The state succumbed to the assertive power of priests until at last aroused by deeds of blood, they bade the priesthood pray to gods, and fix the mind on things above the clouds, and leave affairs of state to men whose minds were trained to earth-ways, not to higher lore.
The government yielded to the growing influence of religious leaders until, finally provoked by violent acts, they ordered the clergy to focus on spiritual matters and heavenly concerns, leaving politics to those with practical experience in worldly affairs rather than theological expertise.
The story of the slaying of the priest, asketh thou? ’tis thus enwrit upon the page which speaks the truth of such event: One of the number who did give to Ses his daily offering for the people's good was stern Bolandos. Dark of brow was he; a mixture of Atlantian sire with blood of that dark race that first knew form upon the planet Earth.
You ask about the killing of the priest? Here's how it's recorded in the historical account: One of those who made daily offerings to Ses for the people's benefit was the severe Bolandos. He had a dark complexion, being of mixed heritage - an Atlantian father and a mother from the ancient race that first appeared on Earth.
A man fierce-hearted. Crafty. Wise in guile and guilty of a wrong we give no name else did it breed like wrong. Thus we contend. And he—Bolandos—sinned in harboring love for one fair woman who did kneel each day before the shrine of Ses—the god of Death. And as she knelt she murmured: "Give, oh give! thou god of death—as life—what my heart craveth.
A man with a fierce heart. Cunning. Skilled in deception and guilty of a wrongdoing we dare not name, lest it spread like a contagion. This is our argument. And he—Bolandos—sinned by falling in love with a beautiful woman who knelt daily before the shrine of Ses, the god of Death. As she knelt, she whispered: "Grant me, oh god of death—as you grant life—what my heart desires."
"I love not him I wed because, forsooth, no shelter for my form was there, save that I wed this scion of the house that caused my sire's downfall. Take, O take from me the son of Abbas, him I call my lord send far in galley, that I see his face no more!"
"I don't love the man I married. I only wed him because I had no other choice for protection. He's the heir of the family that ruined my father. Please, take away this son of Abbas, the one I call my husband. Send him far away on a ship so I never have to see his face again!"
Bolandos pondered long. Priests might wed, for law permission gave, but she they wed must first have sealed the vow of constancy to one who, dying, left her free to wed with none save men in touch with gods. "The sons of heaven," they spake the priesthood's name.
Bolandos thought for a long time. Priests could marry, for the law allowed it. But the woman a priest married must first have sealed a vow of faithfulness to a husband whose death left her free to marry no one except men in touch with the gods. "The sons of heaven" was their name for the priesthood.
"And were he dead," Bolandos muttered, "she of right were mine, for he first looking on her tears of widowhood is called entitled to the one who weeps."
"If he were dead," Bolandos muttered, "she would rightfully be mine. The first man to witness a widow's tears is said to have a claim on her."
No pity dwelt within his heart nor scrupled he to strike the blow to sever form and soul. But fear of his betrayal at the hands of some just brother or some slave, perchance, or fearing that another first might hear the tale of woe—of one struck dead by dark assassin's blow, held long his hand.
There was no pity in his heart, and he had no scruples about striking the blow that would part body from soul. But for a long time fear held back his hand. He feared he might be betrayed by some honest brother, or perhaps by some slave. He also feared that someone else might hear the sad news first, the news of a man struck dead by a dark assassin's blow.
But when the rose tree's bloom did make a garden of the gods that favored land, there came an hour when the crafty Abbas' son did seek the confines of a garden fair, unfaithful to his beauteous Olasandron. This the priest did mark.
When the rose garden bloomed in that blessed land, creating a paradise fit for gods, Abbas' cunning son chose to visit another beautiful garden, betraying his lovely Olasandron. The priest noticed this.
Before the dawn leaped up from sea and flung the shadow from old Day's broad face the son of Abbas left his garden tryst: The dew clung to the rose trees. Fragrant night did halt in silence. All things seemed to sleep, and o’er the pave the lover's step came softly.
Before sunrise cast its light across the sea and chased away the darkness, Abbas's son left his secret garden meeting. Dew still clung to the rose bushes. The fragrant night was still and quiet. Everything appeared to be asleep, and the lover's footsteps fell softly on the path.
Down beneath the wayside clusters lay the one who waited for his prey. A thrust of steel—a gurgle! Death was there! and on the sands lay Abbas' son to rise no more! Not one thrill rent the breast of his assassin. Fast he fled and flung his dagger on the sands. On to the temple, where at dawn of day the wife—the widow knelt at Ses's feet to plead relief.
Hidden beneath the roadside bushes, the assassin waited for his target. A swift knife strike and a choked gasp—death came instantly. Abbas' son fell to the sandy ground, never to rise again. The killer felt no remorse as he fled, tossing his blade aside. He rushed to the temple, where at daybreak the newly widowed wife knelt before Ses, begging for solace.
She came. A lily tall. Wrapped to the eyes in fleecy mantle. O’er its folds her eyes shone like the stars. Her braids of jet and gloss, enstrung with jewels—like twin serpents fell inert and fragrant to her lithe, arched feet, and on her gorgeous rug, by slaves outflung she cast her beauteous length, besought the god: "O Ses!"
She arrived, tall and graceful as a lily. A soft, woolly cloak enveloped her up to her eyes, which shone like stars above its folds. Her glossy black braids, adorned with jewels, hung like lifeless, fragrant serpents down to her slender, arched feet. She stretched her beautiful form on the luxurious rug laid out by her slaves and called out to the deity: "O Ses!"
A murmur in her ear. A warm hand clasp. The pressure of an arm beneath the serge of priesthood. "Ses hath heard thy prayer" a deep voice whispered, "Thou art free indeed!"
A whisper in her ear. A warm handshake. The pressure of an arm beneath the priest's robe. "Ses has heard your prayer," a deep voice murmured, "You are truly free!"
And she, according to her race and age, bemoaned her fate, her early widowhood, and called upon the great god Phenox to sustain her heart in its deep torment. Thus her slaves bore her away, bemoaning as she passed the great arched door that led into the street.
She grieved her situation, lamenting her young widowhood, as was typical for women of her background and time. She called out to the mighty god Phenox, begging for strength to endure her profound sorrow. Her servants carried her away, and she continued to weep as they passed through the grand arched doorway leading to the street.
"All mine indeed," he muttered who had slain. "The slaves bear witness that I first beheld her tears of widowhood, and when the moon shall fail and darkness clothes the night, and yet another rises over Ocean red and full, I shall recall the promise of the king and claim her."
"She's all mine," muttered the killer. "The servants can testify that I was the first to witness her widow's tears. When the moon wanes and night falls, and another full moon rises red over the sea, I'll remember the king's promise and claim her as my own."
A murmur loud of many voices smote upon his ear. "The rabble calls, and I foretell the doom of some rash lord the state assailed, or sea-king who hath locked with galley vast which bore much treasure and whose clime is known."
A loud murmur of many voices struck his ear. "The mob is calling, and I foresee the doom of some rash lord who attacked the state, or of some pirate who has grappled with a vast galley that carried much treasure, and whose homeland is known."
It nearer came, it louder grew. He paled; the voices which each possesses in his soul spake of some dire disaster to his hopes of love. It crashed along the arches where the gods in jeweled state, upheld by hordes of priests, sat calmly gazing with their beryl eyes upon the rioters who heeded not the sacred place, but burst upon this vision clamoring with hate.
The sound grew closer and louder. He turned pale; the inner voices in his soul warned of impending doom for his romantic hopes. The noise thundered through the arches where bejeweled gods, supported by throngs of priests, sat serenely observing with their beryl eyes. The rioters, disregarding the sanctity of the place, burst into view, shouting with hatred.
And at their head, behold, a rival walked! a rival hated of Bolandos, for the priest well knew that he, too, had craved the wife—the widow now—of Abbas' son. Bolandos stood one moment like a lion caged, with eyes whose glare did scorch the looker's blood: and riveted were they upon the steel held in his rival's hand.
Leading them was a rival, despised by Bolandos. The priest knew this man had also desired the widow of Abbas' son. Bolandos froze, his eyes burning with rage like a caged lion. His gaze locked onto the weapon in his rival's hand.
"Thine! Thine!" they shouted. "Priest as false as they who swear eternal fealty to the gods they barter for the gems each wears upon his crown!"
"Yours! Yours!" they shouted. "A priest as fake as those who swear lifelong loyalty to the gods they trade for the jewels on their crowns!"
Upspringing like a maddened beast of prey, one leap Bolandos gave, his rival's hand did seize, and thrust! and thrust! and the keen dagger drank so well the twain lay on the marble at Ses’ feet!
Leaping up like a frenzied predator, Bolandos lunged forward. He grabbed his rival's hand and stabbed repeatedly. The sharp dagger struck true, leaving both men sprawled lifeless on the marble floor at Ses' feet.