Clash of Eagles by Alan Smale Page A

think it too likely to happen today. Squatting, he slipped his fingers into the rough grass and probed the loam beneath. His hand came up streaked with charcoal and ash.
    “They make this,” he said. “D’you see?”
    “Let’s go, sir,” Scapax said.
    “The redskins. They burn away the undergrowth with care so the deer and elk can graze and they can see clear to shoot them from afar with bow and arrow. And the trees here: chestnuts, hickory nuts. It’s …” Words suddenly failed him at the magnitude of what he was saying. “This is a park, not a forest. It only
looks
natural. They
tend
this. Our dusky savages practice land husbandry.”
    The centurion came to Marcellinus’s side. “Now, sir, if you please.”
    Behind the trees, Marcellinus saw something gliding high and straight on the breeze. He squinted at it, pretty sure it was a hawk and not a man.
    “Don’t make me order the good centurion to carry you,” Aelfric said mildly.
    Marcellinus turned on him. “You forget yourself. Why didn’t you leave with the other tribunes?”
    At his tone, Aelfric quickly stood to attention. “Sorry, sir.”
    “You and I, Tribune, we’re not friends.”
    “No, Praetor.”
    “Your place is with your cohorts.”
    “Yes, Praetor.”
    “Then get back to them!”
    “Yes, sir.” Aelfric made haste to depart.
    Straightening, Marcellinus walked back and placed his hand on theshoulder of his maimed scout, looking at Sigurdsson’s eyes rather than his injuries. “Thank you, my friend. Watch the road for us till we return.”
    Only then did Marcellinus allow his guards to pace him back into the protection of the Legion.
    “I heard the speech you made for Sigurdsson earlier this evening,” said Isleifur Bjarnason. “A pretty thing it was. Excellent and rousing. You’ll really take the time to grind the redskins’ bones?”
    Marcellinus whirled. He had dismissed his guards for the night and had believed himself alone in his Praetorium. But there sat another of his long-missing Norse scouts, on the same blanket Sisika had occupied. His flaxen hair was filthy and pulled back into a long braid, and his clothes were darkened with dirt and green smears, indicating a great deal of time spent concealed in foliage.
    The Praetor recovered his composure quickly, as if men crept up on him every day. “I’ve done it before.”
    “I thank you for the tribute on his behalf,” said Bjarnason. “Thorkell was a good man. But much as it pains me to say it, the loss of one good Norseman doesn’t justify a massacre.”
    Marcellinus held the man’s gaze for several moments, then turned and poured wine and water for them both. If Bjarnason had intended to kill him, he’d be dead already. “I’m surprised no one told me you’d returned to camp.”
    “I haven’t. Leastways, not officially.” He grinned. “A poor scout I’d be if I couldn’t find a path through a castra unseen.”
    “Such undue stealthiness could get you killed.”
    “Perhaps. But I’m no use to you here. If I’m to be of service, I need to be out feeling the lay of the land. Learning to think as the redskins do.”
    Marcellinus eyed him. “This territory appeals? Perhaps you’re thinking you’ve served Roma long enough?”
    “The scenery’s to my taste, I’ll admit. I sojourned in Vinlandia awhile; did you know? And Graenlandia before that. I like the spaces empty and the skies big.”
    “Then why are you here in my tent?”
    “Because I still work for you, Praetor. I wouldn’t want you to imagine I’d deserted. And to advise you.” Marcellinus raised his eyebrows. “To tell you my impressions, rather,” the Norseman amended quickly.
    “You have the floor,” Marcellinus said ironically, and sat in his chair.
    Bjarnason sipped his wine. He must have grown unused to it during his weeks in the woods; it was the first time Marcellinus had seen a Viking sip anything. “Very well, then. They’re a powerful people, the Iroqua. Warriors the