Clash of Eagles

by Alan Smale

  “Um,” said Great Sun Man, caught unaware by the magnitude of the suggestion. “Yes? No?”

  Howahkan came to his war chief’s aid. “Instead, the warriors from other cities should come here, from north and east, south and west. All could train here together and then return to their cities.”

  Smoke trickled from Marcellinus’s nose and mouth. “Great Sun Man. Speak me the truth. Am I a prisoner here?”

  “A what?”

  “If Wanageeska wanted to leave Cahokia, you would stop him?”

  Great Sun Man waggled his hand at the wrist, the gesture for uncertainty. “Where do you go? Why?”

  “I think that you say yes.”

  “Wanageeska … If my son Tahtay wants to leave Cahokia, I would stop him. If my brother Kohana or my mother, Patachee, wants to leave, I would stop them. This is Cahokia. My people belong here.”

  “Great Sun Man, I will always return to Cahokia. You have my word. I have nowhere else to go. But I will not be chained here. Yes? I mean tied up, bound, as with sinew. Cahokia is just one city, and the Mizipi is long. To help you, I need to know many things.”

  “Cahokia is best city.”

  “Cahokia is biggest city. When I have seen others, I will tell you which is best.” He punched the chief lightly on the shoulder to rob the words of any sting and indicate that he was teasing.

  Great Sun Man frowned.

  Quickly, Marcellinus said, “Do not say, ‘No, I have spoken.’ There are many good reasons why I should see other towns and better understand the great peoples of the Mizipi. So let us talk more of this. Here, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow. Yes?”

  Kanuna looked from Marcellinus to Great Sun Man and back to Marcellinus. “Yes, let us all talk some more. Pipe?”

  Two more hours passed with a conversation that ranged near and far, as was the habit in the sweat lodge. Marcellinus did not raise the subject of his leaving Cahokia again, but others did. Kanuna, the best-traveled of the elders, mentioned towns Marcellinus might visit where he could see things they did not have in Cahokia: canals for irrigation, different designs of gates and bastions for their palisades, rafts, wings of a different style. Ogleesha mentioned the dangers that such travels might bring: bears, rapids, getting lost, roving Iroqua bands. Howahkan praised the initiatives and public works that he would be loath to have Marcellinus ignore for the time it would take to paddle down the Mizipi and back. To all of this Marcellinus smiled and nodded, satisfied that the topic was at least being discussed and knowing that more direct pressure on his part would be counterproductive. The Cahokian political system had many chiefs and, except in matters of war, largely ran on consensus. By raising the issue in this group Marcellinus had assured that the decision would not be Great Sun Man’s alone. Although as far as Marcellinus could see, the only times the elders or the clan chiefs truly owned their power was when Great Sun Man chose to step aside and relinquish his.

  Eventually the pipe was empty and their throats were dry, and Marcellinus’s head hurt. Ogleesha had wandered home long before, and Matoshka had fallen asleep sitting up. At this point there could be no loss of face in calling it a night. Bowing, Marcellinus got up to leave.

  To his surprise, Great Sun Man stood as well. “Come with me.”

  Together, they walked down off the Mound of the Smoke. At this time of night they were the only men abroad on the Great Plaza. Tonight, with no moon in the sky and his head still buzzing with the tabaco he had smoked, Marcellinus truly appreciated how flat the plaza was. And, he only now realized, water never puddled in it. Clever.

  Marcellinus was tired. The bright buzz of the smoked leaf had worn away, leaving him lethargic. He wanted his bed. But if Great Sun Man wanted to take him somewhere, it must be important.

  Great Sun Man guided him diagonally across the plaza. On its southern edge were two large mounds, fifty feet high and three hundred feet apart, each with a house at its peak, and before them the war chief stopped.

  Marcellinus had been familiar with the sight of these mounds and their houses for as long as he had lived in Cahokia, but it had never occurred to him to ask about them.

  “All right,” he said. “Who lives here?”

  “This is Fire,” said the chief. “This is Death.”

  Great Sun Man pointed to the conical mound on the left. “Here, my father lives.”

  Marcellinus tried to remember whether he had ever met the war chief’s father. Of course, in Cahokia “father” could be a courtesy title for just about anyone, just like “brother” or “sister.” Kinship was mutable here, a matter of convenience or respect as often as not.

  “You know my father?” Great Sun Man asked sardonically.

  Marcellinus grasped it. “He is dead?”

  “Yes. And there he is, up there under the house, and my father’s father with him, and his father, and three fathers more.”

  “Only three?” It was Marcellinus’s turn to add a glimmer of irony to his tone.

  “Before those fathers, there was no Cahokia. Not the city you see now. And other leaders rest here also.”

  Marcellinus had not realized the city of Cahokia was so recent. Six or seven generations was not so long. Roma had existed for a hundred generations. Perhaps the carved flint-clay pipe they had smoked that night really did predate the city.

  He struggled to concentrate. “The fathers are in the mound? Not in the house?”

  “Yes, yes, buried in the mound. The house you see is just, well … We do not go into such a house.”

  A mausoleum, then. A sacred place. A ceremonial marker. He nodded.

  “Once Cahokia was three cities, all here. The Great Mound and Great Plaza, here, and then another city at western Cahokia, and then west again on the far bank of the Mizipi is another small city with its own great mound and plaza, Cahokia-across-the-water. So, three cities, all very close by, all.” Great Sun Man crossed his forearms. “All with chiefs who were like brothers. But soon, less close as brothers and too near to have different chiefs.”

  Three overlapping cities with three rulers. Echoes, perhaps, of republican Roma, with its three Consuls. Theoretically, those Consuls had shared power over Roma. In practice, they had factionalized and brought the nation to the brink of civil war time and time again.

  And further back in history, even Romulus and Remus had been one ruler too many.

  Great Sun Man went on. “The chiefs and the three cities, they fight, make war. It is very hard times. In the time of my father’s father’s …” He waved his hand. “You know, much old. We fight each other, and then, when many are dead, we make treaty, and we join cities, have one chief for all. That chief was Ituha, who I have spoken of before. And in here, this mound? The bones of Ituha and the other chiefs, dead.”

  The bones of Cahokian ancestors lay in the mound before them, sacred relics of Cahokia, with a charnel house and mausoleum set atop them. Dead but still watching over the great city they made.

  Marcellinus nodded slowly. Perhaps men were really not so different no matter where they lived. He was preparing a platitude along those lines when Great Sun Man said, “And then they attack us when we are weak. They take our women. We go to get them, but they kill them.”

  Marcellinus was instantly chilled. “What? Which ‘they’ do you speak of now? Who attacks?”

  “The Iroqua. We were weak, like dogs licking our wounds after fighting. We had become one Cahokia at last, but still we lay in pain. That is when the Iroqua attack, to take our women.”

  “Merda,” Marcellinus said.

  “And we chase after, to get them back, but the Iroqua kill the women as they run away and leave their broken bodies for us to find. We carry them home, our dead women, and we bury them in another mound behind these, the low one that you see beyond, with the cedar posts. Fifty women, perhaps. Or sixty.”

  “I am sorry, Great Sun Man. I am so sorry.”

  Great Sun Man squinted at him in the gloom of the night. “This is not me. You understand
, Wanageeska? I was not there. This is my father’s father’s … a hundred winters since, perhaps.”

  Marcellinus pulled himself together. “Of course. Yes.”

  “But there they are.”

  “And your dead watch over you.”

  “This is Cahokia,” said the chief. His voice and stance betrayed the intensity of his pride. “And here in these mounds is the medicine of all Cahokia. Of the Mizipi. And the other cities, where you would go? They are not Cahokia.”

  “No,” Marcellinus said. “I am sure they are not.”

  “The bones of my many-fathers. The bones of our women. You will never know more about Cahokia than you do right here, Wanageeska. Right here at the Mound of the Chiefs and the Mound of the Hawks and behind them the Mound of the Women.”

  Marcellinus allowed the silence to wash over them for a moment. “So this mound to the right is the Mound of the Hawks?”

  “The birdmen,” said Great Sun Man. “In there are the first Hawks and the first Thunderbirds. The first men and women who make the Catanwakuwa, and make the Wakinyan and fly them up into the sky. Many die in the learning. We bury them here with their wings and with their cloaks of feathers and their beads and their weapons. For they are mighty, too; they are as chiefs, those strong ones who were the first to fly in the air like the birds and protect us against our enemies and help us push back the Iroqua.”

  Marcellinus nodded, oddly pleased that Cahokia recognized its innovators as much as its kings. How much better might Roma be if it honored men other than Imperators, politicians, and generals?

  “We had to understand how to fly well, and fly in war, and fly to protect Cahokia. It was our people who first flew, the People of the Mounds. Although now the Iroqua of the mountains have Hawks too.”

  “Yes,” said Marcellinus.

  “The father of Sintikala is here,” Great Sun Man told him. “He was a great flier and a great chief. He led Cahokians in war against the Haudenosaunee, along the Oyo, a life and a half ago.”

  Marcellinus knew he meant a generation and a half, perhaps thirty winters. “He was Great Sun Man before you?”

  The chief nodded. “He should be buried in both mounds. The Mound of the Chiefs and the Mound of the Hawks. But he is only one man, and before he die he spoke that he wanted to lie in this Mound, of the Hawks, with those who fly.”

  “I would have done the same,” Marcellinus said, strangely moved.

  “One day, perhaps we bury me here,” said Great Sun Man, pointing to the left mound. Next, he pointed to the right. “And one day, Wanageeska, perhaps we bury you there.”

  “Gods, no!” Marcellinus said, appalled. “No, I am not—I make nothing. I was once an enemy and now I am a friend, but I only build things for you that have worked in other places, across the sea. I have invented nothing. And I am not Cahokian.”

  “Not today. Not yet. But later, when we bury you?”

  “I hope that day will be a long time coming,” Marcellinus said rather fervently.

  “And I, too.” Great Sun Man studied each mound in turn as if seeing them for the first time. “Wanageeska?”

  “Yes?”

  “A moon from now, we must go to Ocatan, I, or perhaps Wahchintonka if I cannot leave, and some of our best warriors. Ocatan is Cahokia’s southern door, and any Iroqua who come by river must pass them. We must take Ocatan more weapons and teach them more of the things you have taught us about how to fight. You could come with us.”

  It was not the trip of exploration Marcellinus had hoped for, but it was a start. “I would like that. Thank you.”

  “Then, in the winter we will talk more. Cahokia has many friends south of Ocatan, even to the city of Shappa Ta’atan, which is halfway to the Market of the Mud. We should go there to our brothers and make sure that all Mizipian cities stand firm with Cahokia and against the Iroqua. I agree with this. So, not this year, but perhaps next?”

  Marcellinus bowed. “Thank you.”

  “But this is why you must always return. Because of what is buried here. Yes?”

  He looked into Marcellinus’s eyes.

  The mounds loomed in the night, silent crypts. Sweat was still drying on Marcellinus’s forehead. He took his time and then turned and met Great Sun Man’s gaze. “Yes. I will always come back to Cahokia. I promise you this.”

  “Good.” Great Sun Man yawned mightily. “Why are you not tired?”

  “I am. I was, anyway.”

  “Then we should sleep. I have spoken.”

  And the mighty war chief of the Cahokians turned and strode away as if they had been discussing the weather, leaving Marcellinus gaping after him.

  Such an important conversation, right in the middle of the night when he could least take it in, here in Cahokia in the dark, under the stars of a moonless sky.

  Then the brooding presence of the giant mounds pressed upon him, and he turned to face them again. Great Sun Man was right; the soul of Cahokia was not on the Master Mound, after all, or even beneath it but here on the opposite side of the Great Plaza. Marcellinus had lived in the city for a whole year and had not known it until tonight.

  He shivered.

  Yes, Marcellinus was very tired. But he knew that many more hours would pass before he could sleep.

  He might as well go to the baths now, after all.

  They were attacked on the river on the second day out of Cahokia. Without warning, waves of arrows flew from the trees on the eastern bank. Most passed safely over their canoes, and some fell short to splash into the water and float there, swirling in the eddies made by the Cahokian paddles.

  Akecheta’s response was immediate. He turned the lead canoe toward the shore where the unseen Iroqua war party was hiding and shouted the order to paddle at double speed. Marcellinus, who was taking a turn at an oar, was hard-pressed to keep up with the killing pace set by Mahkah, Napayshni, Hanska, Mikasi, Yahto, Tahtay, and Dustu. From their wake came the war whoops from the other two sleek Cahokian canoes under Wahchintonka’s command.

  A brief glance reassured Marcellinus that Hurit had crouched down behind him. Only her eyes showed over the gunwale as she scanned the shore for the Iroqua.

  Another wave of arrows strafed them. One arrow passed through the thin skin of the canoe just in front of Marcellinus, and another flashed between Tahtay and Mikasi. Pointlessly, Marcellinus ducked.

  Now a flight of Cahokian arrows sped in the opposite direction as one of Wahchintonka’s canoes returned fire. The other was quickly winning the race toward the shore, powered as it was by fourteen strong warriors whereas Marcellinus’s canoe had only eight, including two boys.

  The Iroqua did not wait to engage the Cahokians. “Fleeing,” said Hurit, the only one with enough breath to speak, but they all saw the two dozen Iroqua braves break cover and scamper up the hill like deer.

  “Hold!” Marcellinus shouted, but he was not in charge.

  “On!” Wahchintonka cried, and at that moment the foremost Cahokian canoe rode up onto the bank, its warriors already leaping out to sprint after the escaping Iroqua. Wahchintonka’s canoe came to shore just a moment later, and the canoe of Akecheta and Marcellinus was alone on the water, left behind.

  “Hold!” Akecheta repeated at last, and they coasted and twisted on the gentle current while the warriors panted.

  “Bows,” Marcellinus said, and Mahkah, Hanska, and Mikasi snatched them up and nocked arrows.

  From the woods came a sudden hullabaloo as battle was joined, but Marcellinus could see nothing.

  It was a tense and frustrating moment. Marcellinus and his warriors could not land and join the skirmish without leaving the canoes unguarded, and besides, they had Tahtay, Dustu, and Hurit to think of. Given more warriors and more time, Marcellinus could have gone ashore and thrown up quick field fortifications of branches to protect themselves and the canoes. As it was, the nine of them were drifting on the river, sitting ducks.

  The din from onshore hushed. For twenty, thirty heartbeats all was
quiet. They waited, scanning the bank, checking every tree, every bush.

  “A trap?” Tahtay asked. “Luring us ashore?”

  “Perhaps.” There could easily be more Iroqua than they had seen so far; even now, Wahchintonka’s braves could be dead, with Iroqua lurking in wait for the third canoe to land.

  Then Wahchintonka stepped out of the trees, followed by the other Cahokians, breathing too heavily to call out but beaming with fierce joy. Four of them clutched fresh scalps, grisly trophies that dripped blood into the mud.

  Akecheta’s boat erupted in cheers, and Marcellinus breathed again.

  “Seneca,” Hurit said. “And maybe some Tuscarora from the east, by their tattoos.”

  “They made me bleed,” Yahto said. “But we made them run!”

  “Bleed?”

  “Women will adore me for my scars and my bravery in battle!” Yahto hooted and waved his arm; it was a mere scratch.

  Returning to the canoes, the warriors started plucking Iroqua arrows out of the birch-bark hulls and patching the holes with resin and leaves. Two men he did not know from Wahchintonka’s boat were also bleeding, but everyone but Hurit had been wearing breastplates of Roman steel or Cahokian wood over his chest. Nobody was seriously harmed.

  “So we are not safe in our own lands,” Tahtay said quietly.

  Marcellinus gestured around him. “We lost no one. We look safe to me.”

  “They are not safe,” Dustu said. “Seneca and Tuscarora come here, skulk like dogs, and then run? Let them fear. Let them die.”

  “The Iroqua are cowards,” Wahchintonka said from a few yards away. “They can hide in our woods and eat our berries. But once we catch them …” He seized a scalp and raised it high.

  “Even so,” said Hurit for Marcellinus’s ears only, “they are still too close, and our people are in danger.”

  With nothing particularly reassuring to say, Marcellinus nodded and grimaced.

  They paddled down the mighty Mizipi, passing the occasional mound-builder village and hamlet on the shores. This time, having no shamans in their party, they made no obeisance to the petroglyph rock but rode the swift currents through the narrows. That evening they camped on the riverbank, with guards posted to warn of any Iroqua incursion. None came.