Eagle in Exile

by Alan Smale

  Marcellinus bit back a curse. “You say so? Once the battle with Panther was over, I tried to stop you from killing the Shappan survivors. I did not wish them dead, and I don’t want these men to die now.” He took a deep breath. “Besides, I need Ifer to take me to the Roman fortress.”

  Sintikala’s jaw dropped.

  “No,” Kimimela said. “What, now, already? What? No!”

  “Shit,” Aelfric murmured.

  Sintikala drew her knife. “You would go back to the Romans? You say so?”

  “Not back to them. But I have to talk to them. Sintikala, I lost my legion. I must go to Calidius Verus and tell him what happened. I need to explain.”

  “Explain?”

  Marcellinus shook his head, angry and baffled. “We spoke of this in Cahokia long ago. This was always the plan. I must talk to the Romans, tell them what we have done in Cahokia. Find out what they want. Try to avoid war. As I promised.”

  Sintikala surged forward, her eyes furious. “We know what the Romans want! Everything we own. Our city, our corn, our people as slaves…I told you so when first we met in Cahokia. And so nothing that has happened since has mattered. Nothing.”

  She raised her arm, and Marcellinus glimpsed the faint scar from where they had become blood kin.

  “You will go back to Roma. Already with these two, Aelfric and the Norseman, you have moved halfway back to Roma. I see it in your voice, in how you stand. That is what has changed.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Marcellinus said. “Sintikala, we need to talk.”

  “Talk? Why do we talk to these men who tried to kill us, who you are so anxious to free?”

  “Whoa,” said Aelfric. “Slow down now, everyone. It’s too hot, and this is getting—”

  Sintikala lunged. Ifer rolled onto his side away from her dagger, but Akecheta jumped in to parry and Sintikala’s blade rang against his sword.

  Marcellinus strode forward. “Stop! Drop it! Now!”

  Sintikala’s eyes flared, and she lashed out again, but Kimimela was faster, throwing herself between her mother and the Roman centurion. Akecheta stood firm, eyes narrowed. Marcellinus grabbed Sintikala’s shoulders, shoving her away.

  Her dagger came up, and Marcellinus jumped back, drawing his pugio in reflex. She stabbed out at his torso, but he punched at her arm with his free hand, deflecting her aim, and swung across and down with his blade, forcing her to dodge away from him.

  They squared off face-to-face, knife to knife, three feet apart, Sintikala breathing hard, Marcellinus hardly daring to breathe at all. Both rocked on the balls of their feet, ready to react instantly. Their eyes met.

  A soft wind soughed across the surface of the Mizipi. Behind Marcellinus the murmur of conversation from the Concordia had stopped. Nobody was talking now. No one even moved.

  The brittle moment extended. Very quietly, from the sand behind Marcellinus’s feet, Kimimela said, “Please stop.”

  The moment stretched. Akecheta said something that Marcellinus did not hear. Ifer lay on his side, perfectly still, Kimimela crouching next to him. Sintikala’s eyes flicked down to her daughter, then back up to Marcellinus.

  Akecheta stuck the tip of his sword into the sand and walked forward to Sintikala, his hands patting the air, gesturing for calm, making the hand-talk for step back. Aelfric moved, too, reaching out to push Marcellinus’s arm and usher him away from the Hawk chief. “Move off. Both of you.”

  Sintikala lowered her dagger. Marcellinus bowed his head. His heart still pounded.

  Akecheta pointed at Marcellinus, and gestured toward the western edge of the narrow sandbar. “You. Over there.”

  Marcellinus looked at him in disbelief.

  “Stand away. I have spoken, Wanageeska. Sintikala, come with me.”

  Sintikala thrust her dagger back into its sheath and strode ahead of Akecheta until the waters of the Mizipi lapped against her feet. She stared out across the waters, her expression bleak.

  “You heard the man,” Aelfric said. “Come along.”

  As they moved away, Kimimela ran past them both along the sandbar to slump at its northern tip, her head in her hands.

  “Well, that would be a pretty pickle,” said Aelfric. “Our two valiant leaders slaughtering each other. The Romans would piss themselves laughing.”

  Fifty feet away Akecheta and Sintikala argued in a low tone, glowering, both gesturing. Marcellinus glanced back at Manius Ifer, who was sitting alone on the sand. The centurion did not look amused. “She would kill that man and all the others. In cold blood.”

  “She might not be wrong,” Aelfric said. “What? I’ll just say that if the Romans attack Cahokia, more than this scrappy bunch of foot soldiers are going to get themselves killed. Come on, man.”

  “That would be war,” Marcellinus said tightly. “This is not. Ifer has been square with us.”

  “Aye, square enough since we stopped them from murdering us for the Concordia.”

  “They wouldn’t have killed us. They were going for the capture.”

  “You know that, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Marcellinus looked again at Akecheta and Sintikala. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out. “And Aelfric? Perhaps we should go with them.”

  Aelfric stood very still. “With them?”

  “We need to try to negotiate with Roma. Here, Calidius Verus is Roma.”

  The Briton’s eyes narrowed. “Just because you argued with your girlfriend, there’s no need to fall on your sword.”

  “She’s not…” Marcellinus shook his head. “Aelfric, be serious. A Roman legion is here. The Sixth Ironclads are here, for gods’ sakes.”

  “I know the fucking Romans are here!” Aelfric snapped. “I can see them. I can certainly smell them. And if we give ’em the chance, they’ll kill you and me a lot quicker than they’ll kill the Cahokians. Better to walk onto Sintikala’s blade than into Verus’s fortress. You know that as well as I do.”

  “It’s our duty.”

  “Well, I have a rather more relaxed idea of our duty,” said Aelfric. “And if we let them go, what’s to stop them from whistling up another couple of centuries and coming right back after us?”

  “Perhaps Ifer would be good enough to grant us a head start,” said Marcellinus.

  “Now who’s joking?” Aelfric snorted.

  “Maybe. But even if he’d bring the whole Sixth to us in days, I can’t cut his throat.”

  Aelfric looked thoughtful.

  “Or let you or Sintikala do it, either,” Marcellinus added.

  About to say more, Aelfric caught sight of the expression on Marcellinus’s face and thought better of it. “Ah, well, just have to hope for the best, then, won’t we? Hullo, they’re done.”

  Akecheta had moved away from Sintikala and was beckoning. Marcellinus took a step forward, but Akecheta shook his head and hand-talked, Stop. Aelfric, come here.

  Aelfric nodded. “Stay put, sir. Time for the grown-ups to have a little chat.”

  Marcellinus looked the other way. Alone at the end of the sandy spit Kimimela was crying quietly, her arms up around her head. “Can I at least go and comfort my daughter?”

  “I’ll ask.” Aelfric began to make hand-talk gestures to Akecheta.

  “Don’t bother. That wasn’t really a question.” Marcellinus shoved Aelfric aside and strode across the sand to sit by Kimimela.

  —

  “You swore an oath to me.”

  Marcellinus looked up. Sintikala, alone and unarmed, stood just behind them. Kimimela kept her eyes lowered.

  Sintikala stepped forward and sat on Kimimela’s other side, not looking at either of them. “You swore, Gaius. Do you remember?”

  Marcellinus did not know whether she meant his oath not to return to the Romans or the oath of blood kin that he had sworn to her on the way to powwow, but either way his answer was the same. “Yes. And I will keep my vow.”

  “Swear me now again that you will not go back to the Rom
ans.”

  “We must talk with them,” Marcellinus said wearily. “I will not fight for them.”

  “You will go only when I say so.” At last she turned to look at him over Kimimela’s head. “Gaius. If you go to them now, you are lost. And we cannot lose you.”

  Marcellinus raised an eyebrow. “ ‘We?’ ”

  “Cahokia. And Kimimela.” Her voice trailed off.

  He nodded, looked away. “Of course.”

  “And me,” she said.

  Kimimela’s eyes widened. Marcellinus swallowed.

  “And so we must return to Cahokia, and you must come with us.”

  “To Avenaka’s Cahokia?”

  Sintikala’s expression was grim. “To our Cahokia. And so you will swear to me now that you will not go to the Romans until we both agree that the time is right.”

  “Gaius will swear this,” Kimimela said, “if you swear to him that you will never kill or hurt Romans in cold blood. Never bound and helpless. Only in battle.”

  They both looked at her. “I never said such a thing,” Marcellinus said.

  Kimimela stared ahead with red-rimmed eyes. “And you will both swear to never fight each other again. Never. Never. You will swear that to me. Right now.”

  Sintikala and Marcellinus both looked away.

  “You will swear all of these things or I will stay here.”

  “Here?” said Marcellinus, and almost grinned, but Sintikala caught his eye and shook her head in warning.

  “Here on this sand,” Kimimela said. “Because if you two fight, my life is over.”

  Ducks flew low over the river, and clouds drifted by overhead. It was very hot.

  To Sintikala, Marcellinus said, “These Romans will live. We will set them free today. Whatever the consequences.”

  Sintikala nodded. “And we will return to Cahokia. You. Me. Kimimela.”

  “To do what? We’re banished.”

  “We must warn them about the Romans.” Sintikala held out her hand. “How? That, we will decide together. All of us. As a family.”

  Marcellinus’s heart skipped a beat. He reached out and grasped Sintikala’s hand. “All right. I swear.”

  “And you two will never fight again,” Kimimela said. “Swear it to me. Please.”

  Marcellinus looked at Sintikala. She looked at his hand enfolding hers.

  “I will never again fight with Gaius,” she said softly.

  He nodded. “We will not fight again.”

  Only then did Kimimela’s hand, smaller and gentler but still callused from the oars, reach up to touch theirs.

  They rowed steadily north past Shappa Ta’atan in the mists of dawn with their oar blades muffled. From their lookout positions at the bow and stern of the Concordia, Sintikala and Marcellinus watched carefully. Even if the sentries on the ramparts of the walled Mizipian city studied them just as intently in return, none challenged them, and no alarm was raised.

  No Cahokian warrior held a weapon, but all had them ready to hand. If the Shappa Ta’atani attacked, the Concordia would try to outrun them, and if that was impossible, they would fight to the last man; this they had sworn at their winter camp several hundred miles downriver. If they could not go north to Cahokia and beyond, their lives meant nothing, anyway.

  Such desperate measures had proved unnecessary. Shappa Ta’atan faded from view behind them. They would not fight today.

  Aelfric was taking his turn at the oar, and his eyes briefly met Marcellinus’s. On this return journey the two Romans had spent little time together, Marcellinus strategically favoring the company of his family and his old friends of the First Cahokian, Aelfric that of Chumanee and the younger warriors.

  Alongside Aelfric, Kimimela and Hurit rowed, too. At thirteen and sixteen winters, respectively, neither had the reach or strength of an adult, but they were shooting up like beanpoles and insisted on pulling their weight. There were no passengers on the Concordia; Marcellinus, Sintikala, and even Chumanee and Taianita took their turns as readily as anyone else.

  As far as they knew, the Romans of the Legio VI Ferrata were not following them upriver. If they had chosen to, it would not have been hard. The Concordia was making poor time against the early spring current. By Marcellinus’s best guess they were averaging less than ten miles a day, and those were river miles. The way the Mizipi snaked and bent, a squad of determined men on foot would have no difficulty keeping up with them even through undergrowth and swamps. As for the quinqueremes of the Sixth, they would make shorter work of riverine travel. Since a quinquereme might be crewed by three hundred oarsmen and a couple of hundred marines, a single warship would easily be sufficient to overhaul, engage, and defeat the Concordia.

  They kept a watch as best they were able. When Isleifur Bjarnason and Mahkah were not scouting ahead, they often paddled downriver as far as a day or two behind, alert for pursuers or for any intelligence they might gather. Few traders were abroad at this time of year, most having returned to their homes for the winter, and so their main source of news had dried up.

  The land was huge. They were several months north of the Market of the Mud and still well over a month from Cahokia. But Marcellinus somehow had managed to heed Aelfric’s advice and had grown comfortable with the knowledge that on any given day, anything at all might await them around the next bend and anyone might come up on them from behind, and to be at peace with that.

  Even though in all likelihood nothing at all would happen for weeks except for the tedious, grinding haul up the Mizipi.

  —

  “Is that a boat?”

  Aelfric squinted. “A coracle? Someone fishing?”

  Marcellinus might have called it a bull boat. Made of animal hide stretched over a light wooden frame, perhaps willow, it looked small and ungainly and difficult to steer and appeared to be crewed by a dwarf, although it was still several hundred yards away and the western sun was in their eyes.

  “He’s not fishing; that’s for sure.”

  “Seems to be trying to get across to us—”

  Beside them Kimimela shrieked and dived over the gunwale into the Mizipi. With a smooth but splashing stroke, she propelled herself through the cold, muddy water toward the little boat.

  “What the hell?” said Aelfric.

  As her daughter went overboard, Sintikala grabbed her bow, but then she put it down. Marcellinus was laughing with joy and relief. “It’s all right. It’s Enopay. Bjarnason, steer for the bull boat!”

  Aelfric looked again and shook his head. “Who’s Enopay?”

  —

  Over the last year Enopay had grown more barrel-chested but not a great deal taller. His head was shaved at the sides in the warrior style, but he wore no tattoos. Always popular with the First Cahokian, he was practically passed up and down the longship by men greeting him, thumping him on the back, and hugging him before Marcellinus managed to rescue the boy and sit him down with a beaker of water. “Still alive, then, thank Juno.”

  “And you, too, Eyanosa, which is much more of a surprise.”

  Aelfric scanned the shores, his eyes dark. “You’re alone, laddie?”

  “Of course. Who are you?”

  “And you’re from Cahokia?”

  “Where else would he be from?” Kimimela said, shivering and rubbing her wet hair with a blanket. “Enopay, how did you know we were here?”

  “News travels even faster than my longship,” Enopay said.

  Marcellinus grinned. “I am glad you are safe, Enopay. You took a big risk, pretending to stand with Avenaka, persuading him to let us take the Concordia. I worried about you every single day.”

  “So Avenaka knows we’re coming?” Sintikala broke in impatiently.

  “Not from me,” said the boy. “Iniwa has runners out in all the Mizipian towns awaiting you, and so I learned from him, but who is to know whether Avenaka has runners, too?”

  “Iniwa is the chief at Ocatan, the town south of Cahokia,” Marcellinus explained to Aelfric, and
then said to Enopay, “Avenaka still rules in Cahokia?”

  “Yes, and badly, because he listens to the shamans and to Huyana. And so men vanish in the night, those who speak out against Avenaka. The warriors of western Cahokia are arrogant now and take people’s food from them without asking and strut around more than they ever did under Great Sun Man, with none to keep them in check. They have stolen women, too, from the People of the Grass and even from some of the Iroqua-friendly tribes to our east. They plan to send war parties up the Oyo to take back what they think is theirs, caring nothing for the peace you made with the Iroqua. And they are confident, because the shamans tell them this is their right.”

  “Gods,” said Marcellinus. “Does the Tadodaho of the Haudenosaunee know of this? Has the peace with the Iroqua held so far?”

  “Yes, mostly, but that is not…” Enopay shook his head. “Eyanosa, I have a hundred things to tell you, and many of them are not good. I must tell you in the right order, and probably…” He looked uncertainly at Aelfric and down the boat at the First Cahokian. “Probably ashore and quietly, just us. Can we stop and—”

  Enopay broke off and looked up and down the ship again in alarm. “Where is Tahtay? He is not with you? What did you do with him?”

  “Tahtay left us, Enopay,” Kimimela said gently. “He ran away. I had hoped you would have heard news of him.”

  Enopay’s eyes narrowed. “Hurit chose Dustu over Tahtay?”

  Marcellinus looked at Kimimela, who said, “Not really. Not till long after Tahtay had gone. Enopay, we don’t know where he went. We thought perhaps he tried to return to Cahokia.”

  Enopay shook his head. “If he had come, even in secret, he would have found a way to talk to me. I know it.”

  Marcellinus nodded. Enopay was right, of course.

  Enopay lowered his voice and leaned in. “We must find him.”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Marcellinus said.

  “You do not understand. Cahokia needs a leader to stand up against Avenaka, a reasonable man, a man they will not fear. A chief to rally behind, someone everybody likes. Who other than Tahtay? You, Akecheta? You, Eyanosa? No.”