Ananais stepped from the wagon, pulling Lake to him.
‘Now you get up there, lad. And give them your fighting-for-the-land speech. They’re ready for it now, by thunder!’
‘No fine speeches, indeed,’ said Lake, grinning.
‘Get up there, Lake, and lift their blood!’
10
Pagan took the village woman Parise to an inn at the southern quarter of the city, where he passed three gold coins to the innkeeper. The man’s eyes bulged at the sight of the small fortune glittering in his palm.
‘I want the woman and the babe to receive your best,’ said Pagan softly. ‘I will leave more gold with friends, should this amount prove insufficient.’
‘I will treat her like my own sister,’ said the man.
‘That is good,’ said Pagan, smiling broadly and leaning over him. ‘Because if you do not, I shall eat your heart.’
‘There is no need to threaten me, black man,’ said the stocky balding innkeeper, drawing back his shoulders and clenching his powerful fists. ‘I require no instructions on how to treat a woman.’
Pagan nodded. ‘These are not good times to rely on trust alone.’
‘No, that’s true enough. Will you join me for a drink?’
The two men sat together nursing their ale, while Parise fed the babe in the privacy of her new room. The innkeeper’s name was Ilter and he had lived in the city for twenty-three years, ever since his farm failed during the great drought.
‘You know you have given me too much money, don’t you?’ he said.
‘I know,’ answered Pagan. Ilter nodded and drained the rest of his ale.
‘I have never seen a black man before.’
‘In my land, beyond the dark jungles and the Mountains of the Moon, the people have never seen a white man, though there are legends that speak of such.’
‘Strange world, isn’t it?’ said Ilter.
Pagan stared into the golden depths of his drink, suddenly homesick for the rolling veldt, the sunsets of scarlet and the coughing roar of the hunting lion.
He remembered the morning of the Day of Death. Would he ever forget it? The ships with black sails had beached in White Gold Bay and the raiders had swiftly made their way inland to his father’s village. The old man had gathered his warriors swiftly, but there were not enough and they had been butchered at the last before the old king’s kraal.
The raiders had come in search of gold, for legends were many concerning the people of the bay, but the old mines had been long worked out and the people had turned to the growing gold of maize and corn. In their fury the raiders took the women and tortured many, raping and murdering them at the last. In all four hundred souls passed over on that day – among them Pagan’s father, mother, three sisters, a younger brother and four of his daughters.
One child escaped during the opening moments of the attack and ran like the wind, finding Pagan and his personal guard hunting in the High Hills.
With sixty men he raced barefoot over the veldt, his long-bladed spear resting on his shoulder. They reached the village soon after the raiders had left. Taking in the scene at a glance Pagan read the tracks. Three hundred men or more had attacked his father’s kraal – too many for him to handle. Taking his spear, he snapped it across his knee, discarding the long shaft and hefting the stabbing blade like a short sword. His men followed suit.
‘I want many dead – but one alive,’ said Pagan. ‘You, Bopa, will take the live one and bring him to me. For the rest, let us drink blood.’
‘We hear and obey, Kataskicana,’ they shouted, and he led them into the jungle and on to the bay.
Moving like black ghosts, they came upon the party singing and laughing as they made their way back to their ships. Pagan and his sixty fell upon them like demons of hell, hacking and stabbing. Then they were gone into the jungle.
Eighty raiders died in that one attack and one man was missing, presumed dead. For three days he wished that were so.