jugglers saw him. Even as they tossed clubs, knives, and balls back and forth to the delight of the children, they whispered amongst themselves, and smiled in secret satisfaction.
After the last of the guests began their journey home, Lamiya and Babatunde sat in the downstairs study before a mild and peaceful fire, sharing mulled cider and speaking privately. “I think the day went well,” the Sufi said.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“I’m not certain,” she said. “There was a bit of trouble with Nandi. Babatunde?”
“Yes?”
“Have I made her welcome? To feel that this is her home?”
He smiled. “You have done what you could.”
She watched the fire for a bit. Flames seemed so like living things to her: they ate, they breathed, they reproduced, and they died. It was easy to see how fire and earth and wind and rain might be considered living things, treated with respect and love and awe by any peoples—perhaps by all peoples before more anthropomorphized deities were adopted, let alone monotheism embraced. Fire took, and it gave in return. A living thing. Why was it so important for men to control what others believed in their hearts? Why wasn’t it enough to judge others by their actions? “You have always been my dearest friend,” she said.
“It gladdens my heart to know you feel it so.”
“And I would ask a boon of you…,” she said. “Please, strive to be a friend to Nandi as well.”
“She has friends,” he said. “Attendants.”
“Not one such as you,” she said. “I want her to feel as a sister. I can think of no greater gift I can give her than the friendship of the man who has guided me since childhood.”
Babatunde’s face was radiant. “You make your tutor proud.” He paused. “So,” he said. “If matters come to my attention concerning Nandi, you would prefer that I handle them as her friend than as your companion, or Kai’s teacher.”
“When possible,” she said. “If your judgment cannot be trusted, no one’s can.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Across the lake from Dar Kush stood the Berhar estate, second largest in all New Djibouti. Two-thirds the size of Dar Kush, it too was a three-storied collection of Moorish towers, vaulted archways, and endless inter-nested corridors. It had fewer windows than Dar Kush, but they were larger, silvered to admit light but maintain privacy, and tended to be rounded or oval rather than rectangular.
While Dar Kush had been disassembled and shipped from afar, Dar Berhar had been constructed forty years ago by Djidade’s father from his own plans. It was here that Kai and Fodjour had spent endless hours chasing and mischief-making in the hallways. It was here that Fodjour and his parents met after the children’s party had dispersed.
For almost two years now, Djidade Berhar had been quite ill. In childhood he had been stocky to the verge of plumpness, in young manhood a massive, muscular warrior, strongest in the province. But the inheritance of his estate brought ease and wealth. He had, as the saying went, grown into his seat.
His once formidable obesity was a thing of the past. Long illness had withered Berhar to a fraction of his former size. These days, he could barely move from his bed.
Allahbas Berhar, Fodjour’s mother and Berhar’s only surviving wife, was a woman of impeccable Masai and Persian breeding and gnawing ambitions. For some twenty months she had nursed her husband through his decline. She had been Berhar’s Second until the death of his original First in a boating accident on Lake A’zam, a tragedy that had claimed both stepmother and Fodjour’s elder half-brother. It was unclear what had happened: the boat should have been completely safe. Allahbas herself had used it only the previous day.
“How went the party?” wheezed Berhar.
“It was fine, Father.”
“And the children. They enjoyed the games?”
“As they always do.”
“So true,” his mother said. “I remember when you and Kai were boys. You fought and argued, but were always the best of friends.”
“Yes.” Fodjour shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. He disliked it when his mother cast her eye back to his childhood. In some way that it was difficult to explain, that very focus seemed to strip him of hard-won years.
“And what was it that happened? How did that friendship sour?”
Fodjour furrowed his brow. “You know.”
“Yes,” she said, and leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “His love, love that should have been yours, was stripped from you because of his affection for that hinzr-batn.”
Fodjour tensed, the muscles in his face drawn taut. It was almost as if there were another man beneath the smiling mask. He muttered something in a voice so low that neither parent could hear it.
“What?” asked his mother. “Louder, please.”
“Why couldn’t he love me?” Fodjour was unable to meet their eyes.
The father wheezed. “You were his friend.”
“Our families could have ruled New Djibouti,” said Allahbas. “And now he is off to New Alexandria with his dog-haired bundling-boy.”
“Damn!” Fodjour slammed his hand into a table. He did not wish to reveal his emotions thus to his mother. She would only use them against him in a time and manner of her own choosing. “I was there, at his side, at the mosque,” he whispered. “He put all our lives in jeopardy for his love of the whites.”
“Yes,” said his father, breathing as if the sounds issued from a ruptured bellows. “Do not forget this.”
“His father died for them. His brother as well.”
“Yes,” agreed
Allahbas. “It is obscene.”
“And he killed Malik, his own flesh and blood, over them.”
His mother leaned close, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “He is not fit to rule.”
Fodjour felt as if thunderclouds were expanding behind his eyes, their pressure splitting his head in two. “I would have been like a brother to him. Our children would have played together. My son might have married his daughter. And now … and now that Zulu whore is mistress of his house. Our fate is not in our hands.”
Allahbas stretched her head up haughtily. “If Kai is Wakil, either Cetshwayo or the Empress will control our land, depending on which woman gives Kai an heir.”
“It must not be.”
Djidade Berhar leaned forward. He was almost incandescent with eagerness, the spirit momentarily animating the flesh. “It need not be. You need only be strong now. You will be strong, my son.”
Fodjour ground his fists against his temples. He hated hearing these things, even as he knew that plans had gone too far for a reversal. His path was chosen … had been chosen for him. If Kai would not accept his love, then Fodjour would make a gift of other, paler emotions. To contain all within his breast was torture beyond withstanding.
Allahbas Berhar watched her son, nodding her slow and poisonous approval. She placed a fist-sized glass globe on the table. “This is a gift of our allies. Agâz ziwân.”
Anger weed.
Fodjour lifted the globe and stared at the brownish-gold tangle of plants within, feeling something akin to awe. “So,” he said. “It is no myth. And it is ours.”
“All we need do is test it.”
“As I told you, I have placed events in motion,” he said, and explained himself.
Djidade Berhar’s face wrinkled distastefully. “Is this necessary?”
Allahbas’s laughter was not a pleasant sound. “You wish our fates to ride on an untested drug? No. My son’s plan is excellent.” She kissed Fodjour’s forehead. “There are things you must know about our allies,” she said. “You have seen them?”
“Persians, yes.”
“They observe,” she said. “They watch and wait. But one day, on their own time, they will act. Perhaps for their purposes, perhaps for ours. But if one is captured, we must act swiftly, and this is what you will have to do….”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“Yes sir?” Olalye said, holding his hat in his hand. The old man had met him in the barn, as ordered. Only a pitiful need to please radiated from him. Fodjour almost felt sorry for the fool.
“Harness my horses,” Fodjour said, but then smiled. “I know you’ve been working all day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some of us were able to enjoy the party. It doesn’t seem fair. Not all the guests were Muslim, and the Wakil is a good host, above all else. I brought you this.”
He threw a wineskin, and with deceptively nimble hands, Olalye caught it in midair. His eyes widened. “Really, sir?”
“Really,” he said. “Go ahead. Drink, and then prepare our coach.”
By the time they were on the road it was dark, and Olalye was thoroughly drunk, laughing and singing, egged on by Fodjour, who was actually enjoying himself.
They traveled three miles down the road, and then Fodjour slapped his head. “Ah, Olalye,” he said. “I’ve forgotten myself. Master Vishna said he would be back tomorrow, not today. I’m sorry. Turn this around, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you like that wine, Olalye? “
“Yes, sir,” the old white man said, rubbing at his temples. “Got a little headache coming on, but aside from that, it’s fine, sir, just fine.”
“It … tastes good?”
“A little sweet, sir, that’s all. But oh, the whole world’s sweet right now.”
Fodjour smiled. That was Agâz ziwân’s reputation. Little taste, and little reaction … unless one experienced a violent emotional surge. And then …
By the time they returned to the Berhar estate, the night was quiet. The distant lights of the slave quarters beckoned the old man. He stepped down from the cart, eyes glazed.
“Olalye?” Fodjour said quietly.
The slave looked up at Fodjour, a certain quality of confusion in his eyes. His pupils were huge. “Yes, sir?”
“Why not give your wife a big surprise. Creep in and give her a big kiss.”
Olalye nodded, and almost as if sleepwalking, headed in the direction of the slave quarters.
For just a moment Fodjour Berhar felt guilt, then shook his head. No. The drug must be tested. Think of what’s at stake. And besides, only if the slut is guilty …
Despite that thought, he couldn’t escape a leaden feeling in his belly as he walked the cart back to the barn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
At the Sufi’s request, the next day Nandi met Babatunde in the gardens. He greeted her warmly, and led her to a more secluded section, where they could talk.
“Is there something you wished to discuss with me?” she asked. “Your note contained a hint of urgency.”
“Oh, no … I apologize for that,” he said. “But I would be gratified if you would help me understand a few things.”
“Such as…?”
“If I could understand your traditions more fully, it might help prevent misunderstandings.”
The word hung there in the air for a minute, and Nandi waited for him to continue. When he did not, she asked, “Where do I begin?”
“Let us compare religions,” he said. “We believe that there is but one almighty God. This God made the earth and the heavens, and men and animals to inhabit them. What do you believe?”
She nodded slowly, connecting this conversation and the previous day’s unpleasantness with Madame N’Guy. “I believe,” said Nandi, “that the earth and heavens are alive and divine, that there are many gods and spirits that animate the wind, the rain, the animals we hunt and that hunt us. This would be very different from your ways.”
“That is possible, but not inevitable. Tell me: what created the universe?”
Nandi answered without hesitation. “There was a First Cause that set all things in motion.”
“Ah,” said her teacher. “The difficulty is often found in labels rather than concepts. What if I was to say that this ‘First Cause’ was Allah? If I was to use that word, would you take exception?”
“No,” she said carefully. “I think not.”
“In our own tradition, we say that Allah has many aspects, and we name them. Ninety-nine names to be exact. These are not separate gods, but rather separate names for the same divine reality.”
“That is what the Muslim in you says. But what of the Yoruba? Have you forgotten that side entirely?”
“Not at all,” he said patiently. “The two live as one within me. The single God is known among the Yoruba as Oludumare. The other gods could be considered his aspects, rather than separate entities. The Hindus play a similar game.”
“Is that the only difference?” she asked.
“No. As do the Zulu, the Yoruba consider the world to consist of processes rather than things. Dynamics rather than objects, energy more than substance. The Greeks and Arabs tend to think the opposite.”
“And you?”
“Me? Like Kokossa, I believe that these two worldviews will ultimately resolve, as in the Chinese image of the Dao. Energy and matter as one flux, divine and eternal.”
She cocked her head to the side. “I see. You believe that all of these cultures are seeing the same reality, as a mountain may present many faces, but still be the same mountain.”
Babatunde beamed. What a student she would have made! “Yes.”
“But it is a considerable distance from that agreement and Llah illa hah illa Llah, ‘There is no God but God.’ And farther still to Muhammadu razul Allah, ‘and Muhammad was His only prophet.’” She dimpled. “I, too, have studied.”
“Excellent, but incorrect. We do not say he was the only prophet. We s
ay that he was the last, the one who brought the most complete Word to mankind. Moses was a prophet. Jesus was a prophet as well.”
“It still seems so far.”
“It need not. There are many, many instances where the two traditions live side by side, neither dominating the other. It is in Kai’s heart to respect you, and your traditions, in every way. Your character is paramount. Rejecting love for the form of your worship would be like Fata sending his wife away because of her hump.”
Nandi laughed. “Excuse me?”
“Apologies. An old parable. Once upon a time in Ghana, there was a great King of the Mandinka people named Son Djata.”
“Of course I have heard of him,” said Nandi.
“Then you may not know that his father Fata was Muslim. The mother was not. In fact, she was a hunchbacked animist.”
Nandi glanced back over her own shoulder, as if checking for a hump.
Babatunde chuckled. “While not exactly a beauty mark, in that time deformities were often considered magical. Now, at this time, Berbers had come raiding south, and were destroying Fata’s kingdom a bit at a time. Fata was old, and unable to lead his people in battle. Fata’s advisors told him that if he married this humpbacked woman, she would bear a great King. So he married her.”
“Ah.”
“Even though the Berbers were ravaging them, Fata’s prophecy gave the Mandinka hope. His wife was allowed to keep her beliefs, the child was raised in a home respectful of both ways. And in time, Son Djata became a great King who freed his people and repulsed the Berbers.”
Nandi was quiet for a few seconds, and then said, “You are a man of Islam. Your people believe in one God. My people believe in many forms of God. How can we reconcile?”
“I live in the real world,” Babatunde said. “Would I rather all men saw the same light I see? Yes. Would I make widows and orphans to create such a world? No.”
“And if I see the divine in trees and clouds,” asked Nandi, “in the rushing of waters and the play of fishes? What if I hear my ancestors murmuring from the earth?”
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