On the plain of the ancestors, the priest held the boy.

There were five mounds, pyramidal in form but with flat tops. The blood from the ritual sacrifice was still running thick as the fires burned. They had sacrificed to Sehul and Mehnot, the Sun god and the Moon goddess. The had also sacrificed to Plthwih, the goddess of plenty; the triple goddesses of fate, whose names were never dared spoken; the the mightiest god, the god of all life, Dyeus Phter.

Already there was much uncertainty as to whether the gods and goddesses would favor them. There were tribes mobilizing to the West, creating weapons of destruction as they raided the western holdings of their land. The crops had failed for three years in a row. Most depressingly, the old high priest had finally died; Gwistis had taken his place, and was administering the ritual.

It was the chief’s son whom he was blessing. He was two days old.

“Lo, I hold in my hand he who will be great,” the priest said. “We shall call him Ieuni, for his is the way.”