They stepped up and the deacon turned to offer his hand. “Welcome, pilgrims! I regret that we could not offer you the Eucharist, but there is only the one priest for these five parishes. He shall come two Sundays hence. We must fare without him as well as we may, and I can, at least, say vespers.”
“You said them very well, too,” Anthony said. “Tell me, deacon—was it my imagination, or did the chapel truly swell as more and more pilgrims came in?”
“It did indeed, good people! We are singularly blessed, for no matter how many come for our services, there is always room for more. We are overwhelmingly grateful to the good Lord for the favor, for none should be turned away from a church for lack of room.”
“That is fortunate for a chapel on the caravan routes “Anthony said.
“Even as you say—three of the routes converge here to become one broad road leading northward to Maracanda. We frequently have more travelers than parishoners—so we have cultivated the modesty to believe we were given our chapel for pilgrims as well as ourselves. We strive to maintain it as a sacred trust—and the caravans are generous in aiding us.”
Balkis recognized a plea for contributions when she heard one. She elbowed Anthony in the ribs.
He turned to her with a sad smile. “What a pity we have no coins—but when we have sold our wares in Maracanda, we can send money for this church.”
“That would be good of you, young folk, but we do not ask money of those who have little.” The deacon smiled and raised a hand in blessing. “May St. Christopher guard your passage!”
They traveled north with the caravan, enjoying the light-hearted company of the pilgrims and taking their turns telling stories—their own adventures, which everyone agreed were too fabulous to be believed. There was a holiday mood about them, and Balkis studied them, remembering Sikta's tale of being free to go on pilgrimage after a lifetime of earning, and realized that most of them were of her kind—hardworking, devout people who were finally free to travel after a lifetime of toil and responsibility. They were able at last to shed that burden for a while and were enjoying life with the delight of release. They were quite sincere in their religious zeal for witnessing the miracle of St. Thomas, but they were also eager to see something of the world, even as Anthony was, and the wonders of Maracanda. They were on holiday indeed, and meant to enjoy the experience to the fullest. Balkis found them to be wonderful company and listened to their gossip of child-rearing and grandchildren with yearning. She was beginning to realize that she, too, wanted to be a mother some day. She hoped their stories would arouse some stirrings of the same feeling in Anthony. There did seem to be a new quality of longing in his gaze now, but that might simply be due to the plethora of chaperones. As Sikta had promised, it was indeed difficult for them to be alone long enough for a satisfactory kiss.
Thus they wandered northward on a road a good twenty feet wide, passing small towns and prosperous farms, gossiping and singing and resting frequently. Their progress was slow, but Balkis was in no hurry to reach Maracanda and take up again the mantle of princess—and with it, to risk losing Anthony.
Then, after they had been on the road a week, they heard the distant noise of trumpets. Balkis' heart sank, for she recognized the pitch and timbre of the instruments. They blew again and again, coming closer and closer, until two soldiers on horseback shouldered through the crowd with two heralds between them and two trumpeters behind. The heralds cried out, “Make way, make way for the emperor! Clear the road, for Prester John passes!”
CHAPTER 29
Then the trumpets blew again. When they were done, the heralds took up their cry once more.
The pilgrims broke into excited talk, hurrying their mules and horses to the sides of the road.
“Why is the emperor riding?” asked one.
“He returns from a tour of the provinces!” answered another.
The rumor must have come from southbound Maracandese who knew some accurate news, for Balkis suspected exactly why Prester John had been visiting his outer districts. She did the best she could to lose herself among the crowd, keeping her face down.
“Balkis? Balkis!” Anthony followed her, catching at her hand. “Think—the emperor! Do you not wish to see Prester John himself?”
“Surely, surely!” Balkis assured him. She just didn't want Prester John to see her.
Then the procession was upon them. Balkis stood riveted to the ground, peeking up under the edge of her hood—and was astounded to realize that, when you were watching the parade instead of riding in it, the sight was very impressive indeed!
First came a rider carrying a six-foot-high wooden cross fastened to his saddle.
“Wooden?” Anthony stared. “Why would an emperor not have a cross made of silver or gold and filled with priceless gems?”
“He wishes to be reminded of the passion of Our Lord, young man,” Sikta told him. “We have heard of his humility even in Kashmir. If wood was good enough for the Savior, it is good enough for Prester John!”
“His name does mean ‘John the Priest,’ ” Balkis reminded.
“True—but I did not expect him to be as humble as a monk.”
“I would not call such a train as this humble,” Balkis answered.
Then came courtiers bearing a single golden vase.
“At least this metal is precious!” Anthony said. “But why has it no flowers or shrubs within?”
“It is full of earth,” Balkis answered, “to remind the king that his flesh, too, must one day return to its original substance, the earth.”
Sikta looked up. “That must be so—for if you have lived a year in Maracanda, you must have seen processions such as this more than once. Tell us the meaning of the symbols.”
The last thing Balkis wanted to do was to watch the parade closely—but she sighed and braced herself.
After the vase came another courtier carrying a silver bowl full of pieces of gold.
“Well, this is more like an emperor!” Anthony said, satisfied, “Surely Prester John wishes to impress the people with his wealth!”
“A good guess,” Balkis said, “but not quite on the mark— the king wants all to know that he is lord of lords in these lands, and that his magnificence surpasses all the wealth in the world.”
“Do you truly know this simply from dwelling in Maracanda?” he asked.
What was Balkis to say? She couldn't exactly tell him that she had heard the explanations from the emperor himself. “Prester John goes about frequently within the city,” she said. “People discuss his processions.”
“With such pomp as this?”
“Oh, this is only his ordinary coming and going. When he travels in state, or marches to war, it is much more magnificent.”
Anthony looked frankly skeptical, but Sikta said, “I can believe that easily! Why, he has only a dozen soldiers going before him!”
They watched the troopers ride by, backs as straight as the poles of the pennons they bore, eyes firmly toward the front.
“Who are those gaily dressed fellows who follow the soldiers?” Sikta asked.
“They are courtiers,” Balkis explained, “dukes and counts of the land. Do you see those last seven coming, and the crowns they wear?”
“Why, yes!” Sikta gasped. “Surely they are not truly kings!”
“They are indeed. Seven of his tributary kings are always in attendance upon him—more, when they march to war with all their soldiers.”
“But who is that young man riding behind them, who also wears a crown?” Anthony asked. “He cannot be a king—he is scarcely older than I am!”
“He is the crown prince.” Balkis lowered her gaze. “He shall become emperor upon Prester John's death.”