by Alan Smale
The wings were multicolored; the women who flew them were not warriors but entertainers. The wings ducked and wheeled thrillingly enough, but without the deft control of Sintikala and her clan, and these fliers lacked their ability to ride the currents of the air to gain height. Grace, elegance, and beauty were the point here, not martial skill. They came to earth quickly, scattered iridescent across the grass.
His bearers turned his litter sideways to carry him up the broad cedar stairs of the Temple Mound. Marcellinus could feel every footfall as they gingerly nursed the litter higher. The swaying played havoc with his still-sensitive stomach. He would rather have walked.
The walls around the Sacred Center were so tall that even now, halfway up the mound, he could see nothing of the world beyond. The determinedly calm faces of the priests and priestesses that surrounded him unsettled more than they reassured. Separated from the main city of Shappa Ta’atan by no more than a thousand yards, Marcellinus felt out of his depth.
At the top of the broad plateau, under the heavy ramparts of the fortified temple, they were permitted to disembark. As his bare feet touched the grass, a priest handed Marcellinus a clean tunic of some sheer material. “Cotton,” Marcellinus said, and the eunuch smiled politely. The other chiefs were already pulling the shifts over their heads to cover their nakedness, and with relief Marcellinus did the same.
Women still flitted above them, launched into the air with slings of some elastic material, perhaps the same one the Iroqua had used at Woshakee. Son of the Sun and the other chiefs watched appreciatively as the aerial priestesses soared and dipped, flattening out to land at the base of the Temple Mound and then scampering to climb the mound and be launched again.
Watching them run, Marcellinus saw only now that the women were entirely naked, their breasts bouncing, their broad smudges of pubic hair clearly apparent.
Marcellinus was embarrassed for them and just as embarrassed by the fascination of the Shappa Ta’atani around him. For them the aerial nymphs were clearly a rare treat, a high point of their feast days and holidays.
From the backstreets of Subura to the courts of Imperators and sultans, Marcellinus had seen his fair share of dancing girls. But after several years in Cahokia this felt like a perversion. Perhaps because of the matrilineal clan system, Cahokian women were never treated as mere entertainment for men, and for Cahokians flying was an athletically functional skill. Marcellinus could not imagine Matoshka or Kanuna or any of the other Cahokian elders relishing such a display.
Well, maybe Howahkan.
Naturally, this being Nova Hesperia and a feast day, there were speeches and invocations to be endured before they went in to eat. The rites were performed by Son of the Sun and spoken in a mixture of Caddoan and archaic Shappan, and Marcellinus could not follow them at all.
Son of the Sun raised his hands high to the golden orb of the setting sun. Shamans shook their tortoiseshell rattles. Around them, priestesses knelt. Behind them, a priest played a haunting tune on a short flute. For a fertility ritual the mood was oddly mournful.
Marcellinus looked out over the city of Shappa Ta’atan and beyond, up and down the Mizipi. The floodplain was very flat here. Visible from everywhere in the city, the top of the Temple Mound was an excellent vantage point. Quite likely, lookouts here had spotted the signal flare sent up by the Shappan Hawk on the Cahokians’ arrival.
At last the sun set. Ceremonies over, the eunuchs ushered the chiefs toward the longhouse. The entrance was flanked with tall figures carved in chert: a birdman to the left, masked and broad-winged, and on the other side a plump matronly figure holding a corncob, and with corn tassels in place of braids, who could only be the Corn Mother.
Within the building, an avenue of small fire bowls marked the way. Marcellinus followed the chiefs down a darkened passageway with alcoves and small rooms to either side, almost like the side chapels in a temple to the Christ-Risen.
The hallway opened out into a tall, broad feasting room. At its far end a ceremonial fire roared into life; from the walls, its light reflected off ornately carved and decorated shields of burnished copper. Marcellinus looked again with care, but it was definitely copper and not gold.
There were lush blankets and furs and a broad table. In the center of the table was a bowl. Around it the places were marked with drinking cups.
They directed Marcellinus to a seat that appeared to be the pride of place, directly opposite the large bowl from Son of the Sun. To either side the clan chiefs of Shappa Ta’atan flopped down in cheerful disarray, no respecters of the finery that surrounded them.
Even now Marcellinus could not remember the chiefs’ names, but he had learned long before that the tattoos they wore identified the clans they led. To his left was Panther, with Turtle beyond, and to his right sat Deer and Snake. Facing him and flanking Son of the Sun were the chiefs of the Beaver and the Crow clans. A serving girl moved among them, splashing water from her gourd into the conch-shell drinking bowls. As the girl passed by Turtle, he lunged for her ankle and Marcellinus recoiled, but the clan chief was only shoving the lower hem of the serving girl’s billowing shift away from one of the fire bowls.
Flammable, of course, unless treated. Marcellinus tucked his own cotton shift underneath him with care.
Men drank now, and Marcellinus lifted his conch gratefully to his lips, his mouth still dry from the fiery emetic he had swallowed at the gate.
His nose alerted him. This was not water. He sipped it carefully. Corn beer, naturally; it smelled much more potent than the Cahokian brand that had been prevalent on his arrival and was not the slightest bit more palatable.
The other men raised their conches high in salute and then drained them, and Marcellinus did likewise once he saw that other chiefs were calling for water—real water—to slake their thirsts. The beer brought a quick wave of dizziness and a gurgling protest from his long-suffering stomach, and he knew that even to save face he could drink little more of it this night.
Food was coming, platters and bowls in the hands of more of the cotton-clad priests and priestesses. Beneath the ubiquitous odor of burned corn Marcellinus smelled a heavy, more pungent richness. His meals so far in Shappa Ta’atan had been mostly fish and fowl, but on this special night it appeared they would eat meat.
With the food came Son of the Sun’s word slave, Taianita, also garbed in the long cotton dress of a priestess. Clearly she had two roles tonight: to translate and to transfer Son of the Sun’s food from the bowl to his mouth.
“ ‘Here we can speak of matters we cannot speak of outside,’ ” she said, relaying Son of the Sun’s words. “ ‘And here we can do as we wish, guided by the sacred corn.’ ”
A mild cheer greeted this pronouncement, and many chiefs toasted it with beer. Conversation broke out among them, though Taianita continued to speak, looking at Marcellinus.
“ ‘We are here to honor the Corn Mother through her priests and priestesses. To give thanks for the fertility of the soil. To rejoice for another year of plenty and to sow the seed for next year.’ ”
The translator dropped her eyes.
“Yes,” Marcellinus said, equally uncomfortable at the implications.
He could not identify the meat immediately. It was delicious, tender and full of flavor. It was the closest thing to beef he had tasted since he had left Europa.
“This is what?” he said to the leader of the Deer clan, who sat cross-legged on the blankets next to him, stuffing meat into his mouth. “Not deer, I think.”
The chief chewed busily, apparently taking Marcellinus’s words as neither quip nor insult. Next to him the Snake leader lowed at him, moving his head ponderously back and forth in imitation of something large.
“Oxen?” Marcellinus asked, hope surging. He had seen no beasts of burden since his arrival in Nova Hesperia. It was the only resource this giant continent lacked, aside from gold. “Four legs? You milk the she-oxen? It can pull a cart?”
This cause
d some confusion, and it took Taianita, the two other chiefs, and a great deal of miming to convey that the animal in question was the large buffalo apparently common on the western plains that Marcellinus had heard so much about in Cahokia. Like cattle, the buffalo traveled in herds, and like oxen, they had a pronounced hump, but there the resemblance ended; the beasts they ate had hides useful for rugs and robes but were too stupid and aggressive to carry or pull anything.
“At least they taste good,” Marcellinus said.
“We give you skin,” said Son of the Sun, for once bypassing his translator. “As gift, for winter, for wear.”
Taianita stuck her tongue out at Marcellinus, and the men laughed. “This is tongue,” said Turtle, clarifying. “Meat you eat now is buffalo tongue, best of buffalo.”
The girl nodded, and Son of the Sun played with her hair as she fed him another slice of buffalo tongue.
Marcellinus preferred the larger buffalo steaks that followed, from the haunch of the animal. Along with the steaks the priests brought deer hearts and freshwater mussels and clams, the finest delicacies of the Mizipi. If you were a chief, Marcellinus mused, it was not all corn at the Green Corn Festival.
At least it was now clear how Son of the Sun kept his chieftaincy. He bought it with bread and circuses for the masses and women and buffalo for the higher classes. How he had acquired the chieftaincy in the first place was still unknown to Marcellinus. For form’s sake, Marcellinus took another tiny sip of the corn beer.
“ ‘How is it that you are not the master of Cahokia?’ ”
Taianita had spoken Son of the Sun’s words. Taken aback, Marcellinus replied, “I would not wish to be. I have responsibilities enough.”
She put her head on one side. “Responsibilities?”
“Duties. Things I must do.” He resorted to hand-talk, not wanting to risk being misunderstood or mistranslated. Cahokia had fine chief: Great Sun Man. I was happy to serve him. Now, travel.
Although his meaning was clear, the girl translated it into Caddo anyway. Through her, Son of the Sun replied, “ ‘But is it not better to rule than to serve?’ ”
“Sometimes.” Marcellinus applied himself anew to his buffalo steak.
Son of the Sun studied him as he ate. Taianita waited. Once it was clear that Marcellinus had nothing to add, he said, “ ‘I think that you did not bring your warriors west to serve Cahokia. Your Roman warriors.’ ”
“No. I came with my legion to blaze a trail—find a road—to the west.”
Even as Taianita translated, Son of the Sun smiled. Both men, along with the chiefs seated around them, knew this for an evasion. Silence fell as each man devoted himself to the remaining food as best he could.
“ ‘And now we will smoke,’ ” said Son of the Sun.
The pipes were being brought already, not the squat flint clay pipes of Cahokia and the north but long flutelike pipes of wood decorated with feathers like the ones the Iroqua favored. There was a pipe for every two chiefs, and Marcellinus would share his with Son of the Sun.
By this time of the night there was little deference to authority. The chiefs did not wait for Son of the Sun to smoke first but eagerly pulled the pipes close and sucked the smoke into their lungs.
As the air around them grew acrid, the paramount chief of the Shappa Ta’atani took a long drag of his pipe and passed it over the bowl to Marcellinus.
Proficient in the Hesperian custom after his many nights on the Mound of the Smoke in Cahokia, Marcellinus took a deep pull. The draw on this pipe was long, and it required a big breath to take the smoke and keep the weed alight.
The taste was sweeter than he had anticipated. The flame in the bowl burned bright. His mouth filled with saliva, and his eyes stung. As he exhaled a wreathing cloud of smoke, his head seemed to lift and expand.
He managed not to cough, but his eyes widened. What on earth was stuffed into the bowl of this pipe?
“ ‘How can I help you?’ ” the girl asked.
Marcellinus screwed up his eyes to inspect her and then Son of the Sun. Ah, yes. He passed the pipe back and fought to concentrate. To Son of the Sun he said, “You have been a gracious host to me and my traveling companions. I ask nothing more.”
“ ‘But we should talk of this further. Of Cahokia.’ ”
A priestess refilled his conch to the brim with corn beer, but Marcellinus left it where it was. He was now sure that the pipe held something wilder and more unruly than the tabaco of Cahokia. Everything around him was shinier than it had been just moments before, and his head sang.
Nonetheless, he still had his wits about him. He nodded in a noncommittal way and waited to see where the conversation would go.
“ ‘You did not ask for my help. But perhaps, if you wished to rule in Cahokia, we could come to an agreement. We would be brothers. And you would have the alliance you seek.’ ”
Invade Cahokia again at the head of another conquering army, this time of Shappa Ta’atani? Marcellinus could not imagine it. He kept his features serene. “You would lend me warriors after all? A war party to topple Avenaka?”
“ ‘Perhaps. There would need to be much talk between us about this. You have friends in Cahokia? There could be a quiet attack, perhaps? One that could succeed before the warriors of Avenaka could rally?’ ”
A quiet attack? A coup by night?
Marcellinus could not imagine allying with Son of the Sun on such a dishonorable venture. He was sure Sintikala would not be able to imagine it either.
Nor, even if such a coup could be successful, would they be able to trust Son of the Sun afterward.
Marcellinus met the chief’s eye. “Myself, an outlander, as ruler of Cahokia? Tell me how such a thing would be possible. You, for example, Son of the Sun? How is it that you rule here, you who are from outside and do not speak the language of Shappa Ta’atan?”
Son of the Sun smiled. “ ‘I bring peace to Shappa Ta’atan. Peace through power, through strength against our enemies.’ ”
Marcellinus nodded, and the smoke that still seethed in his lungs made him say, “And reward for those who help you.” He gestured around them at the other chiefs.
“ ‘Of course. A good chief shares what he owns with his friends.’ ”
Great Sun Man would have said, A good chief gives away everything he owns to his people. Marcellinus nodded again. “And who are your enemies?”
“ ‘I keep the people of Shappa Ta’atan safe. I protect the lands and villages around from the Iroqua, from the People of the Hand. Even from Cahokia if I must. We are a rich city, a city of great bounty. Always there are enemies.’ ”
Some of Marcellinus’s natural caution had evaporated. “And still you have not told me how you came to rule here.”
Kneeling at his feet, Taianita translated. Son of the Sun had been playing with her braids; now he absently stroked her cheek. The girl flushed, but still her translation came from her lips clear and strong. “ ‘Shappa Ta’atan’s defenses were broken by war with the People of the Hand, its chiefs killed or fled, its warriors weak. Its elders sent scouts to my town to beg me. There I am mighty leader of men, mighty fighter. With me I bring strong warriors to Shappa Ta’atan to help fight the People of the Hand and later the People of the Longhouse. If I leave, Shappa Ta’atan would fall to the Iroqua.’ ”
“But we are at peace with the Iroqua.” Marcellinus looked to his right and left.
“For now,” Panther said ominously. Other men grinned.
“And for how long have you been here, Son of the Sun?”
“ ‘Many winters. A year of winters.’ ”
Marcellinus knew the slang phrase: to Nova Hesperians “a year of winters” meant as many winters as there were moons in a year. The clan chiefs around him were young, and many would have come to their manhood under Son of the Sun’s rule. Interesting.
“ ‘With my strength, with this house and my chiefs and elders and my priests and pries
tesses, I make the corn grow. This pleases the Corn Mother and brings bounty to my people.’ ”
Again the chiefs nodded.
Not merely a war leader, then, but a god. A petty monarch and a tin-pot god.
Marcellinus worked hard to keep his expression neutral, but his mind still hummed. He leaned forward. “Son of the Sun, is this a wise claim? If the corn fails, do you really want to bear the blame?”
Taianita’s eyes widened. Marcellinus had addressed his question directly to her rather than to Son of the Sun because he could hardly stand to meet the man’s eye.
Son of the Sun spoke. The girl translated. “ ‘The corn does not fail, nor the maygrass or the little barley. The birds, the fish, the buffalo and deer. They all come to me.’ ”
“I see.”
Marcellinus sat back. Statements like these made Son of the Sun vulnerable. If even Ituha could be brought down by a bad harvest, to threaten Son of the Sun’s reign Marcellinus would need only to attack his corn.
For a moment, wreathed in the clouds of pipe smoke, this seemed like an insight of great wisdom. Then his logical mind caught up, and he remembered that this had been exactly the Haudenosaunee strategy in burning the Cahokian granaries; in addition to weakening the people, it had potentially weakened the leadership.
But Marcellinus would surely like to see the birds and the buffalo come to Son of the Sun. He smiled. “So, you…”
Taianita was staring at him intently. The tension in her neck was clear. Her face remained blank, but her body language sent him a clear warning.
Rightly so. Marcellinus pulled himself together. For Son of the Sun’s guest to mock his words would be unspeakably bad manners as well as poor strategy.
“So you must tell me more about the People of the Hand,” he said.
—
The People of the Hand were savage warriors of the desert who carved their temples and homes into mountainsides and made sacrifices to strange gods. But the Shappans’ tales of this arid and slightly crazy civilization paled next to their stories of the People of the Sun. This southern tribe apparently built pyramids of stone even larger than the Temple Mound of Shappa Ta’atan to commemorate blood sacrifices atop them: hearts were ripped out of living bodies in such multitudes that the steps of the pyramids flowed with blood.
