"David Gemmell - Troy, Lord Of The Silver Bow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

тАШThen we wait,тАЩ replied Agamemnon.

The rain eased away and the kingтАЩs dark eyes scanned his Followers. Then he looked into
theCaveofWings . Deep within he could see firelight flickering on the craggy walls, and even from here
smell the acrid and intoxicating fumes from the Prophecy Fire. As he watched, the fire dimmed.

Unused to waiting, he felt his anger rise, but masked it. Even a king was expected to be humble in the
presence of the gods.

Every four years the king of Mykene and twelve of his most trusted Followers were expected to hear
the words of the gods. The last time Agamemnon had stood here he had just interred his father and his
own reign was about to begin. He had been nervous then, but was more so now. For the prophecies he
had heard that first time had come true. He had become infinitely richer. His wife had borne him three
healthy children, though all girls. The armies of Mykene had been victorious in every battle, and a great
hero had fallen.

But Agamemnon also recalled the journey his father had made to theCaveofWings eight years
previously, and his ashen face on his return. He would not speak of the final prophecy, but one of the
Followers told it to his wife, and the word spread. The seer had concluded with the words: тАШFarewell,
Atreus King. You will not walk theCaveofWings again.тАЩ

The great battle king had died one week before the next Summoning.

A woman dressed all in black emerged from the cave. Even her head was covered by a veil of gauze.
She did not speak, but raised her hand, beckoning the waiting men. Agamemnon took a deep breath,
and led the group inside.

The entrance was narrow, and they removed their crested helmets and followed the woman in single file,
until at last they reached the remains of the Prophecy Fire. Smoke still hung in the air and, as he breathed,
Agamemnon felt his heart beating faster. Colours became brighter and small sounds - the creaking of
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leather, the shifting of sandalled feet on stone were louder, almost threatening.

The ritual was hundreds of years old, based on an ancient belief that only on the point of death could a
priest fully commune with the gods. So every four years a man was chosen to die for the sake of the king.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Agamemnon looked down at the slender old man lying on a pallet bed.
His face was pale in the firelight, his eyes wide and staring. The hemlock paralysis had already begun. He
would be dead within minutes.

Agamemnon waited.

тАШFire in the sky,тАЩ said the priest, тАШand a mountain of water touching the clouds. Beware the Great Horse,
Agamemnon King.тАЩ The old man sagged back, and the woman in black knelt by him, lifting and
supporting his frail body.