Banjul sputtered, obviously outraged at the reprimand, but managed to restrain his anger. "Yes. . . sir," he said. He turned his back, collecting himself, and then swirled to face the crowd again. "All right!" he yelled. "Return to your homes and businesses. Disperse immediately!"
Satisfied, the Wakil returned to the land office. Elenya ran through the crowd to meet him. "Father! Are you all right?"
Abu Ali felt a thrill of alarm at the sight of his only daughter exposing herself to harm. He swiftly clamped a protecting arm around her shoulders. "Quite well."
The Wakil turned to the Aztec warrior. Judging by the wrinkles around his almond eyes he was in his forties, his woman the same age. Her hair was straight and black as coal, her eyes like flakes of gold dancing in a green pool. The skin on her throat was weathered and sun-beaten, but her mouth was the sort of proud, haughty line that never faltered, even in the face of danger.
Magnificent, he thought.
His eyes locked with the tallest of them. "Your way is clear," he said.
The Aztec inclined his regal head. Abu Ali noted that, although none of the four had drawn swords, their palms rested lightly near the hilts in relaxed readiness. He could almost believe that they had never been in real danger at all. They returned to their horses, mounted, and trotted out of town with their retinue.
Ali produced a folded leather square, and with it cleansed the blood from his sword. "What do you think, Father?" The Wakil noted that his eldest son's hands trembled. That was understandable: this was the first time Ali had taken a human life, and no good man could do that without glimpsing the eye of Allah. In time, every true warrior made peace with his own mortality. Taking a life with righteous cause is no sin: both slayer zand slain would stand for judgment on that last great day, and all truths would be known.
When Ali had finished, Abu Ali held out his hand, and his son gave him the cloth. "I think I do not like this town."
"You did well, my son."
Ali's mouth twitched upward in the slightest of smiles, and they clasped hands wrist to wrist.
Aidan and Sophia had emerged from behind the restaurant, the more servile slaves with them, gawking.
"Come!" Ali called to them. "We go."
Mwaka whispered to Aidan. "That yer mister?" Aidan nodded. The slave seemed to be awestruck. "Well . . . ye git, then."
Aidan helped Sophia onto the wagon as Kai and his family mounted their mares. With a final look at the town of Ababa, they were off.
Chapter Thirty
Sophia said little for the first hour after they left the town. "Poor pitiful bastards," Aidan said, echoing her own private thoughts. "Their only language was Arabic. They'd forgotten their God. Malik and Berhar don't take as much away from their slaves."
Malik and Berhar are influenced by the Wakil, she wanted to say. If you had traveled, you would know.
She could not take her mind from the pitiful wrecks she had seen in the town, human in form only. They had forgotten everything about themselves. For all the misery of her own existence, she knew who and what she was, knew that this was not her natural station, knew that her aspirations were hers, and not merely thoughts and dreams imprinted in her mind through pain and discipline. "Why does the Wakil allow his people to keep so much of themselves? It is not common."
Abu Ali was on horseback again, and riding marginally closer to the wagon. Still, she doubted if he could hear. Aidan seemed to ponder her words. "Kai told me once that his father believes that men may serve men,
but that our souls belong to God. Abu Ali commands our labor, but not our souls. Or so he said."
She thought for a while before speaking again. There had been three official dinners since her arrival at Dar Kush, and Sophia had lurked close enough to hear the guests' whispers. They thought the Wakil "coddled" his servants. They especially seemed offended that the Wakil allowed Ghost Town its grove and worship services. A strange man. "It is . . . harder for him, isn't it?"
Aidan nodded. "There are many who oppose his ways." Then he grinned. "I'm not complaining, though. Are you?"
"No," Sophia said sincerely. "I think he is a great man."
For half the next day, they were traveling through the kraal, the personal holdings of Cetshwayo, brother of famed colonel Shaka Zulu. They suffered a brief burst of rain, which served to both muddy the roads and settle the dust. They passed vast green and yellow fields of teff and corn, and logging roads stretching up to the low, jagged iron gray western hills. Here and there, groups of slaves were monitored by overseers. There seemed to be little central organization to Cetshwayo's holdings, more like a series of smaller villages branching from the central homestead like rings of mushrooms sprouting from a central stalk.
The slaves looked ragged in comparison to the Wakil's, even more hollow-eyed and desperate than those in Ababa. Sophia felt herself wilt as she met their eyes, realizing how easy it would have been for her to fall into the hands of men who would make her present owners seem saintly.
The slaves eyed the Wakil's party as it rambled past the endless rows of a marshy bamboo field. A leather-skinned woman in her fifties studied Aidan's jacket, and Sophia's dress, compared them to her own crudely stitched rags, and spat into the dust.
Sophia couldn't find it in her heart to be angered. She watched an overseer pawing at a chubby, yellow-haired slave girl who couldn't have been older than fourteen. He touched the girl's breasts, probed her backside. The man made a coarse jest, and she reddened and fled as the men laughed. Sophia knew that sunset would bring an unwelcome visitor to the girl's door.
Sophia's heart ached. Whatever her personal miseries, what this girl, and women outside the Wakil's protection, suffered was certainly hell itself.
The girl didn't understand how to play the men off against each other, or to turn his sexual excitation into laughter, to trick him into remembering his own mother and sisters, or any of the thousand other maneuvers she had learned in preparation for her role. Painfully and shamefully at first, Sophia had been brought to understand her sensuality and its power, to understand it better than any man she was ever likely to meet. That simple understanding gave her leverage, even when logic and reason said she should be powerless.
But these girls . . . she knew, could feel that they were the lowest kind of sexual chattel, and for just a moment allowed their terror to touch her heart. It coursed through her dizzyingly, and she wanted reassurance, wanted Kai to hold her, tell her that she was more than that. Always more than that.
She looked over at him, enjoying the ride and the day, tall in the saddle, handsome in his white djebba and leather pants. He was not the elder son, the one who would bear primary responsibility for continuing the lineage. But . . . if she could only maintain control, his heart would remain in her hands, and she might well earn freedom, or even more . . .
She needed more allies. Would Aidan prove one? She had hoped that she would find others, but she was viewed with suspicion and resentment by the women at the Wakil's residence. There would be even fewer allies outside that immediate environment, both because they were too distant to help and because, it was increasingly obvious, the gap between her station and theirs triggered nothing but resentment.
So she was neither fish nor fowl, neither free nor slave. And was therefore more alone than any of them.
The Wakil led them through a wooden gate constructed of weathered logs. The cross-beam above their heads sported six skulls that Kai could not recognize, some kind of horned animal. As they passed beneath the sun-bleached skulls, he turned to his brother and said, "Brother—what manner of beasts are those?"
"Savannah buffalo." Ali's voice filled with pure excitement. "Prepare yourself, little brother. We shall return home with tales to tell!"
Runners preceded them, carrying messages back to the distant ranch, and before they had traveled down the dirt road another hour they crested a hill. On its far side stood a hundred warriors. Their muscular chests were bare save for necklaces of b
eads or cow tails. Zebra and antelope skins had been fashioned into loincloths or kilts. Their feet were bare, or sandaled. Some wore broad isicoco rings bound into their hair, denoting marriage. All carried umkhonto spears, not swords or muskets, and Kai knew that this was a purely ceremonial greeting, that here within the kraal they occasionally entertained themselves or guests by dressing as their ancestors had.
They pounded the butts of their spears rhythmically against the ground, chanting and stamping their feet. Kai was awed. Certainly he had known Zulus, and had heard of their prowess. But never had he encountered them on their own ground. There was something about them that was actually frightening, and he gripped his reins tightly, straightened his spine, composed his face, and showed as little emotion as possible.
As the procession passed, the warriors trotted into line behind them.
Alarm warred with wonder in Kai's heart, but wonder triumphed. The chanting, running, and stomping was fascinating. These Zulu carried no modern weapons, no rifles or tempered steel swords. With their headdresses and painted faces, keloid scars and tattoos, absolute physical and psychological readiness, they were as their ancestors had been for hundreds of years—the finest fighting men on the planet.
By Kai's estimate the procession went on for four miles before they reached the outlying barns, where they were met by the grooms. "Please," a thin, white-haired attendant said. "Rest here, and the master will join you shortly."
Kai dismounted, and was happy to do it: he loved riding, but they had been on the road for three and a half days. Frankly, his rump was sore.
They led the mares into the barn. As he was settling Djinna into a comfortable stall, Kai heard a snorting sound behind him. He turned to see a magnificent black Zulu stallion. From fetlock to mane the Zulu seemed more an elemental force than a mere beast. It tossed its head angrily, challengingly, as if aware of its impact on humans. "Father," Kai murmured. "If Djinna is a spirit, this one is a demon!"
From behind him came a voice as strong as his own, but edged with honey. "His name is Mnyama, Black One. He is the finest stallion for a thousand miles."
He turned, and despite himself, his heartbeat increased in speed. A girl, almost as tall as he, emerged from the shadows. She wore no makeup or facial paint, and needed none. Her eyes were wide and deep and filled with laughter, her nose generous, her lips full and curled in a half smile. Her cheekbones were high, her ears small and delicately shaped. A single golden braid surrounded her neck: no multiple strands, no gems or strands of other precious metals, just that single braid, as if any further ornamentation would draw the eye away from the perfection of her face and form. She wore a golden flower-print dress that seemed a winding of fabric from her knees to her shoulders, modest and yet at the same time deeply sensual.
"Nandi?" he asked, pulling her name from the depths of memory. How she had grown! He had only met her twice, the first time on his father's birthday ten years before. Cetshwayo's daughter had been a shy, awkward thing then. There was nothing awkward about her now!
Nor was she shy. Unlike any Muslim maiden he could imagine, Nandi was unhesitatingly evaluating him in return: no fawnlike eyelash fluttering or bashful head turning here. If he knew his father, a bit of matchmaking was in the works. Was this the Wakil's idea of a feqer nӓfs, a soul mate? If so, Allah give him strength!
Abu Ali flung his arms wide. "Nandi!" he called.
"Uncle!" she responded with unfeigned warmth, and embraced him. Behind them, chuckling fondly, came Cetshwayo. He had once been as lean as Shaka, but was now heavier, and limped to favor his left leg. His moon face bore three horizontal scars on each cheek, and his shaven scalp betrayed a few gray bristles. "Abu Ali!" he cried, throwing his arms wide. "Welcome to my home."
"Ngiyabonga." Thank you.
"Wamukelekile." It is my pleasure.
"It has been far too long," Abu Ali said, and the two friends clasped arms. "Little Nandi has become a rare flower. Has she not, Kai?"
Abu Ali raised an eyebrow at Kai, encouraging him to join in the pleasurable speculation. Somewhat to his surprise, he felt a stirring in his loins that was almost embarrassing. He couldn't take his eyes from her mouth. What would it feel like, taste like, to kiss those lips, to feel them part and welcome him? And merciful Allah, what of her other lips? What peerless embrace might they offer as well?
Senses swimming, Kai managed a polite nod of agreement. Ali had moved around behind Nandi, managing to examine her flank without betraying his intention to her father. He gave Kai a secretive, approving grin.
Nandi strode boldly to Kai, standing closely enough for him to smell her perfume. Her scent was like cocoa and honey, with a touch of wild, sweet grass. "How long has it been, Kai?"
He had to be careful not to stutter. "Since . . . Idd-el-Fitr, four years ago . . ."
"Yes," she said. "Too long." Then, as if timing their interaction to the second, she turned and left the barn. Abu Ali coughed politely as his younger son gawked. Elenya and Ali spanked the backs of their right hands against their left palms in appreciation.
The five of them left the barn, talking amongst themselves, leaving Aidan and Sophia behind them. Aidan was nominally inspecting the younger of the Wakil's mares, but managed to eye the retreating Nandi as he did. And as he did, was amused at the way Sophia seethed at Kai's reactions to the Shaka's exquisite niece.
"Beautiful creature," he said, examining the mare.
Sophia pretended to give the horse her full attention. "Her rump is immense," she said.
"Some might say that makes for a smoother ride."
Sophia growled at him and stalked away, fists clinched, her tight little backside switching angrily.
There was something about Sophia that intrigued Aidan, some combination of sensuality and reserve that he had never encountered before. Something that reminded him of. . . who?
An image came to mind, fleeting. The image of Mahon and Deirdre holding each other. Kissing. So natural, so right, bodies molding like two halves of a melon fitting together . . .
Strange, that. Never had he had such a sense with any other woman, and he had known many. And now that the image was in mind, it seemed that he couldn't banish it.
Somehow, being here, many miles from the pitiful little home he had created for himself, the tiny oasis of sanity in an insane world, surrounded by the wealth of Zulus who would consider him less than a goat or horse, his isolation and loneliness struck him like an avalanche, so suddenly that his knees sagged.
He had nothing. Kai had everything, and didn't appreciate what he had . . .
But that didn't justify what Aidan was thinking now, didn't make rational the emotions surging in his wounded heart.
Nothing did.
But it didn't matter at all.
Chapter Thirty-one
Cetshwayo's old hunting injury prevented him from riding, but his twin sons Keefah and Darbul wouldn't have missed a hunt for a fistful of Alexanders. So as the sun dipped low above the kraal, Kai and seven highborn men, Zulus and Abyssinian alike, gathered their restless mounts in a mesquite flat abutting a conifer woodland. A dozen lean, alert Zulus accompanied them afoot.
The lead hunter was Shaka Zulu himself, a giant of a man who rode like a centaur. He raised his brawny arms—an ornate spear in one hand, a hunting bow in the other, with a quiver on his back—and screamed to the moonless sky. "Let the hunt begin!"
Like Darbul and Keefah, the unmounted warriors were lean, muscular, agile men, trained from infancy to be athletes on a par with any in the world. They gripped short stabbing umkhonto with elongated steel blades. Kai recalled Malik's sober evaluation of Zulu skill: "Avoid close-quarter combat if there is any chance at all."
"And if I cannot?"
"Then consign your soul to Allah and prepare to enter Paradise. Just do your best to ensure you reach those gates together."
Abu Ali, Ali, and Kai carried rifles as well as spears. Despite her pleas, Elenya remained behind at Cetshwayo's mansion.
On a normal hunt the Wakil might have considered allowing her to accompany them. "Why can Nandi go?" Elenya had pouted.
Cetshwayo himself had overheard that last and had laughed heartily after Elenya stalked out of the room. "In the old country, Nandi would not ride to the hunt." He sighed. "But this New World gives girls airs. What can I say? I can't control her any longer." He dug his elbow into Kai's ribs hard enough to make the boy chuff air. "I wish you better luck!"
Shaka's white teeth shone in the torchlight. "Only here and on the battlefield do I feel so alive."
Abu Ali pulled up next to him. Kai's family rode Cetshwayo's mounts, specially bred hunting stallions of imposing strength and size. Kai's seemed responsive to a feather touch of his knees, and Abu Ali already rode his as if he had raised the monster from a colt.
Abu Ali glanced doubtfully at Shaka's spear. "Can you really make the kill with such a weapon?"
Shaka's broad, scarred face glowed with amusement. "You had best hope so, my friend."
Distantly, there came the mournful wail of the hunting horn.
Shaka grew ruminative. "We bring the calves five thousand miles and raise them here, that we might honor the ways of our ancestors. He dies today. Perhaps he will claim one of us as well. Haiii!"
With the suddenness of a lightning stroke he wheeled his horse about, as if sensing something that the others had missed completely. Abruptly, out of the brush not three dozen cubits away charged two hundred sep of the most fearsome creature Kai had ever seen in his life. Its black horns looked as if they could punch holes in steel, its breath snorted from its broad wet nostrils in clouds of condensation, its hooves furrowed the earth.
Savannah buffalo. Magnificent, and the most dangerous game animal on the African continent. Crafty, powerful, and fast, the buffalo had killed more hunters than lions and leopards combined, and had no natural predators—save men like Shaka Zulu.
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