Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Dluc gave Krona the news that night.

  “You will have an heir,” the priest assured him. “But first, the gods demand a new henge, made of stone.” This was the meaning of the pellets of stone found in many of the birds. “It is to be greater than any temple built before.”

  Krona nodded.

  “If it is the will of the gods, let the work be done.”

  “The gods demand that you give your firstborn child to be sacrificed. After that, you will have a son who will succeed you. It will be your pledge that you submit to the power of sun, and he demands it.”

  It was a terrible message. Krona weakly protested:

  “I am growing old. Will there be time?”

  “The gods will grant you time,” Dluc assured him. “Your son will be a great chief.”

  The chief sighed. “And who is to be my bride?”

  Dluc frowned. This was the part of the message that had puzzled the priests most.

  “Her head will be crowned with gold,” he replied.

  Krona stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  “I am not sure,” the High Priest confessed. “Perhaps that she is the daughter of a great chief.”

  “Find her quickly,” Krona growled.

  There was one other condition laid down by the gods in the auguries, and it was this one that had caused the priests to look at each other with such apprehension: it was the date by which the new henge must be completed:

  The henge must be finished by the day when the sun looks into the moon’s full face along the avenue.

  To the astronomer priests who knew the mysteries of Stonehenge, this cryptic statement could only have one meaning.

  For their henge was a wonderful and complex instrument. Not only did the sun’s shadow on the markers tell the days of the year; many other wonders took place there.

  “At the summer solstice,” the older priests explained to the novices, “in certain years, not only does the sun god rise along the avenue, but the moon goddess sets opposite him. And at mid-winter solstice, the positions are reversed; and while sun departs in the south west, moon rises along the avenue.” Sun and moon, male and female, summer and winter: all of these perfect oppositions were contained in the great circle.

  There were many other subtle coincidences and angles between the solar and lunar paths. “And these do not occur so perfectly at other henges in the far north,” the priests declared, “by which we know that our henge is especially favoured by the gods.”

  In fact this was correct, although their science was not able to discover the true reason. For the relationships between the sun and moon will alter at different latitudes on the globe.

  But there were greater secrets than this. Some time after the henge was first built, its astronomers made another discovery: that the moon in its orbit round the earth does not follow a single path, but that it oscillates from side to side in a subtle cycle of its own, which is repeated every nineteen years.

  “There at the entrance,” the novices were told, “the priests of old set up the markers to record the shifts of the moon goddess back and forth along the horizon. For at each winter solstice, she returns to a slightly different spot when she rises – you would never notice it from one year to the next unless you marked the spot, but it is so. And she swings from side to side, back and forth along the horizon, once every nineteen years. That is what we call the sacred moonswing.

  “The observation took one hundred years,” the priest would continue, thus reminding the novitiates that this degree of precision and dedication would be expected from them too.

  Nor was this all. For though the solar year does not divide neatly into twenty-nine-day lunar months, it was Dluc himself who had discovered, by patient calculation, that a coincidence between solar and lunar years could be arranged on a long count of nineteen years – a discovery always ascribed to Meton the Greek, some two millennia later.

  “It is one of the greatest secrets in the sacred sayings of the priests,” the novices were told – “that the moon goddess only shows the same face, on the same day, once in nineteen years.”

  And this was the significance of the augury. For Dluc and his priests, from their meticulous recordings, knew that soon a rare and notable event was due to take place in the heavens. At the end of the present nineteen-year moonswing, already nearly half completed, not only would the sun at midsummer solstice rise opposite the moon and exactly down the centre of the avenue, but on that precise day it would be full. It was a huge astronomical coincidence, an opposition more perfect than any seen for generations: and it was due to take place at the end of that very moonswing – in ten years’ time.

  “How can such a huge work be accomplished in so short a time?” a young priest cried.

  “By the will of the gods,” Dluc replied coldly.

  For several days, Dluc pondered the new temple design. Into it he put all his knowledge of the mysteries of the gods, the intricate pattern of their motions in the heavens, the magic numbers the priests derived from the motions of the sun and moon and the succession of the days – all of this and more went into his design, until finally he was satisfied and murmured to himself: “Truly this will be a hymn to the gods, a marvel in stone.”

  It was. The henge that Dluc designed was far taller than any temple on the island. The bluestones stood six to eight feet high, and were sacred. But the High Priest decided to replace them with the mighty sarsen stones that came from the downland nearly twenty miles away, and which would stand three times as high. At the centre, he would place five huge free-standing arches, each consisting of two uprights with a lintel across the top of them, and arranged in a half circle around the altar, with the open end towards the entrance and the avenue. These were the five trilithons which would stare down upon the sacrifices. Then, in place of the half-completed bluestone circle, a massive ring of thirty huge sarsens would be built, supporting lintels which would be joined together to form a perfect, unbroken circle. It was a sophisticated, daring design, and he pondered it for many days, making careful drawings of the various parts with chalk on pieces of bark.

  When he had completed this work, he summoned the priests and declared: “The design is ready. Now we need a builder to supervise the work. Who shall it be?”

  After some discussion it was agreed:

  “Nooma shall build the new Stonehenge.”

  Nooma the stonemason was a curious little figure; and a few mornings later the priests gazed in mild contempt as the mason in his leather apron waddled towards the henge, his over-large grizzled head nodding sagely at his own thoughts as he went along.

  His ancestors, who were potters, had been tall; but fate had decreed that Nooma, while being blessed with a head that was huge and statuesque, should be given to go with it a body that was short, stocky and bandy-legged. The result was that his solemn round head with its ageless face sat on his shoulders like an enormous and rather absurd egg. His hands were small, with short fingers and thumbs that were little more than stumps. Shy and reserved and still unmarried, he usually spoke little, unless something in his work excited him, when he would start to tremble, break into voluble, unexpected eloquence and wave his little arms about wildly. But most of the time, his quiet eyes were serious and trusting, and this often made people take advantage of him.

  If his appearance was absurd, it was misleading. For generations his family had been fine craftsmen – potters and carpenters usually – and he had all their skill. The stubby fingers, that looked ill-suited to delicate work, could produce miracles. Although only twenty-five, he had worked all over the island since he was a boy and was said to be the best stone worker living.

  Nooma was excited that the priests had chosen him to build the new henge: not only was this a great honour that made him stick out his chest with pride, but it was also a challenge to his craftsmanship; and he hurried towards the sacred grounds with eager anticipation.

  But when he heard the priests’ instructions, and w
hen finally he comprehended the enormous scale of their plan, and the short time in which the work was to be completed, his solemn eyes grew larger. Despite the chill autumn day, he felt small beads of perspiration breaking out on his broad forehead.

  “Such huge stones? Completed in ten years?” It was a wail of dismay.

  The priests took no notice of his protests, and now the little mason began to tremble with fear. How could such a vast temple be completed so quickly? It would need an army of masons! But as he looked into the impassive faces of Dluc’s priests, he had no doubt of his fate if he failed him.

  “They will give me to the sun god,” he thought. “They will sacrifice me at dawn.”

  When the priests next showed him the drawings that the High Priest had made, and he bent his head to study them, his large oval face fell even further.

  “Nothing like this has ever been done before,” he muttered as he stared at the great arches. And jabbing his finger at one of the drawings he protested: “How am I to do that?”

  For Dluc’s designs made clear that each of the massive stone lintels of the ring of sarsens was to be slightly curved so that together they would form a perfect circle. How could such huge stones be transformed – thirty of them – into identical blocks each shaped with such precision?

  “You must find a way,” they told him.

  Nooma shook his head slowly. “I shall certainly be led to the altar stone,” he thought sadly.

  But there was nothing he could do. The priests could not be refused. Somehow, he must devise a way to build this huge new henge.

  “I should need fifty masons to work under me,” he said finally. “And as for labourers . . .” He tried to calculate the size of the army of men that would be needed to haul such enormous stones. For each sarsen would weigh up to thirty-five tons – the largest half as much again – and would have to be moved nearly twenty miles across the rolling high ground. “Why,” he exclaimed, “it would take five hundred men at least, and teams of oxen too.”

  But the priests were unmoved by these astounding demands.

  “You shall have all the men you need, and the oxen,” he was informed.

  Nooma thought. The practical problems of organising such a force, of feeding and housing them would occupy much time. He could not do this and supervise the stone-working alone. “I shall need help to organise the men,” he said.

  “Choose whom you wish.”

  The little fellow considered.

  “I should like Tark the riverman,” he said.

  It was a good choice. No one on the five rivers was cleverer than Tark, the best known and most highly regarded of all the riverfolk. The riverfolk at Sarum were an extensive tribe, somewhat apart from the farmers, and mostly descended in one way or another from the crafty fishermen and hunters who had first inhabited the place millennia before. It was not uncommon to see mean, hard little faces and long toes which bore a remarkable similarity to those of Tep the hunter, along the riverbanks of any of the five rivers, as these people went about their business as trappers, fishermen and traders. Water rats they were often called by the Sarum people.

  Tark was of this tribe, but a nobler specimen than most. Though he, too, had the long toes of the water rat, he was a tall, good-looking man with strong, rugged features, long black hair which he swept back, and a black beard which he kept meticulously trimmed and singed. His eyes, black as jet, could be hard when he was driving a bargain, but could also become gentle and luminous, especially when he sang, which he did in a fine, tuneful bass; and it was partly for this reason that he was well known from the trading post to the port to be popular with the women. Tark was an expert trader, with six boats and men of his own working under him. He was everywhere, even crossing the sea sometimes in search of slaves or special items that he knew would please Krona or the priests. Above all, he was wily in his dealing with the priests, always making himself useful to them, while at the same time seeing to it that each transaction was to his benefit. He liked the little mason, whom he found slightly absurd, admired his craftsmanship and had formed a kind of friendship with him, often letting him have small items from his river-trading which the mason would never have been clever enough to bargain for himself.

  Nooma was sure that he would know how to organise the provisioning and quartering of his men, and he was right.

  “You have a month to prepare,” the priests told the mason. “At the next new moon, work must begin.”

  In the days that followed, Nooma found that his needs were more than supplied. The priests moved from house to house, picking young men whenever they were needed. Before the work was done, over a third of the adult male population would be engaged on the task at any one time. Under Tark’s direction, grain stores were built near the site from which the sarsens would be brought, and the work of felling trees, which would be used as rollers over which the huge stones could be moved, was begun.

  By the end of the month, despite the huge size of the task before him, Nooma felt the first dawning of a new confidence. Encouraged by Tark, who was delighted by such an opportunity to make himself useful to the priests, he began to go about his great work with a new optimism and before the end of the month confided to the trader: “Perhaps, after all, it can be done.”

  While the preparations were in hand, he also set his mind to the technical problems presented by the stones themselves: how were they to be handled, and above all, how were such cumbersome objects to be fitted together in so precise a design?

  It was in this that Nooma showed a practical genius which amply justified the choice that the priests had made in putting the work under his hands.

  For when he came to report to the priests at the end of the month, the little mason was brimming with suppressed excitement.

  As he outlined his plans, jabbing the air with his stubby little fingers, he announced:

  “We must cut the stones into their final shape before we move them.”

  The priests were surprised. It had been assumed that the rough hewn rocks would be brought to the henge before they were shaped. But Nooma shook his head.

  “First,” he explained, “it is foolish to move the sarsens before they are almost shaped, because they will be heavier. And second, if we cut and dress the stones at the henge, the mess will be enormous: thousands of stone chippings to carry away.”

  “Then you mean to shape every stone of the temple a day’s journey away, carry the finished stones to the sacred ground and assemble them there?” One of the priests asked in astonishment.

  He nodded calmly. “Why not?”

  Next he produced his own drawings.

  To produce the identically curved lintels he proposed to make a wooden block, along which each stone could be cut, and in order to fix them in place he had devised an ingenious solution.

  “See,” he explained, “at the top of each upright we can make two tenons – these bumps – and on the underside of each lintel two matching sockets for the tenons to fit into.”

  He pointed them out to the priests.

  “They will be fitted into each other just as we do blocks of wood,” he explained. “And then,” he continued, “I can make tongue and groove joints at the end of the lintels so that each one slots into the next.”

  “They will be solid,” the priest who had spoken before remarked.

  “Solid!” the quiet little fellow suddenly burst out. “Why, each stone will be married to the next like husband to wife. The temple will be indestructible!” He was flushed with excitement.

  It was from that moment that the priests knew the new temple of Stonehenge would be a masterpiece; and that night, when they gave Dluc an account of the mason’s plans, the High Priest was pleased.

  If only the High Priest’s problems had been so easily resolved. For the question of Krona and his heir remained and as the months passed, it was only his faith in the sun god that kept him from despair: often it seemed to Dluc that they were labouring in a great darkness. At times it
even appeared that the gods themselves were deliberately confusing them. A suitable bride had to be found: but where? The auguries had said that her head would be crowned with gold – but what did it mean? It might only signify that she would be the daughter of a chief, for it was often the custom for such girls to wear a circlet of gold in their hair when they were married; but this explanation did not satisfy him: he was sure that the augury meant something more. And indeed, though messengers were sent to chiefs all over the island, they failed to find any bride who was suitable.

  It was then that one of the older priests suggested:

  “The land of Ireland is called the golden because of its fine jewellers. Perhaps the girl is to come from there.”

  And since the searches on the island had been useless, it was decided to send a priest to that distant western land to see if he could find a bride there. But it was a long and dangerous journey and Dluc was uncertain whom to send until a young priest named Omnic, tall and stately and with the fire of courage and dedication in his eyes stood up and cried:

  “Send me, High Priest. I shall be safe, for I know that this journey is the will of the sun god.”

  So Dluc sacrificed two rams, Krona gave him fine gifts, and three days later, in a small curragh, he set out from the harbour with only three men to accompany him.

  He was gone for two years.

  During this time, while Nooma and his masons cut ten of the great sarsens, Krona’s spirit became less sad: the haggard look left his face, he made several visits to see the work progressing, and he even began to hunt again. He resumed his life with Ina. What must she feel, Dluc sometimes wondered, sharing Krona’s bed once again, yet knowing it must be for only a short time, until his new bride should arrive? At first he had noticed an air of contentment about her; the lines in her still handsome face had seemed to be smoothed; but as the months passed, and Krona started to look forward to the approach of his new bride with more and more obvious impatience, the priest observed new lines, of irritation, around her mouth and as time wore on, not only her face, but her whole body seemed to take on an air of resignation.