Then Matt blinked, clearing away the illusion. There was a resemblance, yes, but that hat was a cylinder, not a cone with a rounded top, and the long beard looked very familiar. Matt had a sudden memory of a Coptic bishop he had seen on a television documentary. He relaxed—somewhat.
The priest came toward him, puzzled and with an energy that belied his gray hairs. “Good day, Christian.”
He spoke a dialect Matt had never heard before, but his translation spell was still working. He hoped it would still work in reverse, and said, “Good day, Reverend Sir. I am not familiar with your sect. Can you tell me what manner of Christian church this is?”
“Ah.” The priest relaxed, smiling, as though Matt’s words had removed his own question. “Ours is the sect founded by Bishop Nestorius, young man.”
“Nestorians!” That explained a lot. Matt had heard that the Nestorian brand of Christianity was widely spread through Asia, though scattered—that there had even been some churches in China, though most of them were in Central Asia.
“And yourself?”
Matt thought fast, not wanting to give any more clues to his identity than he had to. “I learned my religion from a Christian who came from the Far West, reverend.”
“Ah! A Frank! Then your sect are those who follow the Bishop of Rome.” The priest nodded. “I have heard of them. Distant and fabled lands, they are. I have seen one or two Franks in the marketplace, but I have never met one before.” He frowned, looking more closely at Matt. “You have not the Frankish look, though.”
“I have traveled widely,” Matt said vaguely. “Tell me, reverend—are there many of your churches in these lands?”
“Some,” the priest said, “not many—at least, not this far south. Most of us dwell in the kingdom to the north, where a priest of our own faith rules the land.”
“A Christian priest-king?” Matt stared, then caught himself. “Your pardon, reverend. The only Christian priest I’ve heard of who rules a land is the Pope, whose holdings are small and who never calls himself a king. Who is he who rules this northern land, then?”
“He is called Prester John,” the priest said.
CHAPTER 25
Prester John! That explained a lot. He had heard the name, the Oriental Christian king who had been the hope of Europe during the Crusades. Someone had supposedly carried a letter from Prester John to the Emperor of Byzantium, but since he hadn’t been able to find Byzantium, he had thoughtfully copied the missive several times and sent on the copies—and other hands had copied the copy, then copied copies of the copy, all of which passed from hand to hand and pen to pen until the emperor finally got the message, along with most of the rest of Europe.
Of course, whether the word the emperor read was the message Prester John had sent was a very open question, since with each copying, the letter had grown, and so had the glory of Prester John and the wonders of his kingdom, claiming that he ruled a land filled with marvels and led an invincible army that, being Christian, would surely attack the Turkish conquerors of the Holy Land from the East, catching them between Prester John’s forces and the Crusaders in the West, assuring a Christian victory. Never mind what kind of Christian—any kind was better than the Muslim Turks.
“Prester” was another form of the word “presbyter,” the stewards of the early Church. Over the centuries, in the East, it had apparently come to mean “priest,” and John, in the finest Oriental tradition, was a priest-king.
All of that was fable, of course, drawn from the deeds of a Mongol prince who had battled a Persian sultan and won. Word of his victory had spread to the West, but become somewhat distorted in the process, so that from having Nestorian Christians in his army—along with Buddhists, animists, and Muslims—he had become himself a Christian, a priest, and a king. When Europeans first heard of the conquests of Genghis Khan, they had been delighted, thinking that at last Prester John had come to rescue the Holy Land from the Muslims. They had been sadly disappointed.
That, however, had been in Matt’s home universe, where Prester John was only a fable. Now Matt lived in a universe of fantasy in which trolls and manticores were real, and Prester John was apparently fact, not rumor.
“What … what is Prester John’s kingdom like?” Matt asked.
“A land of peace and plenty,” the priest told him, “where the rivers teem with fish and the crops never fail. The people are industrious and cheerful, living as the early Christians did, with love toward one another and living so closely by Christ’s precepts that there is little friction between them.”
“But that’s not the case with their barbarian neighbors.”
“Not at all,” the old priest said sadly, “and therefore does Prester John maintain an army that cannot be beaten—or could not, until this accursed Arjasp and his gur-khan began their apocalyptic ride.”
“They conquered Prester John?” Matt asked in surprise.
“We know not,” the old priest sighed. “No word has come from the North since first the gur-khan began his conquests, for the caravans had to find routes that kept them away from the fighting.”
“Which means that even if Prester John is alive and well, his kingdom is suffering a major recession,” Matt said thoughtfully.
“Perhaps, but they would scarcely be starving.” The old priest smiled. “His granaries are reputed to be as high as mountains, and his supplies enough to last for seven years.”
“Are they really?” Matt recognized a literary convention when he heard one. “What about Prester John himself? Is he as splendid as his kingdom?”
“He is said to be heir to the sanctity and wisdom of Saint John the Evangelist, he who wrote the fourth gospel and the Book of Revelations.”
“Which is why he’s called John?”
The old man smiled. “Perhaps. He is also heir to the crozier of St. Thomas, the evangelist to the Indies and, therefore, the first bishop of the East. Prester John is also said to be descended from the magi, those same wise men who came to kneel before Baby Jesus in His manger.”
“Magi!” Matt’s eyes opened wide. “A Christian descendant of Zoroastrian priests?”
“Why not?” the old priest asked. “Surely gazing upon the infant Christ would have been enough to inspire them with Christian faith.”
“But the gur-khan’s wizard Arjasp is preaching a very twisted form of Zoroastrianism—instead of worshiping Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Light, he’s worshiping Angra Mainyu—Ahriman—the Prince of Lies!”
The old priest’s smile faded. “So I have heard.”
“That would make him the natural first target for Arjasp!” Matt dropped his gaze, frowning, thinking. “Either the first or the last—if they thought John’s army was invincible, they might have decided to wait until they had conquered everything else before coming after him.”
“That is possible.” The old priest began to tremble. “Woe for the Elder, if he is beset by enemies on all sides!”
“Yes, he might need a little help.” Matt looked back up at the priest. “Thank you for your information, reverend. It will be a very helpful guide on the rest of my journey.”
“Yes,” the priest said somberly, “to avoid the battleground to the north.”
“Yes,” Matt said, “or to seek it.”
He turned away, but the old man cried, “Stop!”
Matt turned back, reining in his impatience. “There isn’t really time to spare.”
“Better here than in a Tartar cage.” The old priest came closer, peering into his face. “Do you truly mean to go among the Mongols?”
“If I have to,” Matt said, “yes.”
“Then take these talismans.” The priest took two lumps of incense from the candle rack beside him and pressed them into Matt’s hand. “They came from Prester John’s kingdom—perhaps they will bring the land itself to favor you.”