Trent, a nausea spreading from the pit of his stomach to his throat, saw Sâkya-mûni lift one hand. His lips pressed into a line; otherwise, his immobility was unbroken.
Another shiver swept the amphitheater.
Sâkya-mûni's hand dropped.
The archers flexed their bows; clapped their heels together; stood erect. Gutstrings snapped rigid between their nocks.... The whizz-zz-zz of the arrows seemed to unleash the tension. A hysterical cheer wavered up from the multitude. The manacled figures sagged, hung, drenched in the flaming red of the sunset.
Trent relaxed—but the nausea remained, a dull horror that he could almost taste.
Sâkya-mûni rose, as did the multitude. A low chant began, a weird, droning incantation. The mailed executioners marched out of the arena, followed by the Governor's vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair. The masked lamas and those in harness and flame-colored mantles filed toward the stairway. Lictors and acolytes descended from the proscenium; the secular lords and cardinals; the Living Buddha and his attendant Grand Lamas.... Slowly they traversed the yellow carpet, slowly they mounted the steps and vanished behind the yak-hair curtains. The red monks herded together on either side of the platform formed human rivulets that surged into the arena. The onlookers left their seats.
The Festival of the Gods was over.
4
Trent and Na-chung moved up the incline, sifting through the swarm. On the gallery, at the portal of the monastery, Trent looked back. Dusk was creeping into the inflamed sky and gray motes subdued the crimson reflection. Over the heads of the people he saw the arena—saw the sagging figures starkly outlined upon the white wall.
Then he plunged into the doorway, behind Na-chung.