Eagle in Exile

by Alan Smale

  For once, Son of the Sun sat back and let his chiefs talk. Energized by the beer and the smoke, the chiefs vied with one another to tell the rawest tale of the savagery of the nations to the south. Marcellinus, who had traveled across Asia to the Himalaya and back, knew that the fiercest tribe was always just over the next hill or across the closest sea and took it all with a pinch of salt and a puff of smoke.

  “ ‘And even on the great plains,’ ” said Son of the Sun through his translator, instantly stilling the voices of the chiefs. “ ‘Closer to Cahokia by far, the tribe of the Pawnee will sacrifice a girl to the Morning Star. A girl the same age as you…’ ” Taianita cleared her throat. “He says, as old as I am.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “ ‘A girl captured in a raid on a neighboring tribe, an innocent girl. For many moons the Pawnee hurt this girl and submit her to much tortures. Then they tie her high on a scaffold of elm, of elder, and of willow, and they complete the sacrifice to the Morning Star.’ ”

  Son of the Sun watched Taianita carefully as she spoke, aware of every drop of sweat on her forehead, but he continued, unrelenting, and so the girl did, too. “ ‘They…burn her in the dawn, alive, and then only at the last they…shoot her in the heart with an arrow, and her blood falls into a pit of feathers, and then the other warriors—’ ”

  “Stop,” Marcellinus broke in harshly. “You will say no more. I have spoken.”

  Sudden silence bathed the room. Taianita flashed Marcellinus a look that mingled gratitude and alarm. The chiefs looked away.

  Son of the Sun regarded him coolly, his expression impossible to read. Then he smiled. “More pipe?”

  Priestesses appeared around them, pouring liquid into conches and cups.

  Marcellinus pulled himself together. “Thank you.”

  The paramount chief spoke again. The girl said, “ ‘As you see, we are not as these people. Shappa Ta’atan is a great city, as is Cahokia. A city of peace, protecting all around it.’ ”

  Fumbling for words, Marcellinus replied, “The great cities of the Mizipi are indeed beacons of peace to all who live near.”

  Son of the Sun nodded. Marcellinus drained the corn beer from his conch, after all.

  —

  The evening was degenerating. Several conversations were going on at once, and Marcellinus had trouble following them. The Beaver chief was asking him about Roma, beside him Panther and Snake were talking of buffalo and other more unlikely-sounding creatures, and the chiefs on his other side were noisily comparing the charms of the serving women.

  The smoke in his head blew his thoughts sideways. He was at the same time very alert, very soporific, and almost dazzled by the light from the fire bowls.

  This calmness was a danger. In Cahokia, Marcellinus was capable of social blunders at the best of times. If he let his guard down here in Shappa Ta’atan, the perils would be multiplied tenfold.

  “ ‘If you want to stay in Shappa Ta’atan, you would be welcome,’ ” Taianita said and, leaning toward him, repeated the notion a little more loudly. “ ‘You would be welcome in Shappa Ta’atan if you want to stay.’ ”

  Marcellinus took a long pull at the pipe and squinted through the smoke at her earnest, unsmiling face. She nodded to her left; Son of the Sun was there in the gloom of the banqueting room, a comely priestess now leaning on his shoulder. His words, of course.

  “Thank you, but we have taken enough of your hospitality and time. We must leave soon, I think.”

  Taianita reached forward to move his conch cup away from his knee; in twisting to talk to her, Marcellinus had nearly knocked it over. She was very pretty but very serious. He supposed she did not have a great deal to be cheerful about.

  “ ‘Or if you would rule in Cahokia, you would have our help,’ ” she said next. “ ‘Cahokia is far, but we would welcome a strong ally who thinks as we do. You and I, ruling the big-river Mizipi together as brothers.’ ”

  Marcellinus eyed her. Time to nip this in the bud once and for all. “I do not seek to rule in Cahokia.”

  “ ‘But once you did.’ ”

  “Once, many things were different.” His Cahokian was failing him. He resorted to hand-talk. A different season. A different year. Excuses and platitudes common enough to have succinct gestures.

  “ ‘Yes, and once Cahokia was different, too.’ ”

  Marcellinus shook his head. “Meaning?”

  “ ‘Once, the Haudenosaunee think the Oyo is theirs.’ ”

  “Yes, I know.”

  The translator listened carefully to her chief and spoke again. “ ‘A life and a half ago, the Oyo belonged to the Iroqua. Then men of Shappa Ta’atan helped Cahokia fight the Iroqua. Then the Oyo was owned by mound builders, by Cahokia. Now, by the treaty, it is shared. Today-now, Shappa Ta’atan belongs to Shappa Ta’atan. But in a life and a half?’ ”

  Marcellinus thought he understood. “I doubt that you need fear Avenaka. Cahokia has no war with Shappa Ta’atan.”

  “ ‘Less fear if you ruled there.’ ”

  “Never,” Marcellinus said bluntly. “Do not speak to me of this again.”

  “ ‘And when your people return?’ ”

  He breathed deeply and frowned. “You talk now of the Romans? They will come, Son of the Sun. Sooner or later.”

  “ ‘Shappa Ta’atan would be a friend to the Romans. Shappa Ta’atan wants no war with an army from over the sea.’ ”

  “I bet you don’t,” Marcellinus said in Latin. “I just bet.”

  “What?”

  Marcellinus pulled himself together. “And that is why you must stand shoulder to shoulder with your brothers in the land, with Cahokia and with the Iroqua, if you can. To be strong together in a league of the land against Roma. So that Roma will want to make trade with you rather than making war.”

  “ ‘Or perhaps, when your Roman chiefs come from across the sea, Shappa Ta’atan would be willing to ally with them.’ ”

  Marcellinus blinked. “Ally with Roma?”

  Son of the Sun watched him carefully. The words sounded so pleasant and cooperative when spoken by Taianita. Marcellinus had to keep reminding himself that they came from the mind of Son of the Sun, whose body language conveyed quite a different message.

  Marcellinus met his eye. “Maybe I misunderstand. You speak of forging an alliance with Roma against other mound builders along the Great River and against the Iroqua and the People of the Hand and any other enemies? If your help would be useful to Roma?”

  “ ‘Roma is strong. We do not have Cahokia’s defenses, its Wakinyan. And perhaps we cannot trust Cahokia. As for the Iroqua and the People of the Hand…’ ” Son of the Sun shook his head while Taianita spoke his words.

  Slowly, Marcellinus said: “You believe you could use the power of Roma to help you settle old scores?”

  “ ‘Scores? No. But perhaps we would cooperate to keep the peace. To help the other towns to understand Roma. And you, perhaps you could help the Romans to understand Shappa Ta’atan?’ ”

  Marcellinus tried to swallow his repulsion. This candid talk of protection rackets, as brazen as that of any crook in Subura, turned his stomach far more than Son of the Sun’s fairy stories of atrocities out on the plains.

  Divide et impera. Divide and rule. For centuries it had been the key to Roman domination of foreign lands occupied by tribes and petty warlords. Exploiting local factionalism, permitting—or actively enabling—the settling of old animosities. Pitting groups and tribes one against another.

  Just the tactic a Praetor of any new legion might employ.

  Marcellinus had no stomach for this. After this evening’s combination of purging, heavy food, potent and acidic drink, and intoxicating smoke, he felt that almost literally. Even with Cahokia in Avenaka’s hands he would not double-deal against the Great City or pretend a friendship he did not feel that might somehow set the groundwork for any future double-deal
ing. Even for the sake of his proposed Hesperian confederation, Marcellinus could never be beholden to a man like this. And as for Son of the Sun’s talk of allying with Roma, betraying his own Mizipian people…

  Well, this was obviously no time to confess that Marcellinus himself might be swiftly put in chains or executed by a new Roman force.

  “When the Romans arrive,” Marcellinus said, “when the iron fist of Roma comes again to Nova…to the land, Son of the Sun, you might find them a hard people to ally with.”

  As the willowy translator relayed his words, Marcellinus wondered if that had sounded like a threat.

  If so, then so be it.

  —

  His eyes opened. He felt that he had closed them only for an instant, but many of the priestesses were now naked except for the scantiest breechcloths. They were young, their skin flawless.

  Some were prepubescent, not even women yet. Bile came to his throat at the unwilling image of Kimimela or Hurit subjected to such indignities. He looked around quickly, but Taianita was still clothed, still at Son of the Sun’s feet, her eyes downcast.

  Others of the temple women—Marcellinus could no longer think of them as priestesses, even ironically—were sitting in the other chiefs’ laps now, fondling their arms and brows, feeding them sweetmeats. The night air was growing light with laughter and musk. If Marcellinus had not been present, the evening might already have degenerated into an orgy.

  A woman leaned over him. Like the others she wore only a breechcloth almost too skimpy to warrant the name, and she smelled beguilingly female. Running her fingers through the hair above his ear, she began to ease herself into his lap.

  “No,” Marcellinus told her. “Thank you, no.”

  Take her, Panther signed. You will cause no offense. It is expected. The priestess smiled, and her hand dropped onto his knee.

  “I shouldn’t,” he said. “It’s against my, uh. I would not wish to cause problems.”

  Snake shook his head, not understanding. Panther looked scornful.

  Marcellinus disengaged the priestess’s hand, but then, of course, she started caressing his fingers. With some difficulty, since hand-talk had been rendered impossible, he got her to stop. She pouted and moved away, pretending to tidy the bowls and conch beakers in front of him.

  No? the Panther chief signed with derision. Is the great Wanageeska a man at all?

  Marcellinus bridled, but this was not the place to cause a scene. It is not my custom, he signed.

  It was impossible to hand-talk quietly, of course; everyone within eyeshot could see what he was saying.

  Son of the Sun spoke. “ ‘Someone older? Younger? A boy, perhaps?’ ”

  Marcellinus shook his head.

  “ ‘This one, who can speak sweet words to you?’ ”

  Son of the Sun gave Taianita a shove, sending the girl sprawling onto Marcellinus. He saw sudden shock on her face, pain in her eyes, creases that should not have been there in one so young.

  Bizarre that this girl should have to translate the words of her own humiliation. To Son of the Sun she was a chattel, less than human.

  Marcellinus helped the girl sit up again, bowed his head to her respectfully, then swiveled his gaze back to Son of the Sun and allowed a steelier tone to enter his voice. “No.”

  Son of the Sun spoke. Taianita gulped. “ ‘You do not approve.’ ”

  Marcellinus struggled to find the right words. “This medicine is not my medicine.”

  The Snake chief cocked his head on one side and signed. Our women are not pretty enough?

  Marcellinus did not want to cause offense or lose face. Especially for his pride and his strength in negotiations, he did not want these young strapping chiefs to think he was too old. The first thing that came into his head was, Sintikala would not like it.

  Sintikala is your woman? signed the Beaver chief.

  From the frying pan to the fire; again Marcellinus was stuck for a good answer. He merely shook his head and smiled.

  They didn’t care anymore. With priestesses in their laps, they were losing interest in their guest, and with good reason. Marcellinus stopped talking and let them forget he was there.

  Yet he could not stand and leave. He could tread neither the soil of the Temple Mound nor the grass of the sacred precinct below, and he did not want to make a scene. He would just have to wait until he could be carried out with the others.

  By his side Taianita knelt stock-still, as if trying to be invisible.

  Marcellinus took another drink, faked another deep pull at the smoldering drug pipe, and allowed himself to slide into feigned unconsciousness.

  —

  At dawn the Shappan messenger was waiting for him at the gate. The boy seemed tired and a little resentful. “You enjoyed it?”

  Marcellinus stifled the impulse to be honest. Around them, sleepy chiefs staggered back into the city. Son of the Sun had stayed behind in the Temple Mound, but anything Marcellinus said would obviously go straight to the paramount chief’s ear. “It was amazing. Eye-opening.”

  “Tell me of the birdwomen,” said the boy.

  “You have not seen them?”

  “Only in the air, from long away. The priestesses of the Sacred Center are not for me.”

  “They are beautiful,” Marcellinus conceded. “And they fly well. But as you say, it is a shame that they are caged and cannot fly free.”

  “I did not say that,” said the boy in alarm, looking around him.

  “Nevertheless,” Marcellinus said.

  The boy shook his head. “Is there anything else you need, great chief? I received word that you might not yet be ready to sleep.” The youth met his eye brazenly, with a slight tilt to his hip. “Anything?”

  Would it never end?

  “Nothing at all,” Marcellinus said. “Nothing at all.”

  They did not see Son of the Sun again until after the fourth and final night of the Green Corn Festival. By then Marcellinus would have been quite happy never to see an ear of corn or hear a drum again.

  Even in the chief’s absence the sudden increase in attentiveness of the Shappa Ta’atani had become very obvious. In the last two days Marcellinus had rarely been left alone for a moment. At least one of the chiefs or warrior lieutenants was with him at all times, ostensibly to ensure that he had everything he needed. Sintikala was now never without her own cadre of women who watched her every move and never left her to her own devices either. The elite warriors of Shappa Ta’atan carefully mingled with their Cahokian counterparts.

  When Marcellinus sent Isleifur and a half dozen other men on an errand to the dragon ship, most were turned back politely at the gate. Only a single man, Mahkah, was permitted to go to the ship.

  Obviously Marcellinus had made a tactical error in spurning Son of the Sun’s offers of alliance. The nature of Shappan hospitality had changed significantly as a result.

  At dinner the first night after the festival, Marcellinus found himself separated from Akecheta by several Shappan warriors. He couldn’t even see Hanska, Mahkah, or Aelfric. As always, Sintikala was off to the side, surrounded by women.

  Marcellinus rose and proposed a lavishly complimentary toast to Son of the Sun.

  Toasting in this way was new to the people of Shappa Ta’atan, but they had become an appreciative audience for it; after all, it enabled them to drain their cups and ask for more. Afterward, with all eyes on him, Marcellinus said: “You have been most kind, but we should soon pack up your generous gifts and fare you well.”

  “What?” said Beaver.

  Marcellinus simplified. “I say that we must leave in a day or so.”

  The chief of the Deer clan applied himself to his fish with renewed vigor. Beaver took a swig from his cup. Graciously, Son of the Sun nodded.

  Each man had reacted much too casually to the suggestion.

  From twenty feet to his left, Akecheta said, “My chief speaks true. We must paddle farther south, perhaps even to the Market of
the Mud, and make ourselves a long camp for the winter.”

  Son of the Sun laughed politely, and even Marcellinus grinned. “Winter?” They were all sweating even in the relative cool of the evening. It was unarguably still summer in Shappa Ta’atan.

  “There are few of us. It will take time.”

  “You might winter here.”

  “We thank you,” Marcellinus said. “But it is time for us to move on and seek adventure elsewhere.” He sat before anyone could respond.

  Marcellinus had finished his meal long before, and so had Son of the Sun. The chiefs were served first, and the elders ate more slowly and chewed longer, but by now only the Deer clan elder was still eating. Son of the Sun called for tabaco, and a young brave came running to bring him an already lit long clay pipe. Once again Marcellinus could not stop himself from thinking that back in Cahokia, Great Sun Man had lit his own pipe.

  “ ‘We are honored by your presence, and there is much to learn,’ ” said Son of the Sun through Taianita. “ ‘We must be brothers, you and we.’ ”

  “Of course,” Marcellinus said politely. Taking the proffered pipe, he pulled a long draw and managed not to cough at the pungency of the smoke from the combination of leaves, barks, and weeds that burned in the bowl. At least there was none of the disorienting drug he had experienced on the Temple Mound. Eyes watering, he passed the pipe to his left.

  Son of the Sun spoke again. “ ‘Tomorrow I show you the fire arrows you asked of. And we shall talk about the stone, for house?’ ” He mimed.

  “Bricks,” Marcellinus said. He had offered to show the Shappa Ta’atani how to make bricks when they had arrived, but at that time the chiefs had shown no interest. He nodded comfortably.

  “ ‘Perhaps you stay ten nights more,’ ” said the chief.

  Akecheta shook his head. “Ten is too many.”

  Marcellinus leaned forward to take the pipe again, aware of the hilt of his pugio pressing lightly into his stomach beneath his tunic. How much of a fuss should he make about this now? He glanced casually across at Sintikala, but she was giving every appearance of being engrossed in her conversation with the women.