Chapter 5 — Death Of A King

Shrieks of terror rent the air. Across the arena, more and more masked faces appeared, pulling daggers from the bands of their loincloths and screaming at the top of their lungs. The crowd stampeded. People rushed for the gates of the Yard of the Ancestors, trampling whoever was unable to remain on their feet. The masked men congregated in front of the Mutapa and rushed the steps that led up to the dais.

"It's Vana Va Lungundu!" Hondo yelled. "Protect the drum."

Barwe Tonga soldiers left their posts and rushed to the steps. The masked rebels immediately divided into two groups. Half of them turned to face the soldiers and hold them off. The others engaged the Mutapa's royal bodyguards. The bodyguards were hulking, powerful soldiers. Despite being the best that the empire had to offer, they were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the attackers. The skirmish was fierce, as they battled to protect the Mutapa whilst at the same time protecting themselves. Spears and daggers clinked and clashed under the cloudless sky and men on both sides fell shrieking as the sand at their feet turned crimson red.

Hondo rushed down the stairs and engaged the masked men there, cutting off their ascent towards the Mutapa and ngomalungundu. Every thrust of his spear found its mark. Masked rebels fell at his feet, every one of their shrieks cut off by a final killing stab. Daggers could never hold out against spears. The rebels were at a marked disadvantage on both sides of the stairs, and they knew it. As the tide turned in favor of the soldiers, a hand flicked out from the melee and a steel blade whistled through the air. As the dagger sunk between the Mutapa's ribs, so too did the Mutapa sink to the ground. The Mutapa's bodyguards were split in confusion between aiding their fallen master and repelling the rebels. At that moment, one of the masked men lifted a conch to his mouth and blew a sharp note. The rebels all dropped their weapons, spun around and fled, casting off their masks as they did so and blending into the stampeding crowds.

Hondo saw the fallen Emperor going down with the blade lodged between his ribs and rushed up the steps to his side. The priests were all cowering on the ground, shaking, trying not to attract any attention to themselves.

"Take him and the drum inside," he shouted. "Take them inside now."

The priests did not move. They were paralyzed with fear. Only one of them, Chenzira, the high priest, stood up and boldly rushed to the side of the fallen Mutapa. He threw an arm behind the young Mutapa's back, helping him onto his feet.

"Take him inside," Hondo yelled, "I'll take the drum." He took the drum from the dais on which it was placed, drawing gasps of astonishment from some of the priests nearby, shocked at his touching a sacred object with such brazen disrespect.

"Help him, you fools," he barked, pointing his spear at Chenzira, who struggled under the weight of the limp Mutapa as he dragged him through the doors to the Emperor’s hall.

A series of short, sharp horn blasts echoed throughout the city. Hondo understood it. It was the call for reinforcements.

In minutes, troops of soldiers came pouring in through the gates. They were the one thousand strong soldiers who normally guarded the city, most of them stationed in the guard houses at the base of the watchtowers and a few at the city gates. They all rushed into the Yard of the Ancestors, forming a wall around whichever men still wore their masks and preventing their escape. The rebels were desperate now. They were overwhelmed by the number of soldiers. To be taken alive was to be exposed to cruel torture and then execution. It had happened countless times to their compatriots. Being captured was not an option, and the rebels fought like a cornered mamba. They concentrated their efforts at one point on the wall of soldiers, aiming to make a breakthrough with sheer ferocity. They engaged the soldiers at close quarters, minimizing the advantage that the soldier's spears had over their daggers.

The soldiers stepped back to make their spears more effective, but the rebels narrowed the gap every time. This little dance of spears and daggers continued for a few moments more until the rebels attained their objective – the gate of the Yard. With their shrill war cries filling the air, the rebels launched themselves at the spears between them and the gate. Several of them perished on the spot, but a few made it through. They disappeared down the curving streets and alleys of the city, ducking into buildings, corners, and every other nook and cranny they could come across in Zvongombe, casting aside their masks as they went. Like ghosts, they disappeared into thin air. The only sign of their passing was the abandoned daggers and masks that lay on the streets, like jetsam on a beach. With no other distinguishing marks, they would blend in perfectly with the rest of the people and later, under the cover of night, make their way out of the city through the aqueducts.

***

The doors of the Emperor's hall burst open as Hondo and the priests carried in the injured Emperor and the drum. They laid them on the floor as the Queen Mother came rushing in, escorted by two soldiers.

"Shut the doors," Hondo commanded.

The soldiers swung the doors shut and dropped a heavy iron bar across it, latching it shut. Jendayi saw the young Emperor lying on the floor with a puddle of blood pooling about him and creeping across the geometric patterns on the tiles.

"Get the inyangas now," she ordered as she knelt beside him and mopped his sweating brow with her gold-fringed robe.

The young Emperor was fading fast. Chenzira examined the wound and knew that no inyanga’s healing arts could save him. The dagger had punctured something important. The young Mutapa writhed in pain, his eyes widening in fear as he stared vacuously ahead. He himself knew that there wasn't much that could be done. He tried to speak, but the words died on his lips in a hoarse whisper. It would be over soon. Chenzira had seen several wounds like that one. A dagger wound was generally not as bad as that of an arrow, which wasn't as bad as that of a spear. Most men survived them, Chenzira himself being one of them, as he thought of the scar that cut across his ribs, inflicted by a dagger many harvests earlier during his time as a warrior. But the young Mutapa had been unlucky. Either that or the assassin had been very lucky with his throw. Either way, everyone knew that the young Mutapa, writhing on the tiled floor in agony, would not live long. In a few minutes, it was over. With a soft hiss, the young Emperor's chest fell, and he lay still. The Queen Mother gently closed his glassy, unblinking eyes and eased on her haunches. She did not sob. Chenzira marveled at her strength. Perhaps she had seen too many deaths and had buried too many relatives to have any tears left. That was the price of royalty. He pitied her.

One of the side doors opened, and the four councilors hurried into the council chamber. They all stopped in their tracks when they saw the young Mutapa lying on the floor. Nobody said a word. They just looked at each other, aware that the fate of their nation lay on a knife's edge.

"Mutapa Mabitse has gone to be with his fathers," Chenzira said. "Take him to his chambers and prepare him for burial."

Two of the priests left the room whilst the others wiped the blood off the floor. In a moment, they returned carrying a royal stretcher made of ebony and inlaid with gold. It was the Mutapa's litter, which he carried whenever he took a long trip, usually to the coastal city of Sofala to see the ships or whenever he would go hunting. The priests arranged his body on the litter and carried it out. As they got to the door, she called out to them, and they paused.

"No one is to know of this," Jendayi said. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will have you beheaded. You may leave." The priests bowed and left. She turned to the soldiers who stood behind the barricaded main door. "Leave us," she said. "If word of the Mutapa's death gets out, you and your families will be executed. Shut the doors behind you."

The guards bowed and exited through the side door that the councilors had used to get in. Jendayi stared at the councilors and Chenzira. Whether by design or by accident, only the members of the council remained in the Emperor's hall. They stood in silence for a moment. Then Jendayi trudged across to the seat of the Queen Mother beside the empty throne and sat. The other councilors understood the import of the moment. They eased into their allotted seats, their eyes set on the floor before them. Jendayi stared at the reddish-brown stain on the tiles. Her dead nephew's blood.

"The Vana Va Lungundu have struck a mighty blow today," she said. “To them, this is a day of victory. But," she paused and gazed intently at the councilors ranged before her, "they are not to know of it. Spread word that the Mutapa is recovering well. Only when we appoint the next Mutapa will the people know of Mabitse’s demise.”

"We don't have much time," Petiri said. "The people will want to see their Mutapa soon. The rainmaking ceremony cannot be postponed indefinitely."

“But after we tell the people of Mabitse’s death,” Gorodenna said, “we will have to wait three moons before we inaugurate his successor.”

“That’s too long,” Petiri said. “We will have war on our hands.”

"That's not entirely correct," Chenzira said. He was the most learned in the lore of the nation, and everyone deferred to him when it came to their rites, rituals, and traditions. "We can appoint the new Mutapa but not inaugurate him until the previous one has been mourned for three moons. However, the previous one was to be inaugurated today. This means that –”

“The last Mutapa wasn't Mabitse but his uncle, Chimedza,” Sundai said, cutting him off.

"Such nuances will be lost on the people," Hondo said. "As far as they are concerned, Mabitse was the Mutapa."

"Customs are customs, Hondo. Unless you have a better suggestion?" Chenzira asked.

"We should wait," he said. "Let the people mourn the new Mutapa."

"But he was not the new Mutapa," Sundai said.

"Let us not forget the most important thing," Gorodenna said. "We cannot leave this room without appointing the next Mutapa. That will give us the stability that we need and keep the people happy."

"Who would be next in line?"

"Ngoli," Chenzira said. “He was the second candidate.”

“We cannot just install him,” Mwanyisa said. “We would need to hold a fresh round of elections. Another candidate would have to be found.”

“We have been through this already,” Sundai said. “There is no other candidate. All of the other options are mere children. What will happen to us if the queens elect a child?”

"The Queen Mother would serve as regent until he came of age," Chenzira said, bowing his head towards Jendayi.

"What of Hondo?" Petiri asked. All eyes turned to Hondo. He stared straight ahead, giving no sign of having heard the suggestion.

"That cannot be," Chenzira said. "Mabitse was not inaugurated. That means that the last Mutapa was Chimedza. And Hondo is the brother of the last Mutapa. He cannot accede to the throne."

"These silly rules and customs are going to be our undoing. Hondo has proven himself in the field of battle,” Petiri said. “He has proven himself in the King's court. Who better than he is to sit on the throne?”

"It is our customs that define us and make us who we are today. Do not spit on the wisdom of the ancients. Without them, we would have nothing but darkness.”

"I forgot who I was talking to,” Petiri said, with a sneer.

"I will forget that you said that,” Chenzira answered, the eyes of the old warrior flashing out from beneath his grey eyebrows.

"I have no interest in the throne," Hondo said. “Let the queens choose, as the customs tell us they must. If they choose a baby, then we shall summon my baby cousin, and keep him safe from these vana scum. My soldiers and I will serve him and the regent."

"Thank you, Hondo," Jendayi said. “Mwanyisa, can we entrust you with this task? It will require both speed and secrecy."

"I will leave immediately, my queen," Mwanyisa said, rising to his feet. "I beg your leave?"

"You may go."

He bowed again and exited the hall.

"If I may, my queen?"

It was Hondo who spoke. Jendayi nodded.

"I fear for the drum. The Vana Valungundu came very close to getting their hands on it today. Their plan was to assassinate the Emperor and to acquire the drum. They fulfilled one of their goals. They will not rest until they fulfill the other. As long as the drum is here, it will not be safe. They will return."

"They would not risk an out-and-out attack,” Gorodenna said. “We will be prepared.”

“These men are trained to be ghosts,” Hondo said. “Subterfuge is their spear. Treachery their shield. We do not know who in the capital and who in the Mutapa's court is in league with them. The drum must be moved elsewhere to a secret location that only the Queen Mother knows of."

"That is wise counsel," Sundai said. "I agree."

Jendayi mulled the matter over. She did not like the idea of the drum being moved to a secret location. It was the one thing that held the empire together. If anything were to happen to it, the people would lose their reliance on the Mutapa. They would all go their separate ways, flocking after whichever man declared himself a leader and offered to protect them, as they did in the lands of the south. But Hondo’s plan could work if they kept it all a secret.

“I will accept to have the drum moved on only two conditions. First, it must be kept a secret. Second, I want the Vana Va Lungundu found and exterminated. Every last one of them must be destroyed.”

"I will lead a punitive expedition myself, my Queen," Hondo said. "We will hunt these jackals down. We will leave none alive."

“Set off immediately,” Jendayi said. "Time is of the essence. We have tarried too long over this already. We never took them seriously enough, and now we have paid the ultimate price. Chenzira?"

The old man bowed.

"You will take the drum tonight to a place of safekeeping, known only to you and to me."

"Then he must go alone," Hondo said. "I do not trust my men."

"Agreed," Jendayi said. "Think of such a place and let me know before you leave tonight."

They all stared at Chenzira. Chenzira stared at the drum. Then he rose to his feet.

"As you wish, my queen. I beg your leave to prepare the drum for the journey. Certain rituals must be done to appease the ancestors for moving it from its home."

"You may go."

Chenzira walked across the room to the drum. It still sat on the floor beside the brown blood stain where the Mutapa's body had lain just a few minutes earlier. He knelt before the drum, bowed low, and clapped his hands three times in a gesture of adoration and praise. Then he picked up the drum in both hands and, carrying it as he would a newborn, left the hall.

"I, too, must beg your leave, my Queen," Hondo said, rising and bowing low. "I must prepare my men to leave tonight as well. I do not want these jackals to go far."

"See to it, Hondo."

He bowed again and left.

***

Chenzira and his priests carried the drum to the inner sanctuary of the temple. This was its traditional home. Columns lined the walls like sentinels, strong yet worn, whilst its central arch curved gracefully overhead. Faint brown tints marked the sanctuary's edges and sunlight seeped in from tiny vents circling the dome, giving the room a golden hue.

They set the drum on the altar, and then the other priests fell back to a respectful distance. Chenzira was unhappy with having to move the drum or with carrying out such a ritual in a hurried way, but he understood the circumstances. As far as he could recall, and few were as well versed in the history of the kingdom as he was, such an occurrence was unprecedented. Since the time when Nyatsimba Mutota had found the drum and brought it back to the people, the drum had known one home and one home only. A priest brought him incense in a tiny porcelain bowl, and another brought him a flaming twig of baobab. Chenzira knelt, placed the bowl of incense on the floor between him and the drum, and set it alight. Thick white smoke billowed out of the bowl, engulfing the room in its musky odor. Slowly, solemnly, he chanted the praise names of the drums as he called upon the special protectors of the drum to look after it on its journey to its new home.

"Arise, bringers of clouds,

Voices of the heavens and

Thunder's Echo.

Awake, drummers of the skies,

Rhythms of the rain and

Pulses of the Earth.

Tamers of Droughts,

Hearts of the Rivers and

Chorus of the heavens, hear our plea:

Look after ngomalungundu in its new home

Forgive us for taking it away from where it belongs

Guide our steps along the way

Give us the strength that we need

To keep it safe

Protect the drum

May it never be found by its enemies

Keep it safe and lead it back home again."

He raised the bowl of incense and blew a waft of smoke over the drum three times. The incense spiraled up like the fervent prayer in his heart incarnated.

He rose to his feet. Another priest brought him a leather pouch. It was not much bigger than a leather milk or water bag and would never arouse anyone's suspicions. The priest held the bag open, and Chenzira placed the drum within it. The priest slung the pouch across Chenzira's shoulder and bowed. Then Chenzira left the inner sanctuary and set out into the night.

He traversed the narrow courtyard that separated the temple precincts from the royal palace. He was well known to the guards, and they let him through, giving neither he nor the bulky pouch that he carried a second glance.

He made his way past the high pillars that lined the corridors, giving the palace a sense of majestic height. Tall candles stood sentinel, casting long shadows as his footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor. Soon he came to the dark wooden doors of the Queen Mother's quarters, covered with intricate gold patterns. A warrior eunuch stood before them. Without a word, he nodded and let Chenzira in. The walls and floors of the Queen Mother's rooms boasted intricate patterns in soft grays and white tiles, bought from the Wachini and laid by their finest craftsmen. Scented candles emitted a warm golden glow and filled the room with the aroma of flowers. Queen Jendayi was sitting on a soft, sheepskin rug edged with gold. She covered her head with a white veil, the sign of mourning. The sadness she exuded made the tapestries that lined the wall, the mirror in the corner, and the dozens of porcelain vases and cups that dotted the room seem out of place. Chenzira noted that she was alone. Not even her usual attendant female slaves were in sight.

"My queen."

"He was still a boy." Her voice was hollow, far away, like an echo that came from a distance. He knew that she was speaking about the young man whose life had been cut off so suddenly before he even reached his prime.

"He was old enough to sit on the throne," Chenzira said, biting back the pity he felt for Jendayi.

He had little sympathy for kings and princes but did feel sorry for their wives and mothers. The men often chose their destinies, but not so the women. No man was ever forced to accept the weight of the crown. But they often leaped at the chance, paying little heed to the troubles that came along with it. Chenzira had seen a lot of suffering in the royal house, most of which they brought on themselves yet was borne by their women. He often wondered what he would do had he ever been given the mantle to lead. When he was younger, he had big dreams of making the lives of the commoners better. But now that he was older and had seen more of the hearts of men, he realized he would never take the throne, not even if he were paid to do it. He preferred to die peacefully in his sleep.

"What of his child that they want to bring here and make my responsibility? Does he have a choice? Can he say no?"

Chenzira bowed his head. "He will be safe. The ancestors will look after him."

"As they looked after his father? If that were the case, he'd be better off on his own. He doesn't need the ancestors or you or me to look after him."

Chenzira stiffened at the blasphemy but relaxed and let it go. When people were in the depths of their feelings, they were liable to say anything. Dangerous waters they were, where words that would often be later regretted were said. It was safer to change the topic.

"I have decided on a place to keep ngomalungundu."

"Good."

"I need to tell you where I am taking it."

"You are to do no such thing. Do you want to put my life in danger?"

"If anything were to happen to me, the drum would be lost forever. And that would be a far worse fate than anything that could happen to you or to me."

She looked away. He was right. The drum's whereabouts could not only be known to one person. That was how it had been lost in the first place, all those harvests earlier when Nyatsimba Mutota had set out on his journey to find it again. Though it was merely a legend, the lesson that it taught was clear.

"Where have you chosen?”

Although there was nobody else in the room, he walked across to her and bent towards her ear. Lowering his voice to whisper, he told her of a little-known cave system about half a day's journey from the capital in one of the canyons that the Great Zambezi formed as it approached its upper cataracts. The cave had been used by their forebears centuries before for their religious rites, and paintings of their ceremonies could still be discerned in the cave walls. It was the perfect place for the drum because it was close enough to the city to be retrieved at short notice. The cool, dry environment of the cave that had preserved the paintings for centuries would also ensure that the drum would survive intact.

"You have thought of everything, Chenzira," Jendayi said. "You are the only man on that council whom I trust."

"I will not fail you, my queen," Chenzira said. "I will leave immediately and should be back by midday tomorrow."

"Go well with Mwari."

"Stay well with Mwari."

Chenzira went to the royal stables and picked out a young mare whom he had ridden before and liked. It was midnight. A brooding silence lay over the city, a sullen reminder of the events that had taken place earlier. Though it was not unusual for nocturnal revelers to be about even at that time of night, the streets were deserted. Everyone was safely behind barred doors. As he rode past the shadows of the city gates, a kudu horn blast marked the change of shifts on the city watchtowers. He kicked his horse hard, the pouch banging against his side as the horse broke into a gallop and they left the city behind.

The moon was a ghostly silver orb, shimmering in the sky. As he glanced at it, his thoughts went over the days' events. The Vana Va Lungundu were becoming more and more brazen. Perhaps it would be best for the drum to remain hidden permanently. That would solve a lot of problems but would mean that the drought would continue unabated. But why had the rainmaking ceremony failed so many times? The last successful one had been held at the time of Mutapa Kwanza, just before he assumed the reins of power. The whispers amongst the priests were that he had usurped power from the rightful heir to the throne, and Mwari was punishing them as a result. The prophecy that the oracle had made ten harvests earlier came back to his mind. But he dismissed the thoughts. The empire was the will of the gods, and the drum was their gift. They would not abandon him on his mission nor abandon the people in their plight.

The horse leaped over a branch that had fallen across the road, and he nearly lost his balance. That reminded him to pay attention to where he was going. The moon hanging low in the sky overhead cast a pale gleam around him. The trees looked like statues of giants, staring at him as he rode past. He turned off the main road and onto a path that cut through a small forest near the city. It would take him to the banks of the great river and was the path used by the Barwe Tonga warriors whenever they went down to the river for their annual swearing-in ceremony. In the old days, it had been infested by bandits, but its frequent use by the soldiers had rendered it relatively safe.

His heart was pounding in his chest. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. The ancestors were with him. Besides, nobody traveled between midnight and dawn. He calculated he would be at the caves by sunrise and be back in the city by noon, as he had told the Queen mother. The dull ache in his back reminded him that he was exhausted and old. It had been a long and tiring day, and with all that had happened, he ought to have been in bed, getting a good night's sleep and recovering from the day's tragic events. But here he was, an elder who had seen fifty-seven harvests, riding alone on a dark road at night. There was a time when such trips were normal for him, and he would undertake them without the slightest strain. That was more than twenty harvests ago, before he had taken the decision to be initiated as a priest and lay down his spear and his shield.

His hand drifted to the spear that banged against his side. Just as he hoped that he wouldn't have to use it, the neighing of a horse came from the shadows to the side of the path. His heart went as cold as the waters that ran down the Mountains of Mwari. He shot a look over his shoulder and caught a slight movement in the darkness. Judging from its size, it was no wild beast. It was a man on a horse who, at that moment, burst out of the bushes and onto the path a few paces behind him. Chenzira dug his heels into his horse's side and snapped the reins hard. The horse leaped forward and galloped. Chenzira hugged its sides, a movement that came back to his mind from his time as a warrior. It made him a smaller target for the enemy.

The trampling of the hooves behind him set his teeth on edge. Chenzira slapped his horse's sides, forcing him to go faster and praying that his horse wouldn't stumble over a branch or a root in the dark and send him sprawling.

Just then, his pursuer veered off to the side, mounting the embankments to the side of the road and rapidly pulling away from him. Had he given up the chase? Or was he steering Chenzira into an ambush? Should he turn around and make a break for the city? A loud crash in the bushes ahead of him sent the thoughts crashing out of his mind, replacing them with cold, clammy fear. The man was now ahead of him and pulled his horse to a halt. The horse bucked and reared, blocking the narrow path. Chenzira pulled his reins hard and stopped. He peered at the figure on the horse before him. He was wearing a short cloak to protect him from the chill of the night and wore a wooden mask over his face. Vana Va Lungundu. Chenzira's breath caught in his lungs. The masked man leveled his spear and then raised it to a throwing position. If Chenzira attempted to turn around and escape, the man would fell him right there and then. They faced each other in silence for a moment. The heavy breathing of their horses came in short, loud rasps, their breath misting in the chilly night air.

"Give me what you are carrying," the man said. His voice was guttural and hoarse. No man spoke like that unless he were possessed by an evil spirit. Chenzira wondered why the man would disguise his voice. "Give me what you're carrying now."

"I am not carrying anything." The words came to Chenzira mouth without his thinking about them. The man was a brigand. How would he prevent him from finding the drum if he searched him?

"Give me ngomalungundu." The words made the temperature drop by a few degrees. Chenzira had to force himself to breathe. How did the man know that he had ngomalungundu?

"I don't know what you're speaking of.”

"I don't want to kill you," the man said.

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Neither one spoke. Words were not needed. How the man knew that Chenzira had ngomalungundu didn't matter. What mattered was that, somehow, he had been found out. Who was the spy that was working in the capital? Could it be the queen? Only she knew where he was going that night. Perhaps one of the guards at the watchtower? But how on earth would they know what he had and in which direction he was heading? Perhaps they had sent riders to follow him on all the paths? It was implausible but not impossible.

The man nudged his horse towards him. "I will not ask again."

Chenzira knew that he would not. One of the first lessons of his military training came back to his mind: always turn the tables from defense to attack. He yanked the spear from his side and, in one swift motion, hurled it at the man in front of him. The man ducked, and the spear went whizzing past his head. Chenzira kicked his horse hard, and it charged towards the bandit's horse. The man reacted quickly. His spear flashed out towards Chenzira in the night, catching the edge of his robe and ripping it with a loud tear. But Chenzira was past him. He leaped off his horse, wincing as the pain shot through his old knees. He grabbed his spear off the ground and readied himself for another thrust just as the bandit jumped to the ground and met Chenzira's attack with his buffalo hide shield. Chenzira had no shield. He was old and slow, but he knew that he wasn't going to give up the drum that banged against his side with every thrust of his spear. His life would mean nothing without it. If this was going to be his final battle, then he would make up for what he was lacking in speed and dexterity with sheer ferocity and determination.

At the top of his lungs, he yelled the ancient war cry of the Barwe Tonga, “Tora Ganda! Seize the Spear!” and thrust his weapon with all his might.

***

Dande awoke with a start. A sharp noise had interrupted his sleep. He wondered what it was. He heard it again. Metal against metal. A shout in the distance. It was the sound of men fighting. His mind raced through the possibilities. Most likely, bandits had fallen upon some unwary travelers. Why on earth were people traveling at this time of night? He glanced at the moon overhead and judged that it was still a few hours until dawn. The sounds came again. Whoever was fighting, they were going at it pretty hard. But it was none of his business. He stretched himself out again on his mat beneath the tree branches and tried to sleep. The clashing of metal on metal and a war cry came to his ears. It was unmistakable. The war cry of the Barwe Tonga. A brother at arms. It might be someone that he knew. A friend in need of help. Maybe even Gamba.

He leaped to his feet, grabbed his spear, and tore off into the night.

He kept his ears peeled, following the sounds of the fight as he ran. The sounds grew louder. They were coming from the water path, the road that the warriors took to the great waterfalls for the initiation ceremony. He raced through shady glades and dark thickets, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed on the ground. The thickets thinned out ahead of him, and he burst onto the forest path to see two men fighting a few paces ahead of him.

In the moonlight, he could faintly make out the two. One wore a knee-length robe and a short cape that swirled with every movement. The other wore only a loincloth, and a mask covered his face. The masked warrior struck the man in the robe on the head with a knobkerrie club. The robed man went down with a whimper. The masked man leaned over the man on the ground, removed something off his person, and then leaped onto a horse that was standing nearby. Dande broke into a run. The man on the horse turned and stared at Dande. Dande paused momentarily, as he recognized the mask. Vana Va Lungundu. His instincts kicked in, and he scanned his surroundings, preparing himself for an ambush. The Vana Va Lungundu never operated alone. Like bees and ants, they moved in swarms.

The man turned his horse, kicked it hard and thundered up the path towards the river. Dande wondered what to do as the sounds of the galloping horse faded off into the night. Would the rest of them attack him then? Who was the man on the ground? He was dressed like an elder yet had uttered the famous Barwe Tonga war cry. Dande gripped his spear and pricked his ears, ready for the attack that could come at any moment. But the night was now quiet. The crickets had resumed their chirping, and in the forest nearby, an owl hooted. It was a bad omen.

The man on the ground stirred and moaned in pain. Dande crouched beside him and gasped as he recognized the grizzled beard and the open, honest face. There was a thin trickle of blood from a gash to the side of his head, where he had been struck.

"My father," Dande said.

The man sat up, blinking back his disbelief as he recognized Dande. "Am I dead? Am I seeing a ghost?"

"It's me, Dande. I was in the forest and heard you being attacked. You fought well, my father. I got here too late. Come. Let me help you."

Dande helped Chenzira sit up. "You are hurt. Let me take you to my camp and see to your wounds."

"No," Chenzira said, shoving Dande away. "We have to go after that man and get back what he stole from me."

"Yes, I can help you. But first, we must see to your wound."

"I am fine," Chenzira said, staggering to his feet. "We must pursue the man. You have to help me. You're young and can fight him. Let us go."

"Leave him, my father. Your life isn't worth whatever he took."

"You are a fool, Dande son of Banga. You do not understand anything. Where is your horse? We have to go right now."

"What did he take that is worth your life, my father? He is just a bandit, my father. Let it go."

"I cannot let ngomalungundu go."

The words hung there like the cold in the morning air. Dande wasn't sure that he had heard right. "He took what?"

"Ngomalungundu. That is why I have to get it back. Tonight. Right now."

Dande's head reeled. Here was Chenzira, the high priest, on a forest road in the middle of the night, telling him that the most priceless artifact in the empire had been stolen from him. And that Dande had witnessed it. Dande shook his head to clear his thoughts and make sure he wasn't dreaming. Chenzira grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it hard.

"Listen to me, Dande. I was on a mission to hide ngomalungundu not far from here. The Vana Va Lungundu had murdered the Emperor and were trying for the drum. That was why we decided to move it. But now they have it. Do you know what that means?"

Dande took a step back. This was important. But even more important, it was none of his business. He had turned his back on the empire after it had turned its back on him. That was important. The empire had first turned its back on him.

"This doesn't concern me, my father."

Chenzira's eyes gleamed in the night. His nostrils flared. "What do you mean this doesn't concern you? It concerns all of us."

"The empire turned its back on me. Why should I care about it?"

Chenzira grabbed Dande's shoulders and shook him hard. "You listen to me. This is not the moment to think with your feelings but with your head. You know what ngomalungundu means to the children of this soil. If it's stolen, how much blood will water this soil before peace returns to this land?"

"This is not my business." He picked up the old man's spear from the ground and handed it back to him. "The shaft is cracked. You need to get it fixed. I'm sure you can make it back safely to the city."

He turned around and walked off. That ngomalungundu had been so close to him, close enough for him to touch, was hard to believe. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest. Whatever had happened on the road that night, whatever he had seen, was a part of the history of the empire. There had been a time when he cared. A time when he would have done whatever was in his power to regain ngomalungundu. He knew the old man was right. It was what held the empire together and gave hope to the thousands of inhabitants of those lands. The rulers had turned their backs on him, but not the people. But still, he had learned that the common people are never grateful towards those who sacrifice themselves for them. He scrambled up the embankment.

"The ancestors have made it your business," Chenzira called out after him. "That is why it was you that came here at this moment and not someone else. All your life, you have wanted to join the Barwe Tonga. Maybe the ancestors have given you this opportunity."

The words struck a chord. Dande paused. The old man was right. If he returned the drum, that would outweigh anything else that he could possibly do for the empire. He sighed and shook his head. It was too late. He didn't want anything that the empire could offer anymore.

"Remember your father's last words, Dande. Remember his words."

Dande froze where he stood. His father's eyes, looking at him from the chopping block, bore into his soul. The words that had woken him up from his sleep on too many nights to count rung in his ears.

"Return the drum to its owner."

The words sounded so loud in his head it was as if his father was standing right next to him. The words came again.

“Return the drum to its owner.”

Dande realized that it was Chenzira who had spoken. His old greying eyes shone with an otherworldly light, bright and intense. Begging. Pleading.

“I cannot do that, my father.”

“Return the drum to its owner.”

“And who is that? The Mutapa?”

“I cannot say for sure. But what I can tell you is that if you let those brigands seize it, it will never be seen again.”

The words burned into Dande’s heart like a hot coal. He shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. All the memories of his father came flooding back to him. The harvests spent learning how to hunt. How to ride a horse. How to fight. The light and laughter were replaced by shadows and darkness as Hondo’s face loomed large in his memory.

"Your disgrace remains with you forever, you dog!"

That was what Hondo had said as Dande walked away from him that last time. Dande clenched his fists. Chenzira read his thoughts.

“Do this, and Jendayi and the whole empire will know of it. Your name and your father’s name will be restored. We do not have much time.”

Dande stared at the moon and swallowed hard. Maybe the old man was right. Maybe it was the ancestors will. Maybe it was his father, giving him one final opportunity to make things right. He knew the chance would never come again. He leveled Chenzira with a cold hard stare.

“I will come with you," he said. "Not for the empire, but for my father. I will need my horse. Wait here."

He spun around and darted off into the dark. A few moments later, he returned, leading his horse by its reins. Chenzira was already on his horse, waiting. He glanced at Dande, kicked his horse hard, and galloped down the path. Dande slapped his horse’s side and rode after Chenzira like a pack of kishi were chasing him.