Did Ralph know about this? Had he been here before? Questions piled upon questions in her head again. How had Ralph discovered Nativity Bay? Where did he get the map he claimed to have seen?

  Did he kill the people in the graves?

  A chill went through her – she didn’t want to believe Ralph capable of such an act but the thought would not leave her. Although the sun blazed brightly, there was a darkness at the edge of her vision. The glade seemed to close around her. Something evil had happened in this place – a family had been cut down, a house destroyed. Suddenly, she desperately wanted to be back in the stockade, with Marsden and the other men.

  Harry felt it, too. ‘I want to go home, Mummy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  But Ann had frozen. She was staring into the bush beyond the graves. Harry followed her gaze.

  ‘Who is that?’ he asked.

  A man stood at the edge of the clearing. He must have been there the whole time, observing them, yet until he revealed himself, he had been almost invisible.

  The man stepped out of the shadows, spear raised. His dark hair was piled up above his head in a sort of intricately braided crown, and he wore a necklace of red beads around his neck. Otherwise he was naked, except for a thin pouch that covered his manhood.

  He jabbed the spear at Ann, his face twisted in a terrifying snarl. The point darted at her, like a snake readying itself to strike. Ann snatched up a rock that had rolled away from one of the graves, but it did not deter him. He could see that she was not strong enough to hurt him with it.

  She backed away. There was no point calling for help: she was too far from the stockade for anyone to hear her. But she would fight long enough to save Harry.

  ‘Run,’ she said. ‘Back to the camp, as fast as you can.’

  Harry did not obey. To her horror, he stood still, looking at the man with his head cocked to one side.

  ‘Go,’ she hissed, almost pleading.

  The man took another step forward. Ann brandished the rock at him.

  Harry began to move. But not down the path. Instead, he stepped forward towards the man, as if he had not noticed the spear.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ann tried to snatch him back, but she was too slow. Harry was out of her reach, right under the point of the spear.

  The man’s fist clenched tighter around the shaft. He jabbed the spear at Harry; Ann screamed.

  Harry stayed still.

  The spear stopped inches from his face. Confronted with this unflappable boy, the man did not know what to do. The snarl on his face turned to a frown of confusion.

  Harry reached into the front pocket of his smock, where he kept the shells and pebbles he collected from the beach. His hand emerged, clutching a piece of ship’s biscuit that he must have squirrelled away.

  He offered it to the man.

  The man’s eyes widened. Hesitantly, he reached out and took the biscuit. He eyed it for a moment, then popped it in his mouth. The biscuit was dry and hard – Ann heard it crunch so loud that she thought it would break the man’s teeth – but the look on his face was sheer bliss.

  ‘See how thin he is, Mummy,’ said Harry. ‘He is hungry.’

  With his child’s eyes he had seen what Ann had missed. The man was so gaunt every rib was outlined against his chest, his hips and collarbone pushing through his skin like ploughshares.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe we can find out.’ Ann pointed slowly to herself. ‘Ann.’ Then to Harry. ‘Harry.’ Then to the man. ‘You?’

  The man smiled, to show he understood. ‘Mahamba.’

  Ann repeated the name. She tried to think of something else to say, but her mind was blank. How could she make herself understood?

  The man began to speak. The language was incomprehensible to Ann, a mix of rapid syllables and strange clicks. Was he thanking her? Asking for more? Warning her? She held out her hands in the universal gesture of ignorance.

  ‘I do not understand you.’

  Then, suddenly, she realised that his words were not for her. With a rustle of leaves, the branches around the clearing parted and a dozen more people stepped out. They, like Mahamba, wore almost nothing – only penis sheaths for the men, and a cloth band tied around the hips for the women, while the children were naked. All of them had hollow cheeks, pronounced bones and eyes dulled by hunger. When they stared at Ann and Harry, the hope in their eyes was painful to see.

  Ann didn’t need a translator to tell her what they wanted. Nor did Harry.

  ‘We must give them food,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t have enough for ourselves.’

  Even as she said it, Ann knew how mean she sounded. Compared to Mahamba and his people, she and Harry must look fat. They had ship’s biscuits and salt pork salvaged from the wreck, fish traps on the beach and the rifle for hunting.

  Ann knew what it was like to be so hungry you could not sleep. To feel the hollow in your stomach every waking moment, as if your body was collapsing in on itself. One of the women had a baby in her arms, a shrivelled infant suckling on a withered breast. Ann understood her shame – a mother who could not feed her child. What she would have given, during those years in Paradise Valley, for a gesture of kindness.

  She beckoned to Mahamba. ‘Come with me.’

  He stayed where he was. She beckoned again, then took Harry’s hand and began walking slowly down the trail towards the camp. She glanced back encouragingly, but Mahamba hesitated. He looked to his companions and spoke briefly.

  ‘Do come,’ said Ann.

  Harry took a more practical approach. He slipped out of her grip and ran to Mahamba, grabbed the man’s hand and began tugging him towards the camp.

  ‘Come with us,’ he said.

  Whether they were disarmed by the boldness of the child or whether they recognised that there was no point resisting Harry when he fixed his mind on something – they did not delay. Mahamba let Harry lead him down the path, with the rest of his people following.

  Marsden, who was keeping watch at the stockade, leaped up in alarm when he saw Ann and Harry arrive with Mahamba’s people.

  ‘Please, Marsden, put the gun down,’ she called. ‘They are friendly.’

  She was afraid that Mahamba and his people would run at the sight of the rifle, but they showed no concern. Perhaps they weren’t familiar with guns and so had not learned to fear them.

  The other sailors came running and looked in astonishment at the new arrivals.

  ‘Who are they?’ Marsden asked. He stood in the entrance to the stockade, the rifle held across his body, blocking the way.

  ‘I encountered them in the bush,’ said Ann. ‘As you can see, they are starving.’

  ‘We’ve not got enough food for ourselves, never mind a bunch of Kaffir beggars.’

  ‘Of course we have enough,’ said Ann.

  Marsden peered at Mahamba’s people suspiciously. ‘Who’s to say they’re friendly?’

  ‘If they wanted to kill me, they could have done it already,’ Ann said.

  She felt certain Mahamba meant them no harm, but how could she prove it? There was so much she wanted to ask him – about the country, his tribe, and the people who had lived here before. But at that the moment there was no way that they could communicate.

  Maybe when Jobe returns he will be able to speak to them, she thought, hopefully.

  But when would that be?

  ZULULAND

  T

  he Zulus moved with a long, loping stride, mile after mile. Even Jobe struggled to keep up. Marius floundered behind, his perspiring face red as a beetroot.

  ‘I thought you were a man of the land,’ Ralph said, though he too was sweating.

  ‘Walking is for Kaffirs and animals,’ the Dutchman retorted. ‘Give me a horse, or an ox wagon, like civilised men, and we’ll see who looks snarks.’

  The river where Ralph had killed the hippo seemed to be some sort of border. From the Zulu general, Ralph learned it was called the Thukela. They crossed it at a drift that the Zulus showed them, and came into a different land on the far side, a ripe and cultivated country settled with many villages, or kraals, as Marius called them. All of them were built on the same pattern, round huts in a circle between two rings of fences. The outer fence was for protection; the inner one formed an enclosure where the inhabitants kept their cattle. Around the villages were well-kept fields, some planted with corn and vegetables, others given over to pasture where young boys tended the cows and goats as they grazed during the day.

  ‘Look at those heifers,’ said Marius, admiring the cattle. ‘Worth a pretty penny, hey?’

  ‘Do not get ideas,’ said Jobe.

  ‘Spoken like a Kaffir.’ Marius punched him on the arm, not gently. ‘We are not all born cattle thieves like you blacks are.’

  ‘No,’ Jobe agreed. ‘You are much worse.’

  ‘Keep quiet,’ said Ralph. ‘Can you imagine what they will do if they think we have come for their livestock?’

  It was obvious to him that cattle were the heart of the Zulus’ society. Whereas an English village might be built around a church, every Zulu settlement was centred on the cattle pen. At each kraal the army visited, a cow was slaughtered and roasted and the meat served to the visitors. Ralph could not be sure if he and his companions were guests of honour, or prisoners, but they were certainly well fed.

  ‘When will we ever see this Shaka?’ Marius fretted.

  Each time they approached a village, they wondered if this would be the king’s residence. Ralph would go to the general and ask: ‘Shaka?’ But each time, the general shook his head with a smirk that said Ralph would know the capital when he saw it.

  ‘But maybe you do not want to go there,’ said Jobe. ‘Who knows what sort of welcome we will get from King Shaka?’

  ‘He would not dare touch a white man.’ Marius spoke with an arrogant certainty, but there was an ember of doubt behind his words. They had come a long way into the Zulus’ country: this was the fifth night that they had lodged together in a spare hut in a village.

  The hut was dark – there were no windows, just a smouldering wood fire. It was a typical Zulu dwelling, a dome about fifteen feet across, made of saplings bent into a beehive shape and woven together. The roof was thatched with grass and covered with mats, with implements and baskets hanging from the walls. It smelled of smoke, cow dung and sour beer.

  ‘How far do you think we have come?’ Ralph asked.

  The Zulus travelled on paths that followed the ridgelines of the hills. When Ralph asked the general how long the journey would be, the man had shrugged. It was clear that the journey was far and would take many days, but how far and how many days?

  ‘Maybe fifty miles?’ Marius guessed.

  ‘How big this kingdom must be.’ Ralph had assumed it would be no more than a few hamlets under a puffed-up warlord. But seeing the army that the Zulus could field, with its uniform equipment and rigid discipline, had shattered that delusion.

  ‘The general said Shaka’s kingdom stretches almost to the Portuguese port,’ said Jobe. ‘Lourenço Marques.’

  ‘If that is so, it must be bigger than Holland,’ said Marius.

  ‘Have you ever been to Lourenço Marques?’ Ralph asked.

  Marius and Jobe shook their heads.

  ‘It is a contemptible place. You would find more ambition in a graveyard. The Portuguese colonists make no effort to grow the trade, they just squeeze a few coins out of whatever is brought to them from the interior.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Think about it. What we have discovered here looks to be the greatest empire in Africa. Yet the only way King Shaka can trade with the world beyond is through Lourenço Marques. That is why no one has heard of him.’

  Light from the dying fire played over Ralph’s face, knotting the scars on his cheek.

  ‘Imagine if we could capture that trade from the Portuguese. The Zulus will have goods – ivory, gold, hides. We could ship it through Nativity Bay. We would make a fortune. Three fortunes.’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ said Marius. ‘What if we became kings here ourselves? Overthrow this Shaka, take his kingdom and live like lords?’

  ‘I say you should stick to stealing cattle,’ said Jobe, lying back on his mat. The Zulus did not sleep on beds, but on woven grass mats. Instead of pillows, the guests were offered carved wooden headrests. ‘Then you might escape with your life.’

  ‘A white man is worth a hundred Kaffirs.’ Marius’s voice was sharp with anger.

  ‘And if Shaka has ten thousand men? Or a hundred thousand? What will you do then?’ Jobe stared at the ceiling, keeping a relaxed pose, but Ralph could see the tension in his jaw, the anger he was holding in.

  ‘Enough,’ said Ralph. ‘Even if I could make myself a king here, I would not do it. I came to get rich.’

  ‘And him?’ said Jobe, pointing at Marius. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘A place where I do not have to listen to uppity Kaffirs.’

  For a moment, Ralph thought Jobe would fly at Marius. The Dutchman wanted it; his biceps were already flexed. Instead, Jobe guffawed with laughter: a sound that stung Marius more than any punch he could have thrown.

  ‘If you do not want to listen to “uppity Kaffirs”, I think you are going to the wrong place.’

  The following morning, when they started their march, Ralph increased his pace so he could reach the front of the column. He forced himself on until he and Jobe caught up with the general. The general’s name was Hamu. His powerful physique, high cheekbones, shrewd eyes and confident air of command would have singled him out as a leader in any situation, but by the way people bowed to him at every kraal they came to, there was no doubt that he ranked high in the Zulu hierarchy. The men addressed him as induna, which Ralph took to be a title like lord or general.

  Hamu saw him approach and offered the traditional Zulu greeting. ‘Sawubona.’

  ‘Yebo, sawubona,’ Ralph answered, instantly exhausting all the Zulu that he had learned so far. ‘Is today the day we will meet Shaka?’

  Jobe translated. Hamu smiled and shook his head in a regretful way that might have meant ‘no’, or that he couldn’t say, or that he did not understand the question. The Zulus, in Ralph’s brief experience, were evasive when it came to precise answers.

  ‘Tell me about Shaka,’ Ralph said, pressing on despite Hamu’s silence. Every time he heard the name, he felt the awe and power in the way men spoke it. But behind the name there must be a human being, and he wanted to know what to expect. ‘What kind of man is he?’

  Hamu considered the question. He frowned at Jobe and spoke a few words.

  ‘He says, “Why do you want to know?”’

  ‘Shaka is a great king. He will be offended if I do not know of his exploits when I meet him.’

  He could see the answer made sense to Hamu.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘How did he become the king?’

  Hamu thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I tell you.’

  Shaka was the first-born son of a king – but illegitimate. The Zulus, Ralph gathered, were even less enamoured of bastards than the English. Shaka’s mother, Nandi, had been expelled from the court, and the boy sent to grow up as an outcast. His life had been at risk from the day he was born. He had survived on the charity of relatives, terrified that his father would one day choose to have him killed.

  It was not hard for Ralph to imagine himself in Shaka’s place. Fatherless, an outcast boy living off the kindness of strangers. He could conjure up the looks the Zulu matriarchs would have given Shaka and his mother: pity to their faces, but scorn and judgement when their backs were turned. Women would have avoided being seen with Nandi. Boys would have hit her son with sticks and pelted him with stones. Shaka would have taken the beatings in silence. But he would not have forgotten.

  In those days, Hamu explained, the Zulus were not an empire – not even a kingdom. They were a family of tribes, loosely linked by common ancestors. Sometimes they fought among themselves, stealing cattle and carrying off each other’s women. But this was no more than family squabbling.

  It was the custom among them that at the age of sixteen, all the boys joined a regiment for a few years to serve the chief, fighting in times of war or labouring during peace. These had been times of war – and this was where Shaka’s military genius asserted itself. He quickly became the commander of his regiment and made himself indispensable to the king.

  Before Shaka, the Zulu way of war had been largely ceremonial: a charge, a volley of thrown spears, then submission and a tribute from the side which had come off worse. Few men died. Under Shaka, war became an uncompromising battle for survival. He took away the throwing spears and allowed his men to keep only one short-handled stabbing spear apiece. The tactics he built upon this were simple and brutal. Engage the enemy in close quarters, combat and slaughter him. Kill or be killed, became his war cry.

  Shaka’s deeds reached his father’s attention. The king came to visit his estranged son. In a great ceremony, the two were reconciled; the king presented Shaka with a spear in honour of his accomplishments in war.

  ‘That night, the king died.’

  ‘The same night?’ Ralph wasn’t sure he’d understood correctly.

  Jobe nodded.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Sleeping.’

  Hamu was looking away, his jaw clenched. Ralph did not probe further.

  ‘So Shaka became king?’

  Hamu shook his head ‘Shaka have brother.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Ralph guessed the answer before Hamu spoke. Even so, it made him wince.

  ‘He too died.’

  Hamu cupped his left forefinger and thumb, then rammed his right fist through it. It took a moment for Ralph to realise he was miming a man being impaled through his rectum.

  ‘Then Shaka king.’

  As the story continued, Ralph realised that the Zulu realm was not something Shaka had inherited: he had dreamed it into being, and then created it through the force of his will. He had transformed his people: their way of war, their lands, even their way of life. His armies had spread over the country, far beyond the traditional Zulu heartlands. They had conquered some tribes and added them to their empire. Others, they obliterated.