“Marakuru is an unblooded boy. I will not listen to his mewling!”
The Zulu youth ripped his flint knapped dagger off his wrist sheath with a single fluid motion and sent it whirling end over end at Omalumi. The razor edge tore through the older man’s hair, nicking his ear deeply, before quivering into the hardwood-paneled wall of King Proaga’s audience chamber.
Omalumi grabbed his ear in amazement, his dark skin paling as he realized what the wild youth had done to him. Snatching his iron knife from his waist, he leapt up, murder blazing from his crazed eyes.
King Proaga Zulu slammed his cudgel across the great table. “SILENCE!” Unable to stop his attack, Omalumi hit Marakuru’s standing form. Instead of skewering him, the younger man caught his wrist and knife with his own hand, twisted, and hunched his hip back and up. Omalumi flipped over, his hand crackling dangerously, as the rest of his body struck the floor. By the time he stopped sliding and rolling, he was out of breath, nursing his wrist, and his own knife was in Marakuru’s contemptuous grasp.
Proaga smashed the table again. “SILENCE! May the gods eat your children, ENOUGH!”
“My apologies, great King,” Marakuru bowed low, his forehead touching the floor. “But a blood insult was hurled at me, and a response had to be given.” He walked to the wall and plucked his own flint knife from the paneling. He absently resheathed and tied the weapon against his wrist and bowed again. “I meant no offense. I repaid his words and blood in kind.”
Omalumi had restood, holding his hand and grimacing. His ear continued to drip blood, staining his shirt and shoulder. Proaga examined both men with squinted gaze. He nodded. “The insult has been paid. Omalumi, there is no retribution for this.” He glowered. “There will be NO retribution. Understood?”
The injured Impi bowed his head. “As King Proaga wishes.”
Marakuru bowed a third time. “King Proaga has shown why he is both a great king and a great man.” Addressing Omalumi, he added, “And just because I was not of age to fight the Egypticans when we were at war with them, does not mean I am unblooded. As I have shown you, a mighty warrior with numerous kills and glories on your family, an unclouded mind and surety of prowess can defeat even the most skilled of warriors.” He handed the Impi his dagger back, flipping it at the last instant so it was presented hilt first. Omalumi cautiously reclaimed his weapon, introspectively studying the younger man.
Ignoring his gaze, Marakuru asked, “If King Proaga would permit me to continue?” The Zulu lord nodded, relaxing once more on his wooden bench. The rest of the warrior council did likewise. Marakuru pointed at Prospero, the Roman that had accompanied him here and was standing quietly throughout the recent altercation. “Our people are a warrior people. We have been as such since the seas first receded and we sprung from the ground. The ways of peace are desirous, but only once there is no excuse for war.”
“In days past, we fought side by side with the Romans. Not a man here has not heard the stories handed down from father to son of the great battles our eastern brothers have engaged in. We have fed on the glories of Rome with the same vigor that we have fed from our mother’s teat.”
“This is Prospero. Many of you know him. He has too often walked our lands, visited our homes, befriended our sons and fathers, uncles and elders. Many have learned what it is to be Roman from conversation with this man. Many have watched his arrivals with a sense of excitement and have watched his leavings with a sense of loss. He has fought with us and fought for us; as all his people have.”
“The Roman’s have always respected us as a people. They do not speak down to us, abuse our friendship, or practice deceit on our people. There are some that say that Rome took its time in the war with Egypticans, but others say that Rome’s actions actually helped hasten the end of the yellow attacks on our people. The Roman people are so good at war because they take the time to understand their enemy before engaging him.”
He pointed at the seated Omalumi. “Take this fine Impi warrior. Most here would hesitate to face him in direct combat. His strength is unmatched, his strike deadly, his aim true. Yet me, a youth…a mewling youth,” he glanced pointedly at the Impi, “of 17 summers had him disarmed and prone. Why?” He once more pointed at Prospero. “Because I have learned what it is that makes the Roman people great warriors; I have learned the importance of patience.”
“I am not as strong as Omalumi. I am not as skilled as Omalumi. I have not had as many kills as Omalumi. But,” he stabbed the air with his upraised finger, “I have more patience. I know when and where to strike my enemy to have the most impact.”
“The Roman people need our help. They have had their lands attacked. This is nothing that none of us or our ancestors have never had to face, however, never before have our attackers completely destroyed any of our cities. Never before have any of our people been obliterated from the earth. That is what has happened to the Roman, and will happen again in less than a month when the Cold Mother relaxes her legs around the earth.”
“King Proaga. I ask you, have the Arabican people ever asked to use our lands?”
“No.”
“But the Roman’s have always asked. Even when the attack against Giza would have gone faster by walking through our country, the Romans never abused their friendship. The Arabican people have ridden hard across our roads, our fields, our cities. They have snubbed our calls to leave. They have ignored our complaints that their feet mar our soil. Are we sheep to their wolves?”
The council chamber resounded with a united, “No!”
“We must be, because they traipsed across our lands like they owned it. We know that the Arabicans and the Egypticans have a shared view. They make their friendship well known. Are we friends of the Egypticans?”
Again, a joined, “No!”
“But we act as slaves or friends to the Arabicans. For we allowed them free passage on our soil and allowed them to attack our friends and kill them to every man, woman, and child. While we, a warrior race since the great beginning, did nothing. We did nothing but watch.”
“Marakuru speaks wise for his years,” said King Proaga. “he has been schooled well by the Roman. But Marakuru forgets that our people are tired of war and desire peace. Peace is something that we have not had for some time.”
The youth bowed low once more. “King Proaga is indeed wise. Wise and just. Wise and strong. But the word you seek to use is not ‘peace’, oh greatest of great kings. The word that best describes what our people desire is posterity. We desire to last forever, remembered for generations to come, immortalized in song, able to sit around the fire and tell the next generation of the glories of our days while still having those glories around us then. Does any man here want to never shout out a prayer to the Red God again? Does any man here not want to feel the heat of battle race through their veins?”
“No!” Even Proaga added his voice to this, raising his cudgel high.
Marakuru shook his head. “No, great King. Peace for the Zulus is not what we want. No Zulu wants to sit by the road and watch armies march unchecked across his lands. No Zulu wants to live without ever knowing the heat of battle and the cries of war.” He took a bundle from Prospero, placing it at King Proaga’s feet. “The Roman’s are asking us for our help. A people who we look up to for war and valor is asking us to help them. What better honor is there? They want us to march against the bloodied banner of the Egyptican lapdogs, the Arabican hordes that despoil our land.”
“In exchange for our support, the are willing to offer us full rights to march if needed across their properties, support of their iron stores and surpluses, and the design and secrets of their mounted warriors and their almost impenetrable armor. Plus, that bundle contains over 5 Roman kilos of coinage. They are willing to do this if we join them in stopping the march of Arabican people from flooding the land with their unruly and evil ways.”
The council chamber stared hungrily at King Proaga. The great king nudged the heavy bundle with his foot, staring at the youthful warrior and the quiet Roman. Finally, he rose to his feet and said, “Marakuru has spoken what is in the hearts of all Zulus. We will aid our friends in this. Come the warming suns and the death of the Cold Mother, we will strike out at the unexpecting Arabicans.”
“The Zulu nation is going back to war.”