The journey to Cahokia took a long day; the burly warriors who bore his bouncing body on the pole traded off as they jogged along. The entire distance people ran up, spitting on Fire Cat, his mother, and sisters. They were pelted with feces, fish guts, garbage, and even had pots of urine dumped on them. Occasionally one of the warriors would roar, lashing out when someone grew careless with his aim.
“Heretics!” “Animals!” “Filthy foreign trash!” Insults were called as they passed. The escorting warriors did little to stop the abuse, only admonishing the crowd against the use of clubs or fishing spears.
Along that entire distance the broad trail never left sight of farmsteads, temples, palaces, and granaries. The sheer number of people they encountered, or who stopped to watch the last of the Red Wing Clan pass, shocked and amazed him.
Were all the people in the world in Cahokia?
Periodically he heard his sisters sobbing and pleading, but for the most part, he kept his jaws locked as filth trickled down his flesh. His throat was parched from thirst, his last drink having been the night before on the canoe. The agony of hanging, and the tight straps eating into his wrists and knees, left him delirious. If he managed to relax, his head bounced, almost popping his neck. The stench of the excrement dripping from his skin burned in his nose.
Can there be any pain worse than this?
And if there was, how could a living body stand it? But he’d seen it, inflicted it himself when he tied captives in the square.
And now it shall be my turn.
Somehow, he had to endure, had to grit his teeth and not scream as they burned his penis and testicles from his body. Not whimper as they cut bits of skin away and poured boiling hickory oil on the raw muscle beneath. Could he keep from shrieking as they pulled his eyes from his head? Could he die with the stoic courage a Red Wing war chief should?
Mercifully he passed out for part of the way, only waking groggily as his body slammed on the ground, the impact of his head on hard clay shooting lights behind his eyelids.
He blinked, asked, “Who? What?” as the warriors untied him. He laid there limp and dazed while his breechcloth was ripped away. Through blurred vision he caught vague images of tattooed warriors as they lifted his senseless body. He watched them extend his flaccid arm and bind his right wrist to the upper corner of the square. Then his left. Another warrior supported him around the waist as his legs were tied. Finally they stepped back, and his body sagged, pulling painfully down on his arms. He’d been tied to hang like a big X in the upright wooden-frame square.
“Give him water,” a woman’s voice ordered. “And a little food. If he and the women pass out completely, they could suffocate.”
Fire Cat forced himself to pay attention, stiffening his legs to support himself. He shot glances to both sides, seeing the timbers and how his wrists were tied at the top corners, ankles at the bottom.
Leaning his head out, he could discern White Rain and Soft Moon, their faces obscured by their filthy hair, their bodies stripped bare. To his left he could just make out his mother, her square a little farther away. She’d shaken her gray hair back so she could study her captors through half-lidded eyes.
Fire Cat gasped as he struggled to keep his balance on the lower pole. Then he looked out at the crowd that continued to build. An older woman of perhaps fifty summers, her hair tied in a tight bun, stepped close. She studied him with thoughtful eyes. Her cheeks were tattooed with starbursts, and an elegant weasel-hide cape made from white winter hides hung from her shoulders. She carried a small copper-clad rod, and her red skirt was stunningly adorned with the swirling design of the Four Winds Clan. A brilliant splay of exotic scarlet feathers rose from her hair.
“So you’re the great war chief who defeated Makes Three?” she asked.
He tried to swallow down his dry throat, and only gagged.
“Three times you defeated the Morning Star’s armies and broke his squadrons, young fire brand. Did you think you could prevail forever?”
“Oh, hush,” Mother rasped weakly from her square. “It’s me you want, Blue Heron.”
Fire Cat watched Blue Heron saunter over and extend an arm, lifting his mother’s head to stare into her eyes. “It’s been too many years, old rival. I’m almost sorry to see you here.”
“Sorry, too,” Mother whispered hoarsely.
Blue Heron stepped back. “Feed and water them like I said. No one touches them until Lady Night Shadow Star has inspected them.”
Fire Cat heard the muttered assent of both the gathered warriors and the crowd.
But how long would it be? And how would he keep from shaming himself when the real torture started?