Chapter One
Southern Africa, 1215 AD
Even as a slim crescent in the black heavens, the moon bestowed enough light upon the ramparts to give their layers of granite blocks a silver luster. These walls rose so high that not even the tallest giraffes of this far southern country could crane their necks up to look over them… or so Drazhan Khazanov imagined. Not that the man from the distant land known as Ruthenia had never seen grand architecture in his life, but after riding across wild savanna and hills for the past several days, he had not expected to discover such a colossal castle in this remote hinterland.
With defenses like that to scale, his mission would present more of a challenge than expected. Such would be the price of his freedom.
It was not like Drazhan had arrived unprepared. After tethering his donkey to an aloe tree, the Ruthenian removed a coil of rope from his packsaddle and stole up to the foot of the wall on the toes of his boots. He turned his head sideways twice to check if there were any glowing balls of guards’ torchlight drifting over the top.
Nothing. Drazhan unwound the rope, whirled one end above his head as high as he could, and flung it over the wall’s upper edge until he heard the faint clink of the attached grappling hook. He tugged to ensure it had found a secure purchase and then heaved himself up the rampart’s height, sprinting over its surface to propel himself faster.
Although the mighty fortification was almost twenty feet wide where Drazhan had scaled it, it did not have the parapets or crenellations that many others across the known world sported to shield guards or archers. Instead, his hook had caught onto one of several soapstone posts sticking up from the wall, those posts carved in the form of seated eagles, the heraldic birds of the Kingdom of Zimbabwe. Studying the wall again, the Ruthenian could not find any stairs or ladders connecting the top of the wall to the ground. Had the Zimbabwean palace’s architects ever intended for men to mount these defenses? Drazhan didn’t think so.
Still, it was a view that commanded awe, even at night. Within the space enclosed by the great ramparts sat several neighborhoods of thatch-roofed rondavels, many of which were separated from one another with shorter inner walls, built of the same stone as the outer wall.
Overlooking this entire complex to the southeast was a stout, knob-topped tower — the royal granary, as Drazhan recalled being informed. If he squinted through the darkness to the northwest, looking beyond the whole palatial enclosure, he could tease out the moonlit contours of an even vaster city of huts sprawling to the horizon, the smog left behind by evening cooking fires still floating over it.
Or, he wondered, did that burning smell have something to do with the orange firelight flickering through the open entryway within the outer wall further north of him?
The Ruthenian glided along the base of the wall until he was directly right above the entrance. Two men stood outside next to torches on posts, each man armed with an iron spear and a cowhide shield. Drazhan looked at the situation and reasoned he could possibly carry on his mission while leaving them alone. Could he work without them looking?
It would be safer to draw them away from the picture altogether, he concluded.
He unslung his bow and shot an arrow far into the distant blackness. While it flew, he hid from the men’s sight, lying flat down on the top of the wall. Then the guards, upon hearing the impact, hurried off to investigate where his arrow had hit. Perfect.
Drazhan hopped into a mopane tree at the rampart’s inner flank and climbed down into the enclosure’s dusty floor, careful not to let the leaves and branches scratch him too loudly. Having memorized the layout of the royal complex from his earlier scans, he tiptoed through a labyrinth of huts and inner walls, hovering his right hand above his sheathed saber’s hilt just in case things went sour. He squeezed himself through a gap in one of the interior walls — and suddenly found himself standing before the largest hut in the area, which sat alone within its own subdivision.
If Zimbabwean rulers were like those of every other kingdom in the world, this had to be their Mambokadzi’s bedchamber.
The Ruthenian stepped into the hut through an arched doorway framed with elephant tusks. Narrow rectangular apertures in the building’s earthen sides drew in enough moonlight to reveal a broad bed atop a gold-ringed ebony frame in the middle of the room. The lion-skin bedspread, fringed with leopard hide, rose and fell with gentle regularity over a form with curves like an hourglass.
Drazhan peeled off both the bedspread and cotton sheets for a better view at his mission’s target. He saw her voluptuous figure, dark and sleek as onyx, and unclothed except for the copper, ivory, and diamond-studded gold jewelry looped around her limbs, neck, and brow. Even the short, frizzy coils of her hair sparkled like the stars in the sky above. Beneath each of her eyes ran a short line of dot-shaped scarifications, which accentuated her beauty in Drazhan’s eyes, even if other Ruthenians would have considered it an ugly heathen custom. Small wonder his master wanted this woman in his harem!
Then Drazhan noticed something else, clutched between her fingers as she slept. A glinting dagger sporting three elongated blades, like a forked stiletto.
He would have to disarm her first. Holding his breath, he began by pinching the dagger’s hilt and sliding it out of her hands. Her grip tightened. Once it relaxed again, he inserted his fingertips under hers and pulled them open without any sudden jerks, releasing the weapon at last. She didn’t stir. He smirked with triumph and reached to touch the stiletto himself.
Something growled behind him. A pair of yellow dots blazed like twin flames in the shadows beside the bed, with bared fangs beneath them glistening wet with drool. The Ruthenian stepped back to the doorway and tore out his saber, brandishing it as a warning threat. Stepping into the light, the black leopard responded with a cough-like roar, launching hot spittle onto his face and flinging its front paw at him. Its claws sliced through the fabric of his tunic to cut the skin of his chest.
Drazhan staggered backward against a dresser as the feline assailant sprang for another attack. He thrust his fist into its nose. With a high-pitched yowl, the cat rolled on the floor away from him before leaping back onto its paws. Drazhan charged with his saber drawn.
Something flashed before his eyes and pried it out of his hands.
The Mambokadzi had caught the Ruthenian’s saber between the blades of her stiletto. With one flick of her wrist, she threw the sword past her bed.
The leopard lowered itself to the ground, tail lashing, glaring at Drazhan. When the woman patted its head, the beast relaxed into a resting posture like an obedient housecat.
“Restrain yourself now, Chatunga,” the Mambokadzi said. “You may eat later. First, I must know who our inopportune visitor is.”
She pointed her dagger at the Ruthenian, the middle of its three blades digging into his throat. “You heard me. Who are you and who sent you?”
He grinned with the desperation of a boy caught in misbehavior. “Call me Drazhan of Ruthenia. And it was the Sultan of Kilwa who sent me to, uh…”
The Mambokadzi’s facial muscles crinkled with disgust. “Oh, him? I know what that Swahili jackal wants. I even figured he’d go to any lengths to get it, after all the offers I’ve turned down from him. Though I’d have never expected him to send a pale European like you…”
“If you must know, Your Highness, I didn’t come all the way to these parts by choice. I was…brought here, against my will, through many changing hands. The Sultan promised that if I could deliver you to him, he’d give me back the freedom I’ve been robbed of for so long.”
Drazhan pulled up one of his sleeves to expose a dark red welt on his shoulder, one of many his body had collected ever since those Cuman raiders from the steppes had dragged him away from his village as a youth.
The Mambokadzi’s features softened, a twinkle of sympathy in her eyes. She withdrew her stiletto. “You poor soul. Nobody on Mwari Almighty’s earth should have to endure such abuse at the hands of men.”
“So, would you know of another way I could earn my freedom back?” Drazhan asked. “It isn’t like I can return to Kilwa and buy it from him without you. To a man like him, O Mambokadzi, you would be the ultimate trophy—as would your kingdom once you are joined.”
“Ugh, if only you could just put that greedy little lecher out of his misery. After all, a dead man can’t own a living one, can he?”
“But then one of his family would take his place as Sultan. And whomever they might be, they would never forgive me even if I were freed.”
“Oh, really? And how do you think my people would feel if you carried me off to your Sultan? Do you believe that they would let their Mambokadzi languish in a harem as his ‘trophy’ while he pilfers our wealth? And would you want them all to suffer just so you can be free?”
Drazhan opened his mouth, but no words could come out. No kingdom or people could be worth his freedom as one man. Nor should any woman, queen or not, be forced into a man’s possession. If so, he would be trading his own freedom for hers. Yet taking his master’s life didn’t seem like a better solution, especially if it led to that man’s grieving family seeking vengeance against his slayer.
The Mambokadzi’s full lips stretched into a sly smile. “If you can’t think of an answer to your dilemma, I might have one. You wouldn’t mind staying here a little longer, would you, Drazhan?”
He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that I may know of a way to, ahem, ‘coax’ your Sultan into freeing you. It might not please him at first, and he might even fight it at first. But while he and I are negotiating our terms, you and I can get to know each other better. How does that sound, handsome one?”
She extended an arm to stroke the yellow hair flowing down from Drazhan’s fur-capped head, her eyelashes fluttering. Warmth swelled both in his cheeks and crotch. He chuckled. “If you say so, O Mambokadzi of Zimbabwe.”
“Call me Ruvarashe, or Ruva for short. Oh, and this would be my little cub, Chatunga. I’m sure you two will get along… won’t you?”
She gave her leopard an affectionate rub on its head, but the big cat’s luminous eyes were still drawn arrows aimed at their Ruthenian guest. He could swear he had heard the beast hiss through its fangs.
Drazhan shrugged. “I’m sure he and I will be able to cope with one another, eventually.”
“I must say, though, you could stand to sharpen your fighting skills while you’re staying with me,” Ruva said. “A big, strong warrior like you shouldn’t be so easy to disarm.”
“C’mon, you only caught me off guard. I could cleave any man’s skull past the chin if I wanted to, mark my words!”
Ruva cocked an eyebrow. “Sure, you could. We’ll see how you fare in practice against my soldiers over the coming weeks.”
Chapter Two
Many mtepe plied the azure waters east of Kilwa’s coast, driven by the breezes that pushed woven palm-frond sails. The shark-finned junks moored to the harbor within view of the Sultan’s palace dwarfed these native boats like whales amongst a vast school of herring. Shimmering steel rivers of armored soldiers poured from the wooden leviathans’ decks down wide gangplanks, flooding onto the piers and following the strutting, silk-robed officials.
Even when watching this arrival from the security of his balcony, in the balmy morning air, Sultan Hussein ibn Suleiman shivered with anger and dread like it was a far northern winter. They had promised to be more patient with him, to give him one more chance. They had no business coming here so soon, before he was ready. Nonetheless, he could not refuse them. He may have been the son of one of the greatest conquering Sultans in Swahili history, but they had the mightiest empire in the known world. It was no contest.
If the Sultan had anyone to blame for the terrible situation in which he found himself, it was his damned Ruthenian bodyguard. What was taking that pale-skinned slave so long? He should have come back with the Mambokadzi at least half a month ago.
There was no more time to waste fretting. The Sultan’s visitors would be banging on his door any moment. Already, he could hear the chinking of their henchmen’s lamellar armor as they advanced along the palm-lined shore, parallel to the palace’s southeastern wall.
One of his younger servants dashed out onto the balcony with a papyrus scroll. “It’s from the Mambokadzi of Zimbabwe, Your Majesty.”
Underneath his umber skin, the blood drained from the Sultan’s face, chilling the air around him even more. “Can it wait? I have important business to attend to.”
After dismissing the boy, he hurried through the arched coral-stone hallways to the royal kitchen. “Fix up the most lavish breakfast you can! You have two hours!” he barked. While his cooks went to work, the other servants laid down a long carpet on one side of the audience courtyard for the dishes to be placed. The Sultan took his seat at one end. Sweat streamed down his brow as his crossed legs continued to tremble.
Before long, servers were scurrying out with platters of fruit, fish, and fried mandazi pastries as his guests strode into the sunlight with their armed retinue. Foremost among them was a tall, clean-shaven man, the embroidered image of a gold-scaled, serpentine monster twisting over his blood-red hanfu. A proud sneer crossed his light yellow-brown face, as if sculpted that way by Allah Himself.
The Sultan spread his arms apart and bowed his head. “Salam aleikum to you, Minister Wong Dongxiang. You arrived on time for breakfast.”
He raised a porcelain cup for a serving girl, who began to pour a steaming hot cup of coveted Ethiopian coffee. In her haste, she sent half the scalding liquid cascading onto his knee. He winced and groaned, his anger quickly triggered amidst the other tension gripping him, but he compelled himself not to chastise her in front of the imperial minister.
Wong Dongxiang looked at the growing spread of food, a sneer crossing his face. “It appears you were quick to prepare this ‘feast’.”
“In my defense, you did return sooner than I anticipated,” the Sultan said. “I daresay you ambushed me before I was ready.”
“Before you were ready?” Wong folded his arms and began chuckling. “I take it you still haven’t had luck courting that Mambokadzi of Zimbabwe.”
“No, I am afraid she still hasn’t been receptive to my offers. Therefore, I’ve had to send one of my slaves to go fetch her for me. Normally I wouldn’t resort to such methods, mind you, but as you know, I am a desperate man.”
“Which explains all your delays, O Sultan of Kilwa. I speak for both myself and my Emperor when I say we’re on the sharpest edge of our patience with you. If one more year goes by without the repayment we’re owed, your little Sultanate will be blasted into dust.”
The Sultan’s messenger barged in again, still with the scroll in his hand. “Since you mentioned the Mambokadzi, that brings me to what she sent us today,” he said, looking up from the scroll. “She says she has Drazhan the Ruthenian captive, Your Majesty.”
The drinking cup plummeted from the Sultan’s hand, shattering into pieces while spilling coffee onto the rug. “Allah, damn it all!” he cried. “No wonder he hasn’t come back.”
“She says she’ll return your slave to you only if you surrender your pursuit of her once and for all,” the messenger said.
Wong Dongxiang snickered behind his thin lips. “Sounds like a scenario you should have accounted for. So much for your hopes of paying out from her treasury! Where will you find the spare coin for us now, O Sultan?”
Ever since he was a boy, the future Sultan, Hussein, had dreamed of and worked toward continuing his father Suleiman’s legacy as a conquering uniter of Swahili cities. Instead, so far, he had squandered his adulthood fighting his brothers over the throne. They were like hyenas over a carcass, to say nothing of how their squabbling had drained the Sultanate’s coffers. Had the Chinese not lent him coin and other aid, Hussein would have never secured his place as the next Sultan. Now he realized that by making those deals, he had taken himself—and his people—out of one series of relatively petty wars into the looming shadow of a far greater and permanent danger … annihilation. His efforts to bring the wealth of Zimbabwe under his power, with its beautiful young matriarch by his side, had backfired.
He should have predicted as much. If he could not trust any of his slaves or servants to take the Mambokadzi for him, the Sultan would have to do it himself. Now he knew who could help him best.
“All may not be lost, O Minister,” he said. “I see you’ve brought quite a formidable force with you, equipped with the deadliest weapons in the world. Or so it seems to me.”
“That is a fair assessment,” Wong said with a forced grin.
“Suppose you and I were to march on Zimbabwe together,” the Sultan said. “All its wealth will become yours as my repayment to you, and the Mambokadzi will be mine at last. What do you say?”
Wong Dongxiang pressed his fingertips together, his smile spreading even wider. “Assuming all goes according to your plan, I don’t see why that would be a poor investment on our part. You have a deal.”
The Sultan looked up to the heavens, with the sun scintillating near its zenith. “Then may Allah bless us both on our campaign.”