‘If you move fast, six days. Five, if you fly.’
‘I shall fly,’ said Huy. Wake me at dusk.‘ And he fell asleep.
Looking down on the sleeping figure. Marmon felt the familiar stirring of his affections. He felt his admiration for the great heart of this little fighting man, felt envy for the thrust and drive which always carried him ahead of the pack, and he was glad that Huy Ben-Amon led them at a time of such a crisis
It was then he remembered the messenger from Opet, the young ensign of Legion Ben-Amon who had passed through the garrison the previous day carrying an urgent message for the High Priest. He debated with himself for a moment, then decided not to disturb Huy’s rest. He would tell him when he woke at dusk
At dusk Huy woke, ate a light meal and oiled his body. Twenty minutes later he ran out into the cool of evening through the garrison gate with fifteen legionaries as escort, and it was only after they had disappeared into the dark and silent forests of the south that Marmon again remembered the message that the young ensign had given him.
He thought to send a messenger after Huy, but he knew that no runner of his could hope to catch the priest after he had such a head start. The speed of Huy’s long legs were part of the legend.
Marmon thought comfortably, ‘He will be in Opet soon enough.’ And he paced along the parapet until he reached the far side of the fortress. He stayed there until after darkness had fallen, staring into the turbulent north and wondering how soon they would come.
The Divine Council came to Tanith’s cell on the morning of the ninth day of the Festival of the Fruitful Earth. They were led by the Reverend Mother, frail and uncertain, shifty-eyed with guilt.
‘We have joyous news for you, my child,’ she told Tanith, and Tanith sat up quickly on her couch - her heart leaping within her. The Gry-Lion had changed his mind perhaps.
‘Oh, Reverend Mother!’ she whispered, feeling the tears of relief at the back of her eyelids. She was still shaky and weak from the loss of the child, and it took little to make her weep now.
The Reverend Mother was gabbling on, not looking at Tanith, unable to meet her eyes, and for a while Tanith was puzzled. She could not understand this talk of precedent and ecclesiastical law, until she glanced at Sister Haka’s face and saw how gloating and lustful were the dark features and how brightly the cruel eyes shone.
Then suddenly she realized that this was no reprieve.
‘And so in his wisdom the king has chosen you, has given to you the great honour of carrying the message of Opet to the goddess.’
They had not come to release her, but to seal her fate. Sister Haka was smiling.
‘You must give thanks, my child. The king has given you life eternal. You will live in glory at the side of the goddess, hers for ever,’ said the Reverend Mother, and the priestesses chorused, ‘Praise to Astarte. Praise to Baal.’
The Reverend Mother went on, ‘You must prepare yourself. I will send Aina to help you. She knows the path of the messenger well, for she has attended many of the chosen ones. Remember to pray, my child. Pray that the goddess will find you acceptable.’
Tanith stared at them, white-faced and afraid. She did not want to die. She wanted to cry out, ‘Spare me. I am too young. I want just a little more happiness, just a little more love before I die.’
The Divine Council filed from the chamber, leaving her alone. Now at last the tears flooded her eyes, and she cried out aloud, ‘Huy, come to me! Please, come to me.’
Huy struggled up through the glutinous dark swamp of exhausted sleep with the nightmare cry still echoing in his ears. It took him a while to remember where he was and to realize that he had dreamed the horror that had woken him.
He lay in the sparse shade of the wild fig, and through the branches he saw the altitude of the sun and knew that they had slept for only an hour. His legs still felt leaden, his body torpid and completely enervated by two days of hard travel.
He should sleep again for another three or four hours at the least, but the nightmare stayed with him, denying him rest.
He pulled himself up on an elbow, surprised at the effort it required, but then remembering that he had run over two hundred Roman miles in two days. He looked at the remains of his escort, three of them, haggard-faced and finely drawn from their exertions, sleeping like dead men in the attitudes in which they had fallen. The other twelve had dropped along the way, unable to match the blistering pace which Huy had set.
Huy heaved himself to his feet. He could not sleep, could not rest, while dread haunted him and the safety of his king and his land was in jeopardy.
He limped stiffly down to the bed of the small stream, and knelt in the sugary white sand. He splashed his face and body with the clear water, soaking his tunic and beard, then he climbed the bank and looked at his sleeping men. He felt pity for them, pity that did not prevent him calling out, ‘Up! On your feet! We march for Opet.’
One of them could not wake, though Huy kicked his ribs and slapped his cheeks with an open hand. They left him lying, whimpering in his sleep.
The other two dragged themselves up, groaning, moving with stiff sore legs, and the glazed expressions of fatigue.
Huy walked the first half mile to loosen aching muscles, with the escort staggering after him.
Then he went up onto his toes, changed the vulture axe from one shoulder to the other, and went away at a run, bouncing long-legged on a springy stride that covered the ground like the trot of an eland bull.
One of the legionaries cried out as his leg collapsed under him and he went down sprawling in the dust. He was finished, and he lay there groaning with mortification and the pain of cramped and torn muscles.
The other followed Huy, his steps firming as his legs loosened and charged with new blood.
They ran the sun to its zenith, spurning the pitiless heat of the noonday, and they ran on into the afternoon.
Ahead of them, low on the horizon, stood the perpetual bank of cloud which marked the Lake of Opet, a beacon
