On the seventy-first day one full legion, 6,000 men, stabbed their officers in the night and scattered away into the darkness in small groups. Stopping only to pick up their women from the villages around Opet, they disappeared into the south.
Bakmor pursued them a short distance and dragged a hundred of them back in chains to face Lannon’s wrath. They were all men of mixed Yuye blood, one class above that of freed slave, the lowest type of citizen allowed the privilege of bearing arms for the king. It seemed they did not count the privilege dear. Made bold by the certainty of execution, their spokesman told the king:
‘If you had given us something to fight for, some station above that of dog, we might have stayed with you.’
Lannon had the man scalded to death with boiling water for his insolence, and retired his two remaining legions on the city.
They camped upon the lake shore without the city wall and Lannon looked to the north in the night and saw the bivouac fires of Manatassi’s army spread like a field of yellow Namaqua daisies upon the hills. Manatassi was pressing him hard.
Bakmor found the king on the outskirts of the camp, watching the enemy positions. He approached Lannon eagerly bearing the first good news they had received in many long days.
‘There is word of Huy Ben-Amon, Majesty.’ And Lannon felt a lift of his spirits.
‘Where is he? Is he alive? Has he returned?’ Lannon demanded. It was only now he admitted to himself how he had missed the little priest. He had not seen him since Huy had run out of the cavern of Astarte in the midst of the ceremony of the Fruitful Earth.
Although Lannon had conducted a diligent search, even offering a reward of 100 gold fingers for information about him, Huy had disappeared.
‘Has he returned?’ How many times in the long nights since then had Lannon longed for his companionship, his counsel and his comfort.
How often in the din of the battle had he listened for Huy’s cry ‘For Baal!’ and the song of the great axe.
How often had he wished that he could stiffen a crumbling centre or check a pivoting flank with the priest’s presence.
‘Where is he?’ demanded Lannon.
‘A fisherman saw him. He is out on the island,’ said Bakmor.
The days had drifted past in a haze of grief. Huy had lost count of them, one slid so easily into the next. Most of the time he spent working on the scrolls. He had brought all five of the golden books with him and when he was not in the hut he kept them buried beneath his sleeping mat.
He wrote exclusively of Tanith, of his love for her and her death. In the beginning he worked through the nights as well as the days, but then he used up the last of the oil for the lamp and he spent his nights wandering along the beach and listening to the low surf hiss and growl upon the sands, and the wind across the lake rattle the palm fronds.
He lived on the freshwater clams and a few fish that he took in the shallows, and he grew lean and unkempt; his beard and hair tangled and uncared for.
His grief showed in his eyes, making them wild and haunted, half mad and uncaring for anything but his own loss. Many of these hopeless days passed before anger and resentment began to work within him. From deep within him rose thoughts dark and dangerous as the shapes of killer sharks rising to the smell of blood.
Brooding over a smoky cooking fire he thought about his land and his gods. It seemed to him that both of them were cruel and greedy. A land devoted to the accumulation of wealth, counting not the toll in human suffering. Frivolous gods demanding the sacrifice, both of them greedy and devouring.
Huy left the fire and went down to the lake shore. He sat in the sand and the water ran up and tugged at his ankles before sliding back. The dark thoughts persisted, and mingled with them were the memories of Tanith.
He pondered the gods who would choose for the sacrifice the beloved of their faithful servant. What more did they demand of him, he wondered. He had given them everything he held dear, and still they wanted more.
How cruel that they should choose Lannon as the instrument to strip him of his love. He wished now that he could have told Lannon about Tanith. If Lannon had known of their love he would have protected her, Huy was sure of this. In the beginning he had hated Lannon, for it was he who had named Tanith as the sacrifice. Then reason had prevailed with Huy. He realized now that Lannon had acted in good faith. He had known nothing of Huy’s and Tanith’s relationship. He had known only that the nation was in dire danger and a valuable messenger was needed. Tanith was a natural choice then, reluctantly Huy saw that this was so, and knew that he would have done the same.
He no longer hated Lannon, but suddenly he found himself hating those who had forced him to it. The gods - the merciless gods.
Out of the lake great Baal rose in all his splendour of glittering gold and red, and across the waters he could see the rosy cliffs and towers of Opet glowing on the horizon.
From lifelong habit Huy rose to his feet and spread his arms in the sun sign, and he opened his mouth to sing the praise of Baal.
Suddenly he was shaking with anger. He felt fiery gusts of it rising through his soul, setting his hatred alight, the funeral fire on which his faith perished.
‘Damn you!’ he shouted. ‘What more do you want of me, you eater of flesh? How much longer must I be your plaything?’
Now his fists were clenched as he shook them in defiance at the rising sun, his face contorted and his tears streaming down into the wild bush of his beard. He walked forward into the lake.
‘How much longer must I feed your cruel appetite, man-killer? How many more innocents before you quench your monstrous lust for blood?’
He dropped to his knees in the wet sand, and the running waters surged about his waist.
