‘To go so high is not permitted, sir.’
‘It is permitted,’ the king said. ‘Let us go there now and ask the spirits.’ And under palm umbrellas the king and his inspector of mines walked down the main passageway through the city, past the area where the joiners and the masons dwelt, past the site where workmen brought stones for the walls. It seemed a lifetime since Nxumalo had helped repair those walls, and it was like a dream to be walking beneath them with the king himself.
They moved swiftly along the royal path that led to the rock-encircled citadel, and now the way became little more than a track, four feet across, but twice each day forty women swept it so that not a blade of grass or a pebble marred its surface. To attain the steep trail that led up to the summit, they had to pass the pits from which women dug wet clay used for plastering walls; and as the king went by, they all bowed their heads against the moist ground, but he ignored them.
The winding path climbed through a grove of trees, then traversed bare, rocky slopes, and reached at last an extremely narrow passageway between boulders. The king betrayed that he was out of breath, and although Nxumalo was well trained because of his distant journeys, he deemed it prudent to make believe that his chest heaved too, lest he appear disrespectful. At last they broke into a free and level space, and Nxumalo saw a grandeur he had not even vaguely anticipated when staring at the citadel from below.
He was in the midst of a great assembly of walls and courtyards twined among the immense granite boulders which gave the place its magnificence; those massive rocks determined where the walls must run, where the gracefully molded huts could stand. Rulers came from far distances to negotiate with the king, and so long as the meetings were held down below in the city, these foreign rulers, often as rich as the king, were apt to be slightly contemptuous of his soft-spoken arguments, but once they had been forced to climb that difficult path to see the citadel, they had to acknowledge that they were dealing with a true monarch.
Nxumalo was startled by the vivid colors that decorated the walls, the sculptures that marked the parapets and the symbolism that abounded. But what interested him most were the little furnaces at which metallurgists worked the gold ingots he sent from his mines, and he watched with admiration as they fashioned delicate jewelry by processes so secret they were never spoken of outside the citadel.
Despite his interest in the gold, Nxumalo was led away to the eastern flank of the citadel, and again he walked with that inner fear that had marked his first meeting with the king, for he knew that he was heading for the quarters of the great Mhondoro, the one through whom the spirits spoke and the ancestors ruled. By accident he caught a glimpse of the king’s face and saw that he, too, had assumed a solemn mien.
The Mhondoro’s enclosure seemed deserted when Nxumalo entered, but soon a shadowy figure could be seen moving in the dark recesses of a hut that filled one corner of the area. The main feature was a platform, waist-high, from which rose four soapstone pedestals, each topped by a sculptured bird which appeared to hover above the sacred place. Another wall contained a lower platform on which stood a collection of monoliths and other sacred objects of great beauty. Each related to some climactic experience of the race, so that in this enclosure stood the full history and mythology of Zimbabwe, a meaningful record of the past that could be read by the Mhondoro and his king as easily as European monks unraveled the writings of their historians.
The king was permitted by custom to walk to the meeting platform, but Nxumalo had to crawl on his knees, and as he did so he saw that when the discussions began he would be sitting among skull-like carvings, clay animals decorated with ostrich feathers, elaborate collections of medicated beads and pebbles, and tangled clumps of precious herbs. But no single item arrested his attention like the crocodile six feet long, carved from hard wood in such reality that it seemed capable of devouring the holy man; when Nxumalo took his seat beside this monster, he found that its scales were made from hundreds of wafer-thin gold plates that moved and glistened when he disturbed the air.
Now from the interior of his hut the Mhondoro appeared, wearing a yellow cloak and a headdress of animal furs. It was the king who paid homage: ‘I see you, Mhondoro of my fathers.’
‘I see you, Powerful King.’
‘This is the one who was sent,’ the king said.
The Mhondoro indicated that Nxumalo must keep his gaze forward, lest his eyes fall upon the symbols of kings long dead and anger their spirits, who would be watching. The young man scarcely dared breathe, but at last the Mhondoro addressed him: ‘What news from the mines?’
‘The gold from the west declines.’
‘It used to be copious.’
‘It still is, to the north, but our men are afraid to go there.’
‘Trouble, trouble,’ the spirit-medium said, and he turned to the king, speaking softly of the problems overtaking their city.
Nxumalo appreciated their concern, for at times on his recent journeys he had felt as if the entire Zimbabwe hegemony were held together by frail threads of dissolving interests. He sensed the restlessness and suspected that certain provincial chiefs were entertaining ideas of independence, but he was afraid to mention these fears in the presence of the city’s two most powerful men. There were other irritations too: wood, grazing rights, the lack of salt. And there was even talk that the Arabs might open their own trade links in areas beyond Zimbabwe’s control.
The painful afternoon passed, and when fires appeared in the city below, the Mhondoro began chanting in a dreamy voice: ‘Generations ago our brave forebears erected this citadel. Mhlanga, son of Notape, son of Chuda …’ He recited genealogies back to the year 1250 when Zimbabwe’s walls were first erected. ‘It was the king’s great-grandfather who caused that big tower down there to be built, not long ago, and it grieves my heart to think that one day we may have to give this noble place back to the vines and the trees.’
In the silence that followed, Nxumalo became aware that he was supposed to respond: ‘Why would you say that, Revered One?’
‘Because the land is worn out. Because our spirits flag. Because others are rising in the north. Because I see strange ships coming to Sofala.’
It was in that solemn moment that Nxumalo first glimpsed the fact that his destiny might be to remain always in Zimbabwe, helping it to survive, but even as he framed this thought he looked at these two men sitting beneath the beautiful carved birds and he could not conceive that these leaders and this city could be in actual danger.
When he accompanied the king down from the citadel, servants with flares led the way and stayed with them on their progress through the city. Out of deference to the king, Nxumalo volunteered to attend him to the gateway of the royal enclosure, but the king halted midway in the city and said, ‘It’s time you visited the Old Seeker.’
‘I see him often, sir.’
‘But tonight, I believe, he has special messages.’ So Nxumalo broke away and went to his mentor’s house beyond the marketplace, and there he found that the old man did indeed have special information: ‘Son of Ngalo, it’s time you took the next cargo of gold and rhino horns to Sofala.’
This was a journey of importance which only the most trusted citizens were permitted to undertake. It required courage to descend the steep paths lined with leopards and lions; it required sound health to survive the pestilential swamps; and it required sound judgment to protect one’s property against the Arabs who bartered there.
‘The Arabs who climb the mountain trails to visit Zimbabwe have to be good men,’ the wise old fellow warned. ‘But those who slip into a seaport and remain there, they can be ugly.’
‘How do I protect myself?’
‘Integrity is a good shield.’ He paused. ‘Did I ever come armed to your father’s kraal? Couldn’t he have killed me in a moment if he wished? Why didn’t he? Because he knew that if he killed a man of honor, he’d soon have on his hands men with none. And then the whole thing falls apart.’
‘You know, I’m sure, that my father used to laugh at your stories. The miracles you spoke of, the lies.’
‘A man cannot travel great distances without developing ideas. And now I have one of the very best to bring before you.’
He clapped his hands, and when the servant appeared, he gave a signal. Soon the curtains that closed off the living quarters parted and a young girl of fourteen, black as rubbed ebony and radiant, came dutifully into the room. Lowering her eyes, she stood inanimate, like one of the carved statues the Arabs had presented to the king; she was being presented to Nxumalo, the king’s inspector of mines, and after a long time she raised her eyes and looked into his.
‘My granddaughter,’ the old man said.
The two young people continued gazing at each other as the Old Seeker confessed: ‘From the first day I saw you at the lake, Nxumalo, I knew you were intended for this girl. Everything I did thereafter was calculated to bring you here for her to see. The rhino horns? I had all I needed waiting in the warehouse. You were the treasure I sought.’
Because of the pain that comes with all living, Nxumalo could not speak. He was acutely aware of this girl’s beauty, but he could also remember Zeolani and his promise to her. Finally he blurted out: ‘Treasured Father, I am betrothed to Zeolani.’
The old man took a deep breath and said, ‘Young men make promises, and they go off to build their fortunes, and the antelope at the lake see them no more. My granddaughter’s name is Hlenga. Show him the garden, Hlenga.’
It was in 1458 that Nxumalo assembled a file of sixty-seven porters for the perilous journey to the coast. The route to Sofala was horrendous, with swamps, fever-ridden flats, precipitous descents and swollen rivers barring the way. As he listened to accounts of the journey from men who had made earlier trips, he comprehended what Old Seeker had meant when he said, ‘A wise man goes to Sofala only once.’ And yet Arab traders appeared at Zimbabwe regularly, and they had to traverse that formidable route.
This contradiction was resolved by the Old Seeker: ‘The Arabs have no problems. They start from Sofala with fifty carriers and arrive here with thirty.’
‘How is it they’re always the ones that arrive?’
‘White men protect themselves,’ the old councillor said. ‘I went down with the father of the man who gave you that disk. At every river he said, “You go first and see how deep it is.” So at one crossing I said, “This time you go first,” and he said, “It’s your task to go. It’s my task to protect the gold.” ’
Nxumalo laughed. ‘That’s what one of our mine overseers says when tossing a catch of little brown men down the shaft: “It’s your task to go down there. It’s my task to guard the gold when you send it up.” ’
‘One more thing, Nxumalo. Arabs in a caravan will be your staunchest friends. Share their food with you, their sleeping places. But when you reach Sofala, be aware. Never go aboard ship with an Arab.’
Nxumalo coughed in some embarrassment. ‘Tell me, Old Seeker, what is a ship? The king spoke of it and I was ashamed to ask.’
‘A rondavel that moves across the water.’ While the young man contemplated this improbability, the old man added, ‘Because if you step aboard his ship, the Arab will sell you as a slave and you will sit chained to a bench and never see your friends again.’
This almost casual mention of friends saddened Nxumalo, for the friend he cherished most was Zeolani, and the possibility of never seeing her again distressed him. At the same time he recognized that all things happening in Zimbabwe were conspiring to prevent him from ever returning to his village, and he supposed that if he succeeded with the forthcoming expedition to Sofala, his position at Zimbabwe would be enhanced. Yet memories of Zeolani and their impassioned love-making behind the twin hills haunted him, and he longed to see her. ‘I want to return home,’ he said resolutely, but Old Seeker laughed.
‘You’re like all young men in the world. Remembering a lovely girl who is far away while being tormented by another just as lovely, who is close at hand … like Hlenga.’
‘On your next trip to my village …’
‘I doubt I shall ever wander so far again.’
‘You will. You’re like me. You love baobabs and lions prowling your camp at night.’
The old man laughed again. ‘Perhaps I am like you. But you’re like me. You love rivers that must be forded and paths through dark forests. I never went back, and neither will you.’
On the morrow, with a kiss from Hlenga on his lips, this young man, twenty-one years old, set forth with his porters to deliver a collection of gold, ivory tusks and other trading goods to the waiting ships, and so heavy was the burden that progress under any circumstances would have been tedious; through the forests and swamps which separated them from the sea it was punishing. Nxumalo, as personal representative of the king, headed the file, but he was guided by a man who had made the difficult traverse once before. They covered only ten miles a day, because they were so often forced by turbulent rivers or steep declivities to abandon established trails. They were tormented by insects and had to keep watch against snakes, but they were never short of water or food, for rain was plentiful and animals abounded.
At the end of the sixth day everyone had subsided into a kind of grudging resignation; hour after hour would pass with no speech, no relief from the heat, the sweat and the muddy footing. It was travel at its worst, infinitely more demanding than a trip of many miles through the western savanna or southward into baobab country. This was liana land, where vines hung down from every tree, tormenting and ensnaring, where one could rarely move unimpeded for ten feet in any direction.
But always there lay ahead the fascinating lure of Sofala, with its ships, and Chinese strangers, and the glories of India and Persia. Like a tantalizing magnet it drew the men on, and at night, when the insects were at their worst, the men would talk in whispers of women who frequented the port and of Arabs who stole any black who tried to visit with these women. The travelers had an imperfect understanding of the slave trade; they knew that men of foreign cast traveled the Zambezi capturing any who strayed, but these invaders had never dared invade Zimbabwe and risk a disruption of the gold supply, so their habits were not known. Nor did the murmuring blacks have any concept of where they might be taken if they were captured; Arabia they knew only for its carvings, India for its silks.
When the great escarpments were descended and the level lowlands reached, the travelers still had more than a hundred miles of swampy flat country with swollen rivers to negotiate, and again progress was minimal. It was now that young Nxumalo asserted his leadership, dismissing his guide to the rear and forcing his men into areas they preferred to avoid. He had come upon a well-marked trail which must lead to the sea, and as his men straggled behind, unable to keep the pace he was setting with his lighter burden, they began to meet other porters coming home from Sofala or were overtaken by swifter-moving files heading for the port, and a lively excitement spread through the group.
‘We must not step inside a ship,’ the guide repeated on the last night, ‘and all bargaining is to be done by Nxumalo, for he knows what the king requires.’
‘We will wait,’ Nxumalo said, ‘until the Arabs make us good offers, and they must be better than what they offer us at home, for this time we have done the hauling, not they.’ He was prepared to linger at Sofala for months, selling his goods carefully and obtaining only those things his community most needed.
‘What we really seek,’ he reminded them, ‘is salt.’ Even his gold bars would be bartered if he could find the proper amount of salt.
When his porters took up their burdens next morning, passers-by confirmed that Sofala would be reached by noon, and they quickened their pace; and when salt could be smelled in the air, they began to run until the man in the lead shouted, ‘Sofala! Sofala!’ and all clustered about him to stare at the port and the great sea beyond. In awe one man whispered, ‘That is a river no man can cross.’
The bus
tling seaport did not disappoint, for it contained features which astonished; the sheds in which the Arabs conducted their business were of a size the Zimbabwe men had never imagined, and the dhows that rolled in the tides of the Indian Ocean were an amazement. The men were delighted with the orderliness of the shore, where casuarina trees intermingled with palms and where the waves ran up to touch the feet and then ran back. How immense the sea was! When the men saw children swimming they were enchanted and sought to run into the water themselves, except that Nxumalo, himself perplexed by this multitude of new experiences, forbade it. He felt that he must face one problem at a time, and the first that he encountered proved how correct he was in moving prudently, for when he inquired about a market for his goods, and traders heard that he had twoscore elephant tusks, everyone doing business with China, where ivory was appreciated, wanted to acquire them, and he was made some dazzling offers, but since he had not intended selling immediately, he resisted. He did allow himself to be taken to an Arab ship, which, however, he refused to board; from the wharf he could see inside, and there, chained to benches, sat a dozen men of varied ages, doing nothing, making hardly a movement.
‘Who are they?’ he asked, and the trader explained that these men helped move the ship.
‘How long do they wait like that?’
‘Until they die,’ the trader said, and when Nxumalo winced, he added, ‘They were captured in war. This is their fate.’ They were, Nxumalo reflected, much like the small brown men who were thrown down mines to work until they died. They, too, were captured in war; that, too, was their fate.
Wherever he moved in Sofala he saw things that bewildered, but constantly he was enticed by the dhows, those floating rondavels whose passage across the sea he could not comprehend but whose magic was apparent. One afternoon as he stared at a three-masted vessel with tall sails he saw to his delight that the white man who seemed to be in charge was the same tall Arab who had traded at Zimbabwe.
The Covenant: A Novel Page 9