This is as close as you will ever be to the presence of God. The stink of carnage is

impossible to ignore. It clings to the skin, the hair, becoming a noisome burden you will

not soon shake o􀊃. The priests burn incense to ward o􀊃 the fetor and disease, but the

mixture of myrrh and cinnamon, sa􀊃ron and frankincense cannot mask the insu􀊃erable

stench of slaughter. Still, it is important to stay where you are and witness your sacri􀉹ce

take place in the next courtyard, the Court of Priests. Entry into this court is permitted

solely to the priests and Temple o􀉽cials, for this is where the Temple’s altar stands: a

four-horned pedestal made of bronze and wood—􀉹ve cubits long, 􀉹ve cubits wide—

belching thick black clouds of smoke into the air.

The priest takes your sacri􀉹ce to a corner and cleanses himself in a nearby basin.

Then, with a simple prayer, he slits the animal’s throat. An assistant collects the blood in

a bowl to sprinkle on the four horned corners of the altar, while the priest carefully

disembowels and dismembers the carcass. The animal’s hide is his to keep; it will fetch a

handsome price in the marketplace. The entrails and the fatty tissue are torn out of the

corpse, carried up a ramp to the altar, and placed directly atop the eternal 􀉹re.

-Zealot by Reza Aslan