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Let them hate, so long as they fear.
-Accius
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“Now, boy, you have heard enough to know with what you are being faced with. Come, we shall have some supper, yes?”
The statement, although sounding like a question, was much more imperative than Mwamba sensed, but he knew enough not to disturb the will of Dingane. The two of them walked through the open door and out into the sunlight of the early evening, vicious smoke arose from the camp as dozens of fires were being started. In the distance a group of soldiers had gathered around a bonfire in a field and were obviously drunk and having loud merriments.
Fingers loosely coiled around Mwamba’s neck, Dingane led him to a large tented structure in the midst of the makeshift buildings. In the center of the tent was the obese butcher that Mwamba had seen from the window, and in front the of monstrous man was a huge cast iron kettle, spherical, about a meter wide, set upon a bed of hot coals. Steam arose from the stew and made the air thick with the smell of harsh spices and sickly flavors. About thirty or forty soldiers were scattered throughout the giant mess hall among a couple dozen tables and benches. The beastly chef stirred the giant kettle with a long carved wooden spoon, about the size of a shovel. After a few moments, he scooped out some of the contents and slapped it into a bucket at his feet.
Dingane forced Mwamba to a table near to the cook, and called out to the surrounding crowds, “Everyone, it is time for this young man to choose whether he accepts my challenge or whether we feast on his flesh!” Although the old man had only spoken in whispers before, the true depths of the power of his voice now echoed out, and the entire camp went silent for but a moment.
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