The thought of watching his son grow old and die was too painful. He spent the next two hundred years on a small tropical island pretending to be an ancient god of war come back to life. He dwelt in a temple hewn of red stone. It stood atop a lush green hill, surrounded by trees and brightly colored wildflowers. The villagers brought him live animal sacrifices to assuage his hunger, showered him with finely wrought gifts of gold and silver, of fine-twined linen and costly furs. They provided him with whatever he desired, and asked nothing in return, save that he slake his horrible thirst on the blood of beasts and let the people of the island live in peace. When the burden of his existence grew too great, he slept deep in the earth, rising when the people of the village called his name. After two hundred years, he wearied of being an object of worship. Gathering up the riches the villagers had bestowed upon him over the centuries, he left the temple in the dead of night and caught passage on another ship.
