The priests
and their attendants were all shaven-headed and splattered with wet
pitch black coal dust, scarlet red goat's blood, and white ashes from
head to toes.
At the temple, a female baby lay squalling on the flat stone alter,
while the baby's mother, a slave-woman, was held back by two temple
attendants who held her by the wrists but allowed her to scream wildly
for her baby.
Her outbursts were the unintentional focal point of the ceremony,
signifying by her very real torments and anguished outcries, the
ceremonially-expressed feelings and sentiments of the House of Rababull
over the foreign danger to it's property holdings and, specifically in
this case, it's water rights.
For where there was no water, there could be no life.
The temple drummers were already there, beating on huge drums that sent
out a deep rolling beat that put the slaves into a zombie-like state of
mind.
A state of mania, for war...
Too late, Master Rababull thought of having the baby thrown, alive,
into a cauldron of boiling water. Such a sacrifice would signify his
humility, a generous gift of the fruit of his human possessions. The
boiling water would signify that it was his water, and his anger bound
up in the water, an impressive liturgy to the war god.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184