Authors: Wilbur Smith
‘Ah, young Ballantyne.’ Chaim Cohen looked up from his register, the wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose, sweating jovially in the dust and blazing sun.
‘Haven’t seen you in some time.’
‘Didn’t have a fancy, Mr Cohen. Caught a new one now,’ Ralph lied glibly.
‘What happened to – what did you call her, some kaffir name?’
‘She died. Lost a leg and died after her last fight.’
‘What is your new lady’s name?’
‘Salome, sir.’
‘Salome it is, then. That will be two pounds, young Ballantyne.’ The coins disappeared with uncanny speed into the enlarged pocket that Cohen had sewn into the inside of his long
frock coat, and with relief Ralph sidled into the crowd, trying to lose himself until the draw was announced.
He found a place near the tailboard of one of the wagons, where he was partly concealed and from where he could watch the ladies in the crowd. Some of them were young and pretty, and they knew
it. Every few minutes one would pass close enough to Ralph for him to hear the frou-frou of her petticoats and to smell her, for the heat brought out the subtle musk of womankind that was
emphasized and not concealed by the sweet reek of French perfume. It seemed to catch in Ralph’s throat, too poignant to breathe, and there was a hollow aching place at the base of his belly
and weird thoughts in his head.
The fruity smell of cognac suddenly blotted out that French perfume and a hoarse voice close to his ear put the imaginings to flight.
‘You are fighting a new fancy, I see, young Ballantyne.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right, sir, Mr Lennox.’
Mr Barry Lennox was a big man, a brawler with a reputation for quick fists that was respected as far as the river workings. He was a plunger, who had bet a thousand guineas on a single cock
fight, and won. That was in the days before civilization had reached the diggings, but now he chanced as much on the spider fights. He was a rich man by the standards of New Rush, for he owned
eighteen claims in the No. 4 Roadway block. He had the red-veined cheeks and husky voice of the heavy drinker, but what intrigued Ralph most about this man was that he employed three young women,
not one but three women to keep house for him. One was a pretty pug-faced daffodil-yellow Griqua girl, another a bold-eyed Portuguese mulatto from Mozambique, and the third a mulberry black Basuto
with haunches on her like a brood mare. Whenever Ralph thought about this dusky trio, which was often, his imagination conjured up a garden of forbidden delights.
Of course, neither Ralph’s father nor any other member of the Committee would acknowledge Lennox’s existence and cut him elaborately on the street. Lennox’s application to join
the Kimberley Club had been met with a record-breaking fifty-six black balls. But Ralph removed his cap respectfully now, as Lennox asked throatily:
‘What happened to Inkosikazi? I made a bundle on her.’
‘She died, Mr Lennox. Old age, I suppose.’
‘Baboon spiders live nearly twenty years and more,’ Lennox grunted. ‘Let’s have a look at your new lady.’
‘I don’t like to unsettle her – not just before a bout, sir.’
‘Does your daddy know where you spend your Sunday afternoons, young Ballantyne?’
‘All right, sir.’ Ralph capitulated swiftly and lifted the lid of the basket a crack. Lennox cocked a bloodshot but knowledgeable eye at it.
‘That looks like a strong left front – new grown.’
‘No, sir. Well, it might be. Caught her just the other day. Don’t know her history, Mr Lennox.’
‘Boy, you wouldn’t be running a ringer, would you! ’Fess up now.’ Lennox looked sternly into Ralph’s eyes, and Ralph dropped them.
‘You don’t want to go up before the Diggers’ Committee, do you? The shame you would bring on your daddy. It might break his heart.’
It might not break Zouga Ballantyne’s heart, but it would certainly break Ralph’s head.
Miserably Ralph shook his head. ‘Very well then, Mr Lennox. It’s Inkosikazi, she grew a new leg. I thought I’d get better odds – but, I’ll withdraw her now.
I’ll go tell Mr Cohen I lied.’
Barry Lennox leaned so close that his lips touched Ralph’s ear and the smell of fine old cognac on his breath almost overpowered him.
‘You don’t do anything so stupid, Ralph, my lad. You fight your fancy, and if she wins there will be a special treat for you. That’s promise. Barry Lennox will see you right
– and then some. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got some business to attend to.’ Lennox twirled his cane and drove a wedge into the crowd with his bow-fronted belly.
Chaim Cohen climbed up onto the disselboom of the nearest wagon to the arena and began chalking up the draw on a greenruled board, and the bookmakers craned for the matchings and then began
calling their odds for each bout.
‘Threes on Mr Gladstone in the first.’
‘Dreadnought even money. Buttercup fives in the second.’
Ralph waited as bout after bout was drawn, and each time that Inkosikazi’s name was omitted his nerves stretched tighter. There were only ten bouts, and Mr Cohen had finished chalking the
ninth already.
‘Bout No. 10,’ he called as he wrote. ‘This is a biblical match, gentlemen and ladies, a diamondiferous bout straight out of the Old Testament.’ Chaim Cohen used the
adjective ‘diamondiferous’ to describe anything from a thoroughbred horse to a fifteen-year-old whisky. ‘A pure diamondiferous match, the one and only, the great and deadly,
Goliath!’ There was a burst of applause and whistles of approval. Goliath was the champion spider of the diamond fields, with twelve straight kills to her credit. ‘Matched against your
favourite is a pretty little newcomer, Salome!’
The name was greeted with indifference as the punters scrambled to get money onto the champion.
‘I’m giving tens on Salome,’ called one desperate bookie as he tried to stem the flow of wagers. They were taking Goliath at odds on, and Ralph shared his distress.
Leaden-footed he traipsed back to the alleyway. Kamuza had heard the draw announced.
‘Give us back the sixteen queens,’ he greeted Ralph; but the demand stung Bazo:
‘Inkosikazi will drink her blood—’
‘The other is a giant—’
‘Inkosikazi is quick, fast as a mamba, brave as a honey badger.’ Bazo chose the most fearless and indomitable fighters of the veld as comparisons for his fancy.
They argued while the sudden roar of voices from the Square signalled the beginning of the first bout, and the squeals of the ladies told that the kill had been swiftly made.
They argued fiercely, Bazo becoming so agitated that he could no longer sit still. He leapt up and began to
giya
, the challenge dance of the Matabele warrior preparing for battle.
‘Thus Inkosikazi sprang, and thus she drove her assegai into the chest of Nelo,’ Bazo shouted, as he imitated the death stroke of his fancy; but the Matabele always found difficulty
in pronouncing the letter ‘R’, and the Roman Emperor’s was mutilated in the recounting of the battle.
‘You must decide,’ Ralph broke in on his heroics, and Bazo abruptly ended his
giya
and looked at Kamuza.
In matters of money Kamuza was without question the leader of the group, just as Bazo was in all else.
‘Henshaw,’ Kamuza asked gravely. ‘Are you risking your four queens against this monster?’
‘Inkosikazi is risking her life,’ Ralph replied, without hesitation. ‘And I am risking my money for her.’
‘So be it, then. We will follow you.’
T
here were only minutes left before the tenth bout of the afternoon. Already Chaim Cohen was upending his schooner of beer and, considerably
refreshed, wiping the froth from his whiskers. At any moment he would climb back onto the wagon and call for the handlers to bring their fighters to the arena for the final bout.
Ralph still had five sovereigns to place.
‘You said twelves,’ he argued desperately with the ferret-eyed bookmaker in the flowing Ascot tie.
‘If you are betting your own fancy, then it’s tens.’
‘That’s welshing.’
‘Life is all a welsh,’ the bookie shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it.’
‘All right, I’ll take it.’ Ralph snatched the slip and pushed towards the circle of wagons, and once again found his way blocked by the grand belly of Barry Lennox.
‘Are you betting her yourself?’
‘With everything I’ve got, sir.’
‘That’s all I wanted to know, Ralph me boy.’ And he strode to the nearest bookmaker, pulling his purse from his hip pocket just as Chaim Cohen crowed from his perch on the
wagon.
‘Lovely ladies and sporting gentlemen! The tenth and final bout of the day! The mighty Goliath meets the dancing lady Salome!’
G
oliath crabbed into the glass-topped arena. Her four pairs of legs undulated sinuously so that her progress was stately and deliberate.
She was a huge beast, newly moulted, for her chintyl armoured covering was a lustrous coppery colour and the long hairs that covered her abdomen and legs were burnished like newly spun gold
wire. She left a double necklace of tiny stippled footprints in the swept sand of the arena floor, and the crowd cheered her. Their inhibitions had long been lost in the primeval conflicts in the
little arena, and most of them had been drinking since noon: there was a peculiar ring of ferocity and cruelty in their voices.
‘Kill her!’ screamed a pretty blonde girl with gold ringlets and flowers in her hat. ‘Rip her to pieces!’ Her face flushed feverishly and her eyes were glittering.
‘All right, Mr Ballantyne. Put your fancy in,’ Chaim Cohen commanded, raising his voice to be heard above the uproar. But Ralph delayed a few seconds longer, letting the other spider
complete its circuit and face away from his side of the cage. Then he lifted the sliding door and tapped the basket to rouse Inkosikazi.
She crawled forward cautiously, lifting her abdomen clear of the sand, stepping on the spiked toes of her ranked legs, and then freezing as she saw her adversary across the cage. Her multiple
jewelled eyes were sparkling like chips of black diamond.
Goliath sensed her presence and leaped high, turned in the air and landed facing her. The two spiders confronted each other across the smoothly swept floor of white river sand – and only
now was the difference in their sizes apparent. Goliath was enormous, swelling in rage, the long silken mane of burnished hair rising like the quills of a porcupine to enhance her size as she began
to dance her challenge to her smaller adversary.
Immediately Inkosikazi replied to the challenge, raising and lowering her abdomen in time to the rhythmic swaying of her carapace, lifting her legs in pairs and weaving them with an awful grace,
like the many-armed Hindu god, Shiva.
An utter silence had fallen on the watchers as they strained to catch every nuance of this stylized dance of death – and then a lust-choked roar burst from them as Goliath sprang.
She exploded into flight, soaring with her talons fully extended, clearing the length of the arena without effort and landing precisely where Inkosikazi had stood a thousandth part of a second
before. Inkosikazi had evaded that flashing leap with a bouncing side jump of her own, and now she faced the huge enraged creature and danced her defiance.
The dazzling agility of these great spiders was the essential attraction that drew such a following of eager spectators. There was no preliminary bracing or crouching to herald one of those
swallowlight bounds. The spiders fired themselves like bullets, suddenly and unerringly at their rival, and reacted as swiftly to the counter-attack. Then between each onslaught that mesmeric and
chilling dance resumed.
‘Jee! Jee!’ The tightly drawn silence was interrupted by the chilling, killing cry of a Matabele warrior.
‘Jee! Jee!’ The deep hissing chorus that had carried a black wave of naked bodies across a continent, a wave crested by the plumes of the war bonnets and lit by the glitter of the
bright silver assegais.
Bazo had not been able to skulk in the alley beyond the square. He had edged forward into the crowd until he reached the wagons, but as the conflict mounted, so had his warrior passions. He
thrust forward through the packed ranks and now he was in the forefront, and he could not contain himself further.
‘Jee! Jee!’ He hissed his battle cry, and Ralph found himself echoing it.
Inkosikazi was fighting instinctively, reacting mindlessly to the presence of another female in deadly sexual rivalry. It was the waving arms of the gigantic female across the cage which
infuriated her, and it was mere coincidence that her first attacking leap was synchronized with the war chant.
Twice she launched herself, and twice Goliath gave her ground. And then on her third leap Inkosikazi vaulted too high and touched the glass roof of the arena. The impact broke the perfect
parabola of her flight, and she fell short and out of balance, scrabbling frantically in the fine white sand as Goliath saw her chance and flew in for the kill.
The men howled with cruel glee, the women trilled with delicious horror as the two huge furry bodies came together chest to chest and entangled each other’s limbs in a hideous octopus
embrace.
The impetus of Goliath’s leap sent them rolling across the arena like an india-rubber ball, until they struck the far wall and wrestled in a flurry of serpentine limbs. Both their long
hooked fangs were fully erect, and they slashed at each other with their hairy wolf mouths, the needle points of the fangs striking the impenetrable shiny armour of carapace and jointed legs,
glancing off the polished surface and leaving minute dribbles of colourless honey-thick venom on each other’s chests.
Instinctively they were holding their vulnerable abdomens clear, while straining to tear from the embrace for a chance to strike into the soft skin of the other. They came up on their hind legs
and wrestled together, and immediately Goliath’s weight began to take effect.
With a sharp crackling sound, like a walnut in the jaw of a silver nutcracker, one of Inkosikazi’s legs was torn bodily from the joint of her carapace, and she jerked convulsively,
contracting her soft belly in a dreadful spasm.