Huy smiled wearily, ‘That is what we intend.’
‘Why is there only one legion on the border?’
Huy answered them grimly, ‘Because you refused to vote the money for more.’
They turned on him then, their words hammering through the fog of weariness.
‘How did you pass unscathed through the enemy lines?’
‘Was not this Timon once your protege?’
‘You know him well, you taught him, did you not?’ And Huy looked at Lannon.
‘Enough!’ Lannon’s voice cut through the tirade. ‘His Holiness has called the nation to war. He has shown me copies of the scrolls, and I am about to sign them in ratification.’
‘Should we not wait a while?’ That was Philo, naturally, ‘Are we not being too hasty?’
‘What will you wait for?’ Huy demanded. ‘Until they open your bowels with a spear-blade and cut off your testicles?’
Lannon signed the war orders a little before dawn, and he dismissed the Council of Nine with the words:
‘We will meet again at noon, after the final ceremony of the Fruitful Earth. See to your arms and take leave of your families.’
To Huy he spoke kindly when they were alone. ‘Sleep here. There is nothing more you can do now.’
He was too late. Huy was already asleep, slumped forward on the table with his head on his arms. Lannon picked him up from his stool, and carried him like a sleeping child to a guest chamber.
He placed a sentry at the door.
‘No one must wake the Holy Father,’ he instructed. ‘No one! Do you understand?’
It was almost dawn. The sacrifice would take place in a very few hours, and he knew that Huy was in a kind of death sleep that might last for many days. He left him, and went to bathe and dress for the procession.
Aina lifted the hood of her cloak over her head, covering her face. She thrust her bony old hands into the wide sleeves, and leaned forward to blow out the lamp.
She stood in the darkness, considering what she must do. She would not wait for the High Priest to leave the palace. Aina had access to the palace kitchens. The majordomo there was the grandson of her youngest sister, and she often went to eat there as a change from the temple fare. All the palace slaves knew her. It would be a simple matter to find out from one of them whereabouts in the rambling mud-walled building the High Priest was, an even simpler matter to get word to him.
Quietly she drew the curtains of her cell aside, and peered out. There was a single torch guttering in its bracket at the end of the passage, but it threw only a feeble light and Aina did not see the dark figure waiting for her in a shadowy angle of the corridor until it came gliding towards her.
‘Not yet asleep, old woman?’ a deep, almost masculine voice asked softly, and a strong hand closed on Aina’s wrist.
‘Are you going visiting so late at night? Is it that you have heard of Huy Ben-Amon’s return to Opet?’
‘No,’ whimpered Aina. ‘I swear it.’ And she struggled feebly. With her free hand Sister Haka pushed the old priestess’s hood back from her face and peered into her eyes.
‘You were going to Ben-Amon, were you not?’
‘No. I swear it.’ Aina saw death in Sister Haka’s expression, and she began to scream. It was a thin passionless sound like the sound of the wind, and it was cut off abruptly as Sister Haka’s powerful hand whipped over her mouth.
From a doorway opposite a frightened face peered out, and Sister Haka snapped, ‘Go back to your couch.’ And the young novice obeyed quickly.
Sister Haka forced Aina’s frail body back through the curtains and onto her couch. She held her hand over mouth and nostrils, holding Aina down with an arm across her chest.
Aina’s struggles exploded feverishly, her heels drummed and kicked against the wall and her arms flapped and clawed at Sister Haka’s face. Then swiftly it was over and she subsided and lay still. Sister Haka held her mouth and nostrils closed for a long time after she was quiet, then with one hand she felt the scrawny old chest with its empty pendulant dugs for a heartbeat.
Finding none she nodded with satisfaction, arranged the careless limbs tidily, and left the cell. Through the single window slit the first light of dawn lit Aina’s face. Her mouth hung open, her eyes were startled and a wisp of silky silver hair floated on her forehead.
Lannon was conscious of the need to carry through the final ritual of the Festival meticulously. It was apparent that he faced a national emergency of vast proportions, that Opet was opposed by an enemy more powerful and relentless than any in her long history. The oracle had spoken against him, perhaps he or his kingdom had incurred the wrath of the gods.
Lannon knew that the fate of nations hangs not entirely on the actions of men, battles are not won by swords alone. He knew there were influences beyond, sometimes malignant and sometimes benign, which dictated the outcome of earthly affairs. He knew it was possible to placate an angry god, and to enlist the goodwill of one that was kindly disposed.
As the Reverend Mother led him through the catechism beside the pool of Astarte, he paid special concern to the correctness of his responses, and there was no mistaking the sincerity of his voice as he made his pledge to the goddess.
The priestesses closed in about him and light hands helped him shed his robes of purple silk. Currents of cool air stroked his naked body as he strode forward to the edge of the pool, went down the stone steps and lowered himself into the dear green waters.
His body shone white below the surface, and his long golden tresses and beard glistened with water as the priestesses beside him scooped up water in the conch shells and poured it over his head.
