Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [98]
As Nooma and his family waited in their hut, he was very much afraid. His mind was troubled by several things. There was the imperfect lintel that he should never have allowed to happen. Would the priests forgive that? Surely not. And the murder of Tark. Had the priests guessed? The mason wiped his head and found that there were beads of perspiration there. Of course they knew. It was foolish to think for a moment that there was anything that could be hidden from them.
“I think they will come for me,” he finally whispered aloud.
Katesh looked at the little fellow in surprise.
“For the builder of the henge?” She shrugged. “I do not think so.”
Nooma said nothing. He did not share her confidence. Would Katesh mind if he were chosen, he suddenly wondered? Probably not. Then, fearfully, he looked at the children. The ways of the priests were inscrutable. What if, to punish him, they chose one of them? There would be children amongst the victims: you could be sure of that. He realised the sorrow he would feel if they took little Pia, who even then was staring up at him with her large, trusting eyes.
And as for Noo-ma-ti . . .
“If they will only take me, and not the boy,” he silently prayed.
The day wore on, in silence. The sun began to sink.
“They will not come here at all,” Katesh stated. And the mason began to think that, after all, she was correct.
They came. Two priests, one young, one old, walking slowly down the path towards the hut, just as the shadows from the nearby trees were lengthening towards them. When they reached the hut, where the little family now stood trembling before them, the young priest took out a long, thin bronze knife and handed it silently to the older, who pointed it.
As he did so, and the mason saw that it pointed at his little son, he cried out: “No! Take me! I have murdered! I have defiled the temple! I should die!” And he threw himself forward.
But the young priest was shaking his head. And, confused, Nooma turned and saw his mistake: for the knife was not pointing at Noo-ma-ti at all, but at Katesh, who was standing immediately behind the boy, and whose large eyes were now staring at the young priest in disbelief.
“It is the will of the gods,” the young priest said.
Then Nooma knew that the priests were all-seeing and that their rule, though cruel, had a terrible justice.
The ceremonies began at dusk.
Already, nearly four thousand people were gathered on the slopes surrounding the henge. In the place of honour, where Krona himself should have been standing, two chosen men stood, one bearing the chief’s breastplate, chased with gold, the other holding his ceremonial mace with its zig-zag decoration of amber set in gold.
As the sun sank towards the horizon, the priests arrived: a long procession of them followed by the party in charge of those who were to be sacrificed. They made their way slowly to the entrance of the avenue, where they waited for the sun to set.
The priests, except for Dluc himself, were dressed in white, and the crimson rays of the evening sun caught their robes.
On this greatest of days, the High Priest was dressed in a magnificent robe of red and white, sparkling with precious stones. His long face was painted white. On his head he wore the tall headdress of bronze decorated with a golden disc that flashed in the sunlight, and in his hand everyone could see the long staff, with its shining top shaped in the form of a swan. Taller by far than all those around him, he was an awesome figure.
The sun departed, dusk fell, and the crowd prepared for the silent vigil that would