Hushed expectancy shut down like a tangible weight. The rapid play of sunlight on lances and bare blades, on burnished helmets and golden accoutrements, seemed a visible manifestation of the feverish intensity that charged the throng. The majority were standing with bowed heads; some had prostrated themselves. Anticipation transfigured every face.
Then the head of the pontifical procession came into view.
Leading were the lictors, with lamaic emblems; then acolytes with golden censers and chalices. They moved slowly down the steps and along the yellow carpet. Following them strode the secular lords and cardinals—bronze-faced prelates in rich, deep-yellow robes and yellow mitres. Laymen marched at their heels, carrying silken cushions.
And toward the rear, beneath a golden state-umbrella, attended by Grand Lamas of the Gelugpa, walked the reincarnation of Gaudama Siddartha, His Holiness Lobsang Yshe Naksang Sâkya-mûni, the Yellow Pope of Tibet. He bore the insignia of his pontifical rank in one hand, in the other a rosary. A mitre was set upon his head. From beneath this peaked hat fell a golden veil that shimmered in the sunlight and blended with the yellow-gold pallium and wide stole that hung from his shoulders.
The living deity moved slowly over the yellow carpet; mounted the proscenium; sank cross-legged, hands folded, like a Buddha, upon the daïs.
Banners and standards were lifted in salute above the countless faces that blurred against the terraced seats. A detachment of soldiers in lavender-blue uniforms and brazen helmets clattered out of a door in the arena and formed a line in front of the gilded proscenium. Flash of sunlight on helmets and lifted lances; gleam of wrought gold and brazen accoutrements; a rippling play of gold. Then horses were wheeled, and the Tibetan cavalry trotted out of the arena.
Sâkya-mûni removed his mitre. Which proved a signal for the ceremonies to begin.
A clarion blare announced a new group of lamas—priests wearing white robes and hideous masks, representing mythological demons. They paid obeisance to the supreme pontiff and gathered at one side of the proscenium. After them came other lamas, in golden harness and mantles the flame hue of nasturtiums.
"They are the ancient warriors," explained Na-chung to Trent. "And those"—waving his hand toward another group that was debouching from a gateway below the tiered seats—"are the contestants in the wrestling matches."
The sinewy Tibetan gladiators saluted Sâkya-mûni. They wore only pelts of snow-leopards girded about their hips. Their skin, between knees and throat, was surprisingly fair. The wrestling tourney lasted for over two hours. Na-chung explained every detail to Trent who, toward the end of the lengthy show of physical skill, was growing weary of it. Too, his eyes ached from looking so long and steadily at the sunlit expanse.