Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “They will sacrifice me to the sun,” he muttered sadly. “After all, that is how it will end.”

  However, the lintel was raised into place, and with five days to spare before the all-important solstice, the new Stonehenge was complete.

  Half proud, half terrified, at the feast for the labourers held by the river the following night, Nooma drank himself to sleep.

  But the next morning, one thought kept coming to his mind: “I have killed a man; I have made an error in the building of the sacred henge. Nothing is hidden from the priests: they will destroy me.”

  It was nearly dawn. The moon was still high.

  As Dluc the High Priest surveyed the new temple that the mason had built, he experienced a profound emotion.

  “It is complete,” he murmured. For it seemed to him that not only the building itself, not only a cycle of the sun and moon were now completed, but also that the terrible journey along which the people of Sarum had passed had now reached its completion, which the perfect circle of stones symbolised. Sun and moon, day and night, winter and summer, the spring time and the harvest: all these things seemed to him to be contained in the henge: all Sarum’s life and all its destiny lay in the stones that recorded the endless procession of the days and the harmony of the heavens.

  It was five days before the solstice, and, that day, as he always had in times gone by, Chief Krona was to hunt the boar.

  As dawn approached, Dluc called his litter, and gave the runners their orders.

  It was the custom that before the hunt, he would perform the ritual asking the moon goddess to bless the huntsmen, and so, soon after dawn, he arrived in the broad clearing which lay at the foot of the escarpment by the entrance to the eastern valley, where the hunters were meeting.

  Ah, the beauty of it! When he saw them, he too felt young again. There were fifty hunters, in their thick leather jerkins, carrying bows, heavy quivers of arrows and the short, heavy spears with flint tips that were used for hunting the boar. They were standing in groups, joking together. Krona was in the centre of it all, just as he used to be: tall and impressive, with his flowing beard, all white now, and wearing the jaunty headdress with long green feathers stuck in it that he favoured for hunting. His harsh laugh rang round the clearing, as he jested easily with the huntsmen. Beside him rested the light litter made of pine, and carried by four surefooted runners, which would carry him over the ground while the other men walked or ran beside him. He wore a short green cloak and in his belt was a magnificent hunting knife made of flint. This was Krona the chief as he truly was: how his brother the priest rejoiced to see him like that once more!

  The men were delighted to be hunting with the chief again. Old Muna the chief huntsman, his hair grizzled and his face now very red, with his stocky figure in its crimson and black tunic, was everywhere. On his head he wore the small set of antlers that were his badge of office, and in his hand he held a hunting horn decorated with bronze and gold. He was cheerfully directing the men who handled the hounds – eight couples of the sleek, swift hunting dogs, who could follow a scent all day, and whose excited pants sent steam into the cold morning air. With Muna was his grandson, a wide-eyed boy of ten. It was the boy’s first hunt.

  “Krona has promised that he will blood this boy himself if we kill today,” the old man grinned. Hearing this, the chief turned.

  Krona looked at the boy’s eager face and remembered how, at his age, his own father, following the ancient custom, had lifted a portion of the dead animal when he was in at his first kill and wiped the blood across his cheek. He had carefully kept that mark on his face for a month, for it had been the first mark of his manhood. “You’ll be blooded,” he laughed.

  Then Krona called for silence, and the High Priest spoke the simple, ancient words of the hunting ritual:

  “Moon goddess, who watches over all hunters, to whom the spirits of all dead animals belong, watch over us and give us good hunting today.”

  Muna gave a short blast on his horn, Krona stepped into his litter, and the whole party moved off through the woods, up the eastern valley.

  That was how afterwards, the High Priest liked to remember Krona – a gallant figure, a great chief, hunting the woods at Sarum.

  They brought him back that night.

  Although the Sarum huntsmen believed that their method of hunting the boar was the best, it had several disadvantages. If the boar deceived the hunters, he could easily kill one of them; and it the boar was driven according to plan, then the chief was always exposed to the animal’s charge. But Krona in particular favoured this Sarum method. The procedure was that when the hounds seemed to have cornered the boar, usually in a thicket, the hunters would fan out in a long line and make a slow encircling movement. Then, when the circle was closed, those behind the boar would advance through the wood, making as much noise as possible and driving the boar out of his hiding place towards the centre where the chief, surrounded by the best hunters would be waiting. Using this method, Krona saw many fine kills take place before him; but those driving the boar took a terrible risk if the boar should turn on them with his flashing tusks, and there was always the risk that one day the boar would break through Krona’s hunters and gore the chief himself.

  He was still alive when they brought his body into the valley that evening.

  The hunt had gone according to plan: the boar had been driven towards the place where Krona waited, had hurled itself across the clearing, where the hunters waited. But then the disaster had taken place. Whether because they were out of practice or whether because the boar was more cunning than most, the ferocious animal had broken straight through the line of hunters and burst upon Krona himself before getting away. There were terrible wounds in the chief’s stomach where the beast’s tusks had ripped him open, tearing the flesh to shreds. He had lost much blood and he was already a pale grey colour. When Dluc saw him, he thought he would die that night.

  The High Priest did what he could for the friend of his youth: for that is how Krona now seemed to him – neither the great chief of Sarum, nor the monster who sacrificed the nineteen girls in those darkest days; but his friend, wounded and in pain. He bound up his wounds; he helped him drink a little of a broth he made with herbs, and with Menona he tended him through the night.

  Krona lay dying. He knew it. His wounds were deep and already beginning to fester – they were far beyond any medicine, or even the High Priest’s prayers.

  And now began the last, and the hardest of all the trials sent to Sarum by the gods.

  For neither man had forgotten the promise that had been made when they first began work on the new Stonehenge. Krona’s first born child was to be given to the gods for a sacrifice; and in return, the auguries had claimed, he was to be given a second, who would be his heir.

  The High Priest pondered: the auguries had been clear – and had they not foretold everything, so far, exactly as it had happened? Yet it was obvious, beyond all doubt, that the chief could never father another child. If he kept his promise to the gods, then the house of Krona would end, the new temple would have been built in vain, and in return for their faith it seemed that the gods would visit upon them and upon Sarum the punishment of death and darkness. But why?

  Dluc hesitated. He was not sure what to do or what to say. Finally, when the two men were alone, it was Krona who spoke.

  “You cannot sacrifice the child.” It was no more than a whisper, but it went straight to the priest’s heart. He was silent. He could not look at the chief.

  “The child is all we have,” Krona said softly. It was true. But still Dluc could not answer. Painfully the chief raised himself on his elbow and stared at him intently. “Promise me,” he whispered, “you will not give the child to the gods.”

  Dluc almost wept. But he was the High Priest, and he knew what must be done. Had he not sworn to Sun himself, “Never again, never will I doubt”?

  “The gods must be obeyed,” he said.

  “Save my chi
ld, priest!” the chief cried out in agony, before falling back.

  Dluc thought of the nineteen girls that he had sacrificed without mercy; now it seemed that the gods had ordained he too should suffer pain. But what did it all mean? He did not know, but he knew what he must say.

  “We cannot question the gods,” he replied.

  Did he believe that the gods would keep their promise at that moment? Did he, the High Priest, trust them this time?

  For a moment he thought Krona would burst out with rage, but then he saw that the chief no longer had the strength. Instead, he did what was harder to bear: he reasoned with him.

  Gently, patiently, as a friend, Krona explained to the priest why he must not do this terrible thing. “My firstborn were already given to the gods when my sons were drowned,” he said, “you priests have misunderstood the auguries.” He assailed him with every argument; he told Dluc that he must not destroy Sarum, reminded him of the chaos that would follow if he died without an heir. His reasoning was perfect. But it was useless.

  “The gods must be obeyed,” Dluc told him. “We must trust them and they will not desert us.” But Krona only shook his head.

  The day wore on and neither the High Priest nor Krona would give way. With an incredible strength of will, he held on to life, sometimes reasoning with the priest, at other times abusing him. Once he even threatened his life. But he knew by then that he was powerless; in this matter no one, not even his servants, would dare to question the will of the High Priest.

  It was while they continued this grim argument, that Menona went into labour. She had been shocked by the sight of Krona’s wounds, and that evening, quite suddenly, she began. She was almost a month early. They took her to a small chamber at the back of the house, where two women skilled in childbirth looked after her.

  Now Krona became desperate. As the sun set and the tapers were lit, he pleaded with the priest again and again, crying out in agony so great that Dluc feared it would kill him:

  “Priest, I am dying. Save my child!”

  Dluc wept. He turned his face away because he could not look at Krona. He trembled. But still he held firm. And at last, in the middle of the night, he heard the cry of the newborn child, and strode out of the room.

  It was only then, at the end of his last trial, that Dluc came to understand the beauty, the perfect symmetry of the workings of the gods. For the sight that greeted his eyes was so wonderful that it made him cry out for joy.

  In their hands the women held not one, but two children that the golden-haired girl had given to Sarum: a boy and a girl. Although premature, both were healthy. Menona was smiling weakly.

  “Give me the first born,” the priest severely commanded; and, as he knew they would, they handed him the baby girl. “To the gods, we have promised the first born,” he cried. “And now Sarum has an heir.”

  It was the eve of the solstice.

  Before the festival of the dedication could be celebrated, there was for the people of Sarum one terrible day that must be gone through.

  The family of Nooma the mason rose at dawn, and, looking at each other apprehensively, sat by their hut in the valley.

  For on this day, all Sarum knew, the nineteen sacrificial victims were to be chosen; and the people trembled as little parties of priests solemnly went from farm to farm, from the valleys to the harbour, pointing the ceremonial bronze knife at their victims and leading them away. There was no way of guessing whom the priests would choose. Sometimes it was a malefactor, or someone who had rashly offended them; but it was just as likely to be a blameless labourer, or a rich farmer’s daughter. No one of either sex, of any age or from any family was immune. For the priests were too wise to let any man or woman think that he or she could escape the absolute rule of the sun god or his chosen priests.

  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 last through this shortest night of the year. Shortly after dark, the full moon slowly rose.

  Nooma the mason stared across at the great henge, his life’s work. The perfect circle of grey stones stood in the eye of the henge bathed in the pure white light of the moon, and casting huge shadows that slowly altered their shape and revolved as the night passed. Between the stones he could see the innermost sanctum, the semi circle of trilithons, and the terrifying slab of the altar stone. Of all that had happened to him, he wondered, had anything been of significance except this huge, demanding, temple of stone? Truly the power of the priests was terrible he thought, and silently he put one arm rou
nd his son and held Pia close – knowing that both children must grow up in the shadow of the henge.

  Slowly the night passed.

  At the first, just perceptible lightening of the eastern horizon, the priests began a slow, monotonous chant; then they began to move at a stately pace, up the six hundred yards of the avenue towards the circle of stone. In the faint half light Nooma peered to try to see the sacrificial victims, but he could not. He tightened his grip upon the children.

  “Your mother is lucky,” he told them. “She is to be given as a special gift to the gods.” Pia’s large eyes gazed at him, uncomprehending; but Noo-ma-ti, who half understood what was passing, began to sob.

  For his part, the mason felt no emotion. The rule of the priests and of their henge was too awesome, at such moments, to leave men time for their own emotions. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  In the east, above the horizon – the sky was beginning to glimmer.

  And in the centre of the henge, still and silent as a stone, the gaunt figure of Dluc the High Priest waited by the altar stone.

  Just before the procession had started to move up the avenue, they had brought him word that Krona had died. Soon he would lie in a great white tomb on the high ground, his spirit at rest. The High Priest was glad that the chief had found release. It was fitting that Krona should have passed to the next world to walk with the spirits at this moment of renewal.

  For as the new henge waited for the sun god to show his face, the High Priest realised that it was only now that he himself had understood the importance of all that had passed since the death of Krona’s sons.

  For how was it that the sacred sayings of the priests began? What were the opening words – before the long history of Sarum; before the story of the great flood that cut off the path to the east and made the land an island; before the endless catalogue of all the observed motions of the heavenly bodies, that took the novices two years to learn; before the recital and explanation of the mystic numbers: what were the all important words that preceded it all?