Men of Men

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Every night that she does not fight, we, your brothers, are the poorer,’ Kamuza came in to support Ralph. ‘Henshaw is right. She is fierce as a lioness and ready to earn us all many gold queens.’

  ‘Already you speak and think like a white man,’ Bazo replied loftily. ‘The yellow coins fill your head day and night.’

  ‘What other reason for that,’ Kamuza shuddered slightly as he pointed at the basket, ‘that thing. If it stings you, the spear of your manhood will shrivel like a rotten fruit until it is no bigger than the finger of a new born baby.’

  ‘What a shrivelling that would be,’ Ralph chuckled. ‘Like a bull hippopotamus shrivelling into a striped field mouse.’

  Bazo grinned and made the gesture of placing the tiny basket on Kamuza’s lap. ‘Come, let her suckle a little to give her strength for the conflict,’ he suggested, and the circle exploded with a roar of delighted laughter at Kamuza’s patent horror as he yelled and leapt violently away.

  The noisy jeers covered their own uneasiness at the close proximity of the basket, and they were immediately silent as Bazo cautiously lifted the lid.

  They craned forward with sickly fascination, and in the bottom of the basket something dark and furry and big as a rat stirred.

  ‘Hau! Inkosikazi!’ Bazo greeted it, and the creature reared up on its multiple legs, raising the front pair defensively, and the rows of eyes glittered in the softly wavering firelight. Bazo lifted his own right hand to return the salute of long hairy legs.

  ‘I see you also, Inkosikazi.’

  Bazo had named her Inkosikazi, the queen, for, as he explained to Ralph, ‘She is right royal in her rage, and as thirsty for blood as a Matabele queen.’

  He and Ralph had been unloading timber baulks at the eastern end of the new stagings, and as one load had swung upwards in the slings the great spider had come out from its nest between the sawn planks, and, raising its swollen velvety abdomen, had scampered over Ralph’s arm and leapt ten feet to the ground.

  The spider was the size of a dinner plate when its legs were extended. Its hirsute appearance and its extraordinary jumping prowess had given the species the common name of baboon spider.

  ‘Get him, Bazo!’ Ralph yelled from the top of the loaded wagon.

  For now that Griqualand West and the New Rush diggings were part of Cape Colony and the British Empire there had been changes.

  New Rush had been re-named Kimberley, after Lord Kimberley, the Colonial Secretary in London, and the town of Kimberley was starting to enjoy the benefits of British civilization and Victorian morality, amongst which was the total ban on cock fighting which was strictly enforced by the new administrator. The diggers, always eager for distraction, had not taken long to find an alternative sport. Spider fighting was the rage of the diggings.

  ‘Don’t let him get away!’ Ralph vaulted down from the wagon, ripping off his shirt, but Bazo was quicker. He whipped the loincloth from his waist and flared it at the spider like a matador caping the bull, bringing the huge arachnid to bay on its hind legs, threatening him with its waving arms, then, naked and triumphant, Bazo had flipped the cloth over it and swiftly bundled it into a bag.

  Now he slowly but deliberately extended his own hand into the basket, and the spider raised itself higher, the wolflike mandibles chewing menacingly, and between them the single curved red fang rising from its shallow sheath, a pale droplet of venom shining upon the needlesharp tip.

  There was not even the sound of breathing in the dark hut, and the soft tick and rustle of the ashes sounded deafening in the silence as they watched Bazo’s open hand draw closer and closer to the creature.

  Then he touched it with his fingertips and began to stroke the soft furry carapace. Slowly the spider subsided from her threatening posture, and the watchers sighed and began to breathe again.

  Inkosikazi had fought five times, and five times she had killed, although in the last conflict against another huge and ferocious female she had lost one of her legs, chewed through at the elbow joint. That had been almost three months previously; but the severed limb had now regenerated itself, and the new leg was lighter coloured than the others like the fresh shoots on a rose bush.

  Slowly Bazo turned his hand palm upwards and the spider scuttled up into it and crouched there, filling it completely without extending her many jointed legs.

  ‘A queen,’ he said, ‘a veritable queen.’ And then, frowning, he told her, ‘Henshaw would like to see you fight again.’ He glanced up at Ralph, and there was a mischievous twist to his full lips.

  ‘Go to Henshaw and tell him if you will fight or no.’ And he offered the spider to Ralph.

  Ralph felt the crawling of the tiny feet of horror across his skin as he stared at the spider crouching like a hairy toad before his face.

  ‘Come, Henshaw,’ Bazo smiled. ‘Talk to her.’

  It was a challenge, and the watchers stirred with anticipation. If the challenge was not taken up, then their mockery would be merciless. Ralph tried to force himself to move, but his loathing was a cold nauseating lump under his ribs, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead was suddenly glacially cold.

  Bazo was still smiling, but the challenge in his direct gaze was slowly changing to taunting disdain. With an enormous effort Ralph raised his hand, and at the movement the spider lifted itself and the soft bloated abdomen seemed to pulse softly, obscenely.

  Only one person had ever handled Inkosikazi, and her reaction to a strange touch was totally unpredictable; but Ralph forced himself to reach out towards her.

  Slowly his fingertips drew closer, six inches, two inches from the hairy body, and then the spider sprang. It launched itself in a high parabola, and landed on Ralph’s shoulder.

  The circle of watchers broke up in comic panic, yelling with terror and falling over one another to reach the single low doorway. Only Bazo and Ralph had not moved. Ralph sat with his hand still extended and the spider squatted massively on his shoulder. Infinitely slowly Ralph cocked his head and peered down at it, and it began to move; lifting the long bristled legs with a chilling daintiness, it crept sideways into the hollow of Ralph’s neck – so that he could no longer see it but suddenly he felt the sharp points of its feet scratching the soft of his throat.

  There was a horrified yell locked in the back of Ralph’s throat, but he kept it there with a total effort of will. The spider climbed his chin and hung upside down for a moment like a huge hairy bat, and Ralph did not move.

  Instead he lifted his gaze and held that of the Matabele opposite him. The mockery was gone from Bazo’s eyes, and behind him the other watchers drew closer, fascinated and fearful. Perhaps for a minute they sat like that, and then Ralph lifted his hand. The gesture was so calm, so controlled, that the spider showed only perfunctory symptoms of alarm, and then quite willingly scuttled onto the inviting fingers and Ralph transferred her gently back into her basket.

  Ralph wanted to leap up and run out into the darkness, to be alone while he vomited up his horror, but he forced himself to sit and stare impassively at Bazo until the Matabele lowered his eyes.

  ‘She will fight,’ he said softly. ‘As you wish, Henshaw, she will fight again tomorrow.’ And he closed the lid of the basket.

  Inkosikazi had not fought for almost three months, and the punters, always fickle, had forgotten her. Other champions had emerged in her absence and commanded the fanatic loyalty of their followers. They gathered four deep around the handlers, trying to peer into the baskets and assess the fighting mettle of the caged creatures, as they waited for the first bout of the afternoon.

  Although lantern-lit contests were held each evening behind Diamond Lil’s canteen, Sunday afternoon was the main event of the week when every digger in Kimberley was free to crowd the western corner of Market Square and pick his fancy.

  The arena was a square wooden structure, six feet by six and three deep, covered by a sheet of clear glass. This sheet of glass was the largest in Griqualand; originally intended as a
display window for a ladies’ dress shop on Main Street, it had miraculously survived the long wagon journey from the coast – and was now probably one of the most cherished items in Kimberley. Without it the sport would die, and Sunday afternoons would be tedium indeed.

  The sheet of glass and the wooden arena were owned by a one-time kopje-walloper who had found there was more money in spiders than in diamonds. Ownership of the glass gave him a monopoly of the game and allowed him to charge a cruel entrance fee, and take a lion’s share of the winnings.

  Half a dozen wagons had been drawn up in a square around the arena to make grandstand accommodation for the crowds. The canteens around the square provided alfresco service, their waiters staggering under trays laden with foaming schooners of beer to quench the raging thirsts that men had built up during a week in the pit.

  The female population had doubled and re-doubled since Kimberley had become part of the Empire, and the ladies used the occasion to show off a pretty hat and a nicely sculptured ankle. Their delighted squeals of horror when the fighting spiders were released into the arena added to the feverish air of excitement.

  In one of the alleys that led into the square, Ralph and his Matabele were huddled in solemn discussion.

  ‘I do not know what that name means,’ Bazo was protesting to Ralph.

  ‘It is the name of a dangerous woman, who danced so beautifully that when she asked for it the king cut off a man’s head and gave it to her.’

  They all looked impressed. It was the kind of story which appealed to a Matabele.

  ‘What is the name again?’ Bazo asked thoughtfully.

  ‘Salome—’

  ‘But why cannot she fight under her real name?’ Bazo glanced down at the basket under his arm. ‘Why must we change Inkosikazi’s name for this fight? It is not a good omen.’

  Ralph looked exasperated. ‘If we use that name they will know it is the same Inkosikazi who has already killed five times. If we call her Salome, why, one spider looks like another. They will not recognize her. They will believe her to be unblooded, and we shall win more money.’

  ‘That is a good reason,’ Kamuza cut in, and Bazo ignored him.

  ‘Who found this name?’ Bazo insisted.

  ‘Jordie. He found it in the big book.’ That decided it. Bazo had vast respect for the lovely gentle boy and his knowledge of books.

  ‘Salome.’ He nodded. ‘It is agreed, but only for today.’

  ‘Good.’ Ralph rubbed his palms together briskly. ‘Now where is the money?’ And they all looked to Kamuza. He was the treasurer of the group. In their years of unbroken labour the gang of young Matabele had accumulated a hoard of gold and silver coin, for to their wages they had added the bounty on ‘pick-ups’. Then of course there were the considerable winnings from Inkosikazi’s previous bouts.

  Kamuza kept this treasure buried under the floor of the communal hut, but he had reluctantly exhumed part of it the evening before, and now he produced a soft furry white bag, made from tanned scrotal skin of a springbuck ram, and reluctantly counted out coins into Ralph’s hand. No white bookmaker would accept a wager from a black man, so Ralph was frontman for the Matabele syndicate.

  ‘Make a book,’ Kamuza said, and Ralph scribbled a receipt for sixteen sovereigns on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Kamuza, who examined it minutely. He trusted Ralph without question. He could not read, but the rituals of European commerce fascinated Kamuza and he had seen white men passing slips of paper whenever they exchanged coin.

  ‘Good.’ He tucked the receipt into the springbuckskin wallet.

  ‘I have four gold queens of my own.’ Ralph displayed his life savings. ‘I will pay my share of the entrance fee and bet the rest of it.’

  ‘May the gods go with us all, Henshaw,’ said Bazo, and handed Ralph the precious little basket.

  Ralph adjusted his cap to an angle that would hide as much of his face as possible. It was unlikely that his father would be amongst the crowd, and if he was, the cap would hardly disguise his firstborn sufficiently for him not to be recognized – so the gesture was instinctive, as was his fear of his father’s wrath.

  ‘I will wait here for the money,’ Kamuza told him.

  ‘If she wins,’ Ralph agreed.

  ‘She will win,’ said Bazo darkly. ‘Would that I could serve her with my own hands.’

  There was no law to prevent a black man entering a fancy in the lists, but none of them had ever done so. The niceties of this complex society were unwritten but understood by all.

  Ralph slipped out of the alley and mingled with the crowd, working his way through the press until he was on the outskirts of the group of handlers, each of them with his woven basket, as they waited to enter their fancy.

  ‘Ah, young Ballantyne.’ Chaim Cohen looked up from his register, the wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose, sweating jovially in the dust and blazing sun. ‘Haven’t seen you in some time.’

  ‘Didn’t have a fancy, Mr Cohen. Caught a new one now,’ Ralph lied glibly.

  ‘What happened to – what did you call her, some kaffir name?’

  ‘She died. Lost a leg and died after her last fight.’

  ‘What is your new lady’s name?’

  ‘Salome, sir.’

  ‘Salome it is, then. That will be two pounds, young Ballantyne.’ The coins disappeared with uncanny speed into the enlarged pocket that Cohen had sewn into the inside of his long frock coat, and with relief Ralph sidled into the crowd, trying to lose himself until the draw was announced.

  He found a place near the tailboard of one of the wagons, where he was partly concealed and from where he could watch the ladies in the crowd. Some of them were young and pretty, and they knew it. Every few minutes one would pass close enough to Ralph for him to hear the frou-frou of her petticoats and to smell her, for the heat brought out the subtle musk of womankind that was emphasized and not concealed by the sweet reek of French perfume. It seemed to catch in Ralph’s throat, too poignant to breathe, and there was a hollow aching place at the base of his belly and weird thoughts in his head.

  The fruity smell of cognac suddenly blotted out that French perfume and a hoarse voice close to his ear put the imaginings to flight.

  ‘You are fighting a new fancy, I see, young Ballantyne.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s right, sir, Mr Lennox.’

  Mr Barry Lennox was a big man, a brawler with a reputation for quick fists that was respected as far as the river workings. He was a plunger, who had bet a thousand guineas on a single cock fight, and won. That was in the days before civilization had reached the diggings, but now he chanced as much on the spider fights. He was a rich man by the standards of New Rush, for he owned eighteen claims in the No. 4 Roadway block. He had the red-veined cheeks and husky voice of the heavy drinker, but what intrigued Ralph most about this man was that he employed three young women, not one but three women to keep house for him. One was a pretty pug-faced daffodil-yellow Griqua girl, another a bold-eyed Portuguese mulatto from Mozambique, and the third a mulberry black Basuto with haunches on her like a brood mare. Whenever Ralph thought about this dusky trio, which was often, his imagination conjured up a garden of forbidden delights.

  Of course, neither Ralph’s father nor any other member of the Committee would acknowledge Lennox’s existence and cut him elaborately on the street. Lennox’s application to join the Kimberley Club had been met with a record-breaking fifty-six black balls. But Ralph removed his cap respectfully now, as Lennox asked throatily:

  ‘What happened to Inkosikazi? I made a bundle on her.’

  ‘She died, Mr Lennox. Old age, I suppose.’

  ‘Baboon spiders live nearly twenty years and more,’ Lennox grunted. ‘Let’s have a look at your new lady.’

  ‘I don’t like to unsettle her – not just before a bout, sir.’

  ‘Does your daddy know where you spend your Sunday afternoons, young Ballantyne?’

  ‘All right, sir.’ Ralph c
apitulated swiftly and lifted the lid of the basket a crack. Lennox cocked a bloodshot but knowledgeable eye at it.

  ‘That looks like a strong left front – new grown.’

  ‘No, sir. Well, it might be. Caught her just the other day. Don’t know her history, Mr Lennox.’

  ‘Boy, you wouldn’t be running a ringer, would you! ’Fess up now.’ Lennox looked sternly into Ralph’s eyes, and Ralph dropped them.

  ‘You don’t want to go up before the Diggers’ Committee, do you? The shame you would bring on your daddy. It might break his heart.’

  It might not break Zouga Ballantyne’s heart, but it would certainly break Ralph’s head.

  Miserably Ralph shook his head. ‘Very well then, Mr Lennox. It’s Inkosikazi, she grew a new leg. I thought I’d get better odds – but, I’ll withdraw her now. I’ll go tell Mr Cohen I lied.’

  Barry Lennox leaned so close that his lips touched Ralph’s ear and the smell of fine old cognac on his breath almost overpowered him.

  ‘You don’t do anything so stupid, Ralph, my lad. You fight your fancy, and if she wins there will be a special treat for you. That’s promise. Barry Lennox will see you right – and then some. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got some business to attend to.’ Lennox twirled his cane and drove a wedge into the crowd with his bow-fronted belly.

  Chaim Cohen climbed up onto the disselboom of the nearest wagon to the arena and began chalking up the draw on a greenruled board, and the bookmakers craned for the matchings and then began calling their odds for each bout.

  ‘Threes on Mr Gladstone in the first.’

  ‘Dreadnought even money. Buttercup fives in the second.’

  Ralph waited as bout after bout was drawn, and each time that Inkosikazi’s name was omitted his nerves stretched tighter. There were only ten bouts, and Mr Cohen had finished chalking the ninth already.

  ‘Bout No. 10,’ he called as he wrote. ‘This is a biblical match, gentlemen and ladies, a diamondiferous bout straight out of the Old Testament.’ Chaim Cohen used the adjective ‘diamondiferous’ to describe anything from a thoroughbred horse to a fifteen-year-old whisky. ‘A pure diamondiferous match, the one and only, the great and deadly, Goliath!’ There was a burst of applause and whistles of approval. Goliath was the champion spider of the diamond fields, with twelve straight kills to her credit. ‘Matched against your favourite is a pretty little newcomer, Salome!’