‘You want me to bring this?’

  Understanding dawned. Hamu had not sent Ralph to the hut to wait. He wanted him to fetch his medicine bag.

  ‘There is nothing in there for Shaka.’ He had seen how deep the spear had gone between Shaka’s ribs. If it had not pierced his heart, it would surely have punctured a lung. Ralph had nothing that could help a man with a wound like that.

  But the guard had his orders. He took the bag himself and shoved it into Ralph’s hands. Ralph had no choice.

  As they ducked out of the hut, Ralph looked down at KwaBulawayo on the hillside below. Most of the city was dark, with only a few patches of light where torches had been relit. Yet the sound swelling out of it across the hills was chilling, as if the city had become a necropolis, and the dead walked its streets, gibbering mournfully.

  Ralph did not want to go back. He could feel the hopelessness of his situation closing around him. If he refused to treat Shaka, he would be condemned as a traitor. If he did treat him, and the king died, Ralph would be cast as the murderer.

  The guard led him down the slope at the loping run that the Zulus used on the march. As they re-entered the palace compound, Ralph saw that the women were still there. A few torches burned dimly, illuminating faces streaked with tears and blood where nails had torn skin. The guard moved forward, taking Ralph’s hand to make sure that he didn’t lose him in the throng, but it became harder and harder to push through the crowd of women.

  The palace door was shut, and the crowd around it packed solid. Ralph’s escort did not try to get through. Instead, he skirted the edge and carried on into another part of the complex, to a small compound of four huts surrounded by a high fence. It seemed almost deserted.

  The anguish around Shaka’s great house had been frightening, but the silence here was even more unnerving. Should Ralph have run? Had he been blamed after all, as Marius said? Was this a place where he could be tortured until he confessed?

  The guard gestured him into one of the huts. The smell of blood wafted out as Ralph lifted the flap above the door; bile rose in his throat.

  A fire smouldered in the hearth. By its glow, Ralph could see Shaka lying on a rush mat on the floor. His eyes were closed; the leopard-skin cape he had been wearing was matted with blood.

  Two men knelt beside the king. One was Hamu, holding him still. The other, moaning softly, looked very different: if Ralph had been superstitious, he might have believed it was a ghoul come to take Shaka’s spirit. It was the sangoma, the witch doctor. His long hair hung like a curtain over his eyes, while the feathers and gourds he wore rattled every time he moved. He was holding a spear close to his face, sniffing at the point. Blood dripped from its leaf-shaped blade. He was examining it, either for poison or for signs that a fragment might have broken off.

  It was the weapon that had been used to stab Shaka. As Ralph’s eyes adjusted, he could see a gash on the king’s left arm, where he had tried to defend himself, and blood still running from the wound in his ribcage. If the spear had struck his heart – as the assassin surely intended – then Shaka would already be dead. But if it had pierced a lung, death would be slow but inevitable.

  The witch doctor put down the spear. He drew out a handful of dried leaves from a little bag and threw some of them on the fire to make a sweet, dry smoke. Crushing the rest in his hands, he stirred them in a pot with water to make a paste. He smeared it around the wound, working it into the gash. Shaka grunted in pain and blood ran from his mouth as the man’s fingers probed his flesh.

  Hamu spoke sharp words to the witch doctor, who responded defiantly. Ralph watched helplessly as the two Zulus argued. By the way the witch doctor kept looking at Ralph, jabbing his finger and spitting out angry words, Ralph had the uncomfortable feeling that he was the subject of the argument.

  Hamu pointed to Shaka, then Ralph’s bag, and then Ralph himself.

  ‘You want me to treat Shaka?’

  While they argued, the wound had started to bleed again. The king’s breath had become shallow. Ralph was not confident Shaka would survive the hour, let alone the night.

  ‘There is nothing more I can do,’ said Ralph. ‘He has done everything I could.’

  It was true. The sangoma might look like an outlandish demon, but beneath the paint and the costume, he was probably as competent a doctor as Ralph. He had cleaned the wound, purified it with his herbs and – judging by the smell in the air – purged Shaka’s stomach.

  Ralph’s words made no impression on Hamu. The induna repeated the gestures, while the witch doctor glared at Ralph and muttered under his breath.

  Ralph had to do something to protect himself – even if he tried to save Shaka and failed, it might be enough to buy their freedom. If he did nothing, then his fate was assured.

  Hamu was staring at his bag as if it was a magic amulet. Ralph opened it and rummaged inside. There were a few pieces of smoked meat, some cartridge papers and bullets, and a few jars he had taken from the Farewell’s medicine chest. The remaining Brandreth’s Vegetable Universal Pills, a bottle of peppermint essence, and a small box of camomile tea. This was what he had to cure a dying king.

  He took a step towards Shaka’s sickbed. The sangoma sprang up, the feathers in his hair flaring out like a cobra’s hood, but he could not defy Hamu’s authority. More guards had arrived, and though Ralph could see that they were wary of the sangoma, afraid of his powers, it was evident that they would eventually escort him from the hut by force if they had to – disobeying Hamu’s orders held a more certain outcome.

  The sangoma knew when he was beaten. He gathered his medicines and made his exit, shouldering roughly past Ralph – then stopped abruptly and turned on his heel. Ralph had been watching the witch doctor leave, but now, suddenly, they were face to face. The sangoma rolled his eyes so that his pupils disappeared, hissing and chattering wild words, spraying spittle over him. Ralph did not understand the words, but he could feel the curse in his bones.

  Wiping his face, Ralph tried not to let Hamu see him shaking. It is nonsense, he told himself, a fit of petulance from the witch doctor to frighten the man who had taken his place. Though in the close hut, with herb-laced smoke still filling the air, he struggled to believe his own story.

  With a final volley of invective, the sangoma spun about and left.

  Ralph knelt beside Shaka. A black pot hung on the wall, and there was a ewer of water standing on the floor that the sangoma had used. Ralph filled the pot with water and placed it on the fire. Hamu watched closely. When the water had boiled, Ralph threw in a handful of leaves and let them infuse. A sweet, floral smell filled the air. Hamu sniffed it suspiciously.

  ‘Good medicine,’ said Ralph. He could only hope that the Zulus did not know – or would not recognise – the scent of camomile tea.

  Hamu did not look convinced. Herbs and infusions were no different from what the sangoma had used. Ralph would need to make more of an impression to gain the Zulus’ respect. He racked his brains for anything else he could use.

  It was a desperate thought, but Ralph had no other options. He took out one of the rifle cartridges from his bag, tore open the paper and tipped the black powder onto the wound on Shaka’s side. Hamu squinted at the black paste it made with the blood. Ralph waved him back.

  ‘Be careful.’

  Ralph snapped a small length of dried grass from the hut’s ceiling. He held its tip into the fire to light it, then touched it quickly to the powder on Shaka’s wound. It erupted in a sudden puff of flame. Shaka convulsed, his eyes fluttered open; Hamu screamed. Some of the guards moved towards Ralph, but Hamu gestured them back. The smell of sulphur and charred flesh filled the air.

  Ralph doubted his efforts had achieved anything – not any medicinal effect, at least. The heat from the explosion had been so brief it would not have cauterised the wound. But nor did it seem to have made it any worse. And the Zulus in the hut were looking at him in terror.

  He washed the wound carefully with the camomile tea. He had no bandages, so he cut strips off his shirt that he soaked in the tea and bound over the wound. Shaka whimpered and rolled on his sickbed, clutching his side. Each time he coughed, more blood came out of his mouth. Soon blood had oozed through the thin bandages.

  I must close that wound, Ralph thought. He needed a needle and some kind of thread, but when he tried to mime this the Zulus looked blank.

  I will not be able to save Shaka if we can only speak through dumbshow.

  ‘Jobe,’ he said. ‘Find Jobe. Bring him here.’

  Hamu recognised Jobe’s name and barked a command to one of the guards waiting by the door. The man went out.

  Ralph became aware of a noise outside: hundreds of voices, maybe thousands, swelling in shrieks of lamentation. The crowd had discovered where Shaka was hidden and had surrounded the hut. As well as the crying, the walls of the hut flexed and bent as if they were in a gale. The mourners might crush it in their desperation to be near the king.

  ‘Tell them to get back,’ said Ralph. But the guards did not understand.

  There was movement by the doorway. A woman entered and, surprisingly, Ralph recognised her. She was the woman he had seen in the enclosure, eyeing him as he watched the dancing. She crawled through the entrance, still with just the thin strip of cloth around her hips, and the bag hanging from her neck.

  She stood. Her bearing was dignified and resolute: her back was straight and she held her head high.

  ‘You speak me,’ she said.

  Ralph’s mouth dropped open. He stared at her like a simpleton.

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’ he said, but explanations could wait. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Thabisa.’

  ‘Thabisa, I need a needle and thread. As thin as possible. Do you understand?’

  Thabisa frowned in concentration as she spoke haltingly to Hamu.

  One of Hamu’s men disappeared and came back with a thin bone needle and a length of gut.

  ‘They must hold him,’ Ralph told Thabisa. ‘Tell them to hold him down. And he will need something to bite on, something wooden or leather.’

  Thabisa related Ralph’s requests to Hamu, but even though it was clear that he passed on Ralph’s instructions to his men, they were reluctant to come forward.

  Ralph had no choice. He instructed Thabisa to hold the wound together and began to sew. Immediately, the king bellowed in pain, rolling away from the needle, ripping the thread from Ralph’s hand.

  Hamu charged forward and gripped Shaka firmly. Seeing their leader manhandle the king gave his men confidence, and one by one they placed their hands on Shaka, pinning him to the floor while Ralph began to put a neat line of stitches along the length of his wound.

  Shaka yelled out at the men who held him, screaming what could only be curses at them, clawing at the floor until he finally passed out.

  At least that old sawbones did me one good turn, Ralph thought, remembering the ship’s surgeon who had taken him on as an apprentice. On the first day, he had showed Ralph three items: a saw, a needle and a bottle of rum. ‘These are all we have to help a man, and I will teach you to use all three liberally.’ He had been as good as his word.

  He could not save my mother, but perhaps he will save King Shaka.

  Working by lamplight in the cramped orlop deck of an East Indiaman turned out to be good practice for sewing up a man in a Zulu hut. Ralph finished the stitches quickly and tied off the knot. He glanced up and saw Thabisa’s eyes watching him. It was remarkable behaviour. In his time with the Zulus, Ralph had noticed that almost all of them – apart from high-born men like Shaka and Hamu – shied away from meeting his gaze directly. His white skin seemed to make him hard to look at. Yet this young woman watched him fearlessly. He wondered again by what miracle she had learned English.

  Hamu interrupted, his voice low and urgent.

  ‘He say, does King Shaka alive?’

  Or will he die?

  ‘Maybe.’ Ralph shrugged.

  The blood in Shaka’s mouth was a bad sign, but at least it was dark – not bright and fresh. That was some reason for hope.

  ‘I have done what I can. Now we have to wait. If he survives until sunrise, then his body has accepted the medicine.’

  Ralph sat beside Shaka, the stench of blood and the screaming of the Zulus outside filling his senses. There was little he could do other than change the dressings and pray.

  After a few hours Hamu left, but Thabisa stayed with him. When Ralph called for fresh water, she went to fetch it, but mostly she positioned herself next to him, staring at Shaka with such intensity that Ralph wondered if her life, too, hinged on the king’s.

  ‘Are you his wife?’ he asked. It was the darkest part of the night. The wailing outside was louder than ever.

  Thabisa shook her head. ‘Not wife. Isigqila.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Slave.’

  It was a simple word, a single syllable, yet it changed everything. A word that swallowed a person’s identity, that attempted to negate their very existence. Ralph was about to speak, but he saw a warning in her face that made him think again.

  ‘How is it you can speak English?’ he asked.

  She frowned. It softened her features: two dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth, while her eyes looked down. It was a sorrowful look that made Ralph want to comfort and reassure her.

  ‘Old. Old story.’

  Her accent was strong and her voice was quiet. It was difficult to hear her over the din outside. Ralph leaned closer to her.

  ‘We have time.’ Ralph looked at Shaka. He lay still, breathing lightly. ‘Tell me.’

  So Thabisa told him her story.

  She was not a Zulu. She had been born to a tribe called the Tembu, in a village to the south and near the sea. She called the place eThekwini, which – when Ralph prompted her – she translated as ‘the place of the lagoon’. From her description, Ralph realised it must be Nativity Bay.

  A tremor of foreboding passed through him.

  ‘Family live there. Big house.’

  Ralph’s jaw tightened. He tried not to show it. ‘A Tembu family? Or Zulu?’

  ‘Abelumbi.’

  ‘What tribe is that?’

  She reached out and put her hand on his chest. Despite the circumstances, Ralph felt a sudden spark of heat. How long had it been since he had felt a woman’s touch?

  ‘Abelumbi you,’ she said.

  ‘A white man?’ The heat in his chest cooled to ice. ‘A white family lived at Nativity Bay. They taught you English?’

  What were the chances of him meeting this woman here?

  He listened as she went on, feeling the chill spreading through his veins. Her family had worked for the white family as cowherds, labourers and servants, and been paid in kind with food and trade goods. Thabisa’s mother had worked as a cook, and she had helped her in the kitchen. She liked the family she worked for. Their children treated her like a sister, particularly the youngest daughter. They played together, and she learned to speak their language.

  ‘What were their names?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘Gert. Susan. Mary. Peter. Rachel.’ Even after so many years, Thabisa could recite the names by heart.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  Her face clouded. ‘Men attack.’

  ‘Zulus?’

  ‘No Zulus. No Shaka. Abelumbi.’

  ‘White men killed the family?’

  ‘Yes.’ Even now, the memory brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘What did you do?’

  After the battle her family had returned to their village in the woods by the headland. They had lived as their people always had, herding cattle and cultivating their fields. Not an easy life, but no different from any other.

  Then the Zulus came.

  ‘Five summer ago.’

  They were on their way to a different war – Thabisa’s village was a stop on their way. They killed the men, burned the huts, and took the cattle and the women as plunder. Thabisa was taken to KwaBulawayo and put into the isigodlo.

  ‘What is the isigodlo?’

  ‘Shaka House.’

  The palace.

  ‘And you were a . . .’ He tried to remember the word she had used. ‘. . . Iza-gila?’

  His pronunciation made her laugh. Her face lit up, and her eyes sparkled with mirth.

  ‘Isigqila.’ She made him repeat it. There was a sound in the word, a sort of click of the tongue while simultaneously swallowing, that Ralph could not replicate.

  ‘And an isigqila is a slave?’

  Her face went grave again. Her smiles were like the flowers that bloomed in the wet season: there for a brief moment, and then when they had gone there was emptiness.

  ‘Yes. Slave.’

  It was obvious from looking at her what those duties involved. Her compact body was well muscled, with strong legs and limber arms from fetching water, hewing wood, carrying food and sweeping. But there was also her flawless skin and smoky eyes. A beautiful woman like her would draw the attention of the king, or other men in the palace. As a slave, she would have no rights or protection. He could guess what they would make her do.

  ‘Does it not trouble you, serving the people who killed your family?’

  She shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘If I were King Shaka, I would have married you.’

  Whether she did not understand the compliment, or whether it embarrassed her, she didn’t respond. Instead, she said: ‘King Shaka, no wives.’

  Hamu had said the same about the king. Although Ralph was ignorant of the Zulus’ culture, he had seen that they were not averse to matrimony. At every kraal they had visited on the journey from Nativity Bay, they had been presented to the headman and his wives, who often numbered as many as five or six. Yet their king, who could have his pick of the most beautiful women in the country, had none.

  He glanced at Shaka. Even asleep, possibly dying, the energy coiled in his powerful body was almost palpable. Surely a man like that would have appetites. Did he not possess human needs? Or did maintaining his grip on power take all of his time and energy? Ralph remembered the story Hamu had told him of Shaka’s ascent. The father and brother who had stood in his path, both dead; the half-brother Dingane, loitering by the throne, watching everything. Perhaps Shaka had decided that family was an impediment, that any heir he fathered would become a rival. Easier to take your pleasure with concubines and slave girls, and bury the bastards where no one could find them, than have an heir.