down. Obviously the man is a bounder. You’ll remember what Fairbairn said about him last night. And of course he was bluffing about Matabeleland being Portuguese territory . . .’
‘Yes, my dear, but I believe that they have always claimed it as being . . . what is the phrase? “In their African sphere of influence.” Maybe this is recognised in Whitehall. Don’t forget that Portugal is supposed to be our oldest ally. So perhaps they have some sort of case. All I am saying is that you should stay away from him.’
‘Yes, well, if you say so, Alice. But I shan’t lose any sleep in worrying about him.’
They were interrupted by the inDuna , who approached them accompanied by Mzingeli. The tracker looked concerned. ‘King want to see you now,’ he said.
Fonthill wrinkled his nose. ‘Very well. Let me just make myself presentable for his majesty. You had better come with me, Mzingeli, to interpret, please.’
This time Fonthill and Mzingeli were ushered straight into the king’s house. They found him half sitting, half lying on a chaise-longue, but dressed very differently now. Despite the warmth in the dark interior, he wore a pair of cord trousers, rather the worse for wear, a dirty flannel shirt, a tweed coat and a billycock hat in which was stuck a feather. One foot was encased in a lace-up boot; the other wore an old carpet slipper with its end cut away to reveal a swollen, obviously inflamed big toe.
The total effect was incongruous and Simon bit back a smile. Instead he bowed his head in greeting as Lobengula waved him to sit on a pile of skins before him. Mzingeli squatted at his side and the king gestured to him to interpret.
‘He ask,’ began the tracker, ‘how was Queen Victoria when last you see her?’
‘Er . . . very well, thank you, sir. Ah, she is still sad, of course, because her husband died - even though this was about twenty years ago.’
‘She got no other husbands left?’
‘No. It is our custom only to have one spouse at a time. And she has never married again.’
‘That very silly. But your business. Give her my salute when next you see her.’
‘I will indeed, sir.’
The king shifted his afflicted foot slightly and grimaced in pain, but he continued, through Mzingeli: ‘You know Rhodes?’
‘Only slightly. I have met him once, but that was eight years ago.’
‘He never come to see me. Only send his people. If he so interested in my land, why he no come and talk to me himself?’
‘I don’t know, sir. However, I do know that he is very busy with affairs of state in the Cape Colony. I understand that he may soon be elected prime minister there.’
‘Humph. That not king.’
‘No, sir. But it means he is the leader of this very big land.’
‘Not as big as my land.’
‘With respect, sir, it is about twice as large.’ Fonthill was not sure about this, but he rather doubted if the king would be able to check the fact.
A silence fell on the gathering, only broken when a huge black woman entered, bearing a gourd of beer for Simon. She wore native dress, which meant very few garments. The king nodded towards her.
‘This my sister, Nini. She not married.’
Unsure about the significance of this last piece of information, Fonthill struggled to his feet and bowed. Mzingeli, aware of the proprieties, inclined his head from the sitting position. But Nini strode forward, seized Simon’s hand and shook it vigorously, an act that made her huge bare breasts sway alarmingly. ‘How is you?’ she asked, disdaining to use Mzingeli’s interpretive skills.
‘I is . . . I am very well, ma’am. I am delighted to meet you.’
‘You have wife?’
‘Yes, she is with me.’ A look of what might have been disappointment came across Nini’s otherwise happy features. ‘You know Queen Victoria?’
Fonthill shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. This was
‘Yes, my dear, but I believe that they have always claimed it as being . . . what is the phrase? “In their African sphere of influence.” Maybe this is recognised in Whitehall. Don’t forget that Portugal is supposed to be our oldest ally. So perhaps they have some sort of case. All I am saying is that you should stay away from him.’
‘Yes, well, if you say so, Alice. But I shan’t lose any sleep in worrying about him.’
They were interrupted by the inDuna , who approached them accompanied by Mzingeli. The tracker looked concerned. ‘King want to see you now,’ he said.
Fonthill wrinkled his nose. ‘Very well. Let me just make myself presentable for his majesty. You had better come with me, Mzingeli, to interpret, please.’
This time Fonthill and Mzingeli were ushered straight into the king’s house. They found him half sitting, half lying on a chaise-longue, but dressed very differently now. Despite the warmth in the dark interior, he wore a pair of cord trousers, rather the worse for wear, a dirty flannel shirt, a tweed coat and a billycock hat in which was stuck a feather. One foot was encased in a lace-up boot; the other wore an old carpet slipper with its end cut away to reveal a swollen, obviously inflamed big toe.
The total effect was incongruous and Simon bit back a smile. Instead he bowed his head in greeting as Lobengula waved him to sit on a pile of skins before him. Mzingeli squatted at his side and the king gestured to him to interpret.
‘He ask,’ began the tracker, ‘how was Queen Victoria when last you see her?’
‘Er . . . very well, thank you, sir. Ah, she is still sad, of course, because her husband died - even though this was about twenty years ago.’
‘She got no other husbands left?’
‘No. It is our custom only to have one spouse at a time. And she has never married again.’
‘That very silly. But your business. Give her my salute when next you see her.’
‘I will indeed, sir.’
The king shifted his afflicted foot slightly and grimaced in pain, but he continued, through Mzingeli: ‘You know Rhodes?’
‘Only slightly. I have met him once, but that was eight years ago.’
‘He never come to see me. Only send his people. If he so interested in my land, why he no come and talk to me himself?’
‘I don’t know, sir. However, I do know that he is very busy with affairs of state in the Cape Colony. I understand that he may soon be elected prime minister there.’
‘Humph. That not king.’
‘No, sir. But it means he is the leader of this very big land.’
‘Not as big as my land.’
‘With respect, sir, it is about twice as large.’ Fonthill was not sure about this, but he rather doubted if the king would be able to check the fact.
A silence fell on the gathering, only broken when a huge black woman entered, bearing a gourd of beer for Simon. She wore native dress, which meant very few garments. The king nodded towards her.
‘This my sister, Nini. She not married.’
Unsure about the significance of this last piece of information, Fonthill struggled to his feet and bowed. Mzingeli, aware of the proprieties, inclined his head from the sitting position. But Nini strode forward, seized Simon’s hand and shook it vigorously, an act that made her huge bare breasts sway alarmingly. ‘How is you?’ she asked, disdaining to use Mzingeli’s interpretive skills.
‘I is . . . I am very well, ma’am. I am delighted to meet you.’
‘You have wife?’
‘Yes, she is with me.’ A look of what might have been disappointment came across Nini’s otherwise happy features. ‘You know Queen Victoria?’
Fonthill shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. This was
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