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That conviction is what sustains the pilgrims as they toil up the barren, vertiginous slopes from the Great Rift Valley to the high, dusty plain where Axum lies. Many began their journey on the Julian New Year, back in September; even if one can afford to fly or drive, it is unseemly not to walk. The destination is not only holy to the church but sacred to the nation. From the son of Sheba 3,000 years ago descended an unbroken line of Ethiopian Emperors down to the people's revolution in 1974. Today Axum is the capital of Tigrai province, which fought for years to gain independence but instead won control of the entire country six years ago. When the devout finally arrive back home, their neighbors will wash their feet and drink the bath water to share in the blessing.
As Saturday lengthens into evening, the cathedral compound fills with the billowing white gabi, or shawls, that envelop men and women alike, serving as turban, blanket, veil. At their own rhythm, people go about the business of worship. Men read from leatherbound lives of the saints; women ululate softly as they lean on tall prayer rests. Everyone will keep the vigil through the night. As darkness falls, shrouded bundles occupy every empty space on the hard, stony ground, huddling around the dim golden flicker of tiny candles.
Before the Sunday sun lights the horizon, a handful of chosen men will enter the holiest sanctuary to hear Mass from priests hidden behind a wall of vivid icons. The rest are content just to be among people who believe as they believe. Soon, they say, the Patriarch will appear with the Ark to pronounce his blessing. Calmly, serenely, the pilgrims wait. By noon, the Patriarch has come and gone in a brisk flourish of gilded robes. There is no Ark, and the blessing is delivered swiftly amid a crush of baton-swinging soldiers and security guards. But the pilgrims do not mind, says a kneeling man. "Here, even just waiting is holy."