It's my fault. I goofed.

the Emperor arrived and instead of moving directly to his seat climbed to the top level of the ambo, the great three-decker pulpit of polychrome marble.

At the moment of impact, the king’s eyes are open, his body braced for the atteint; he takes the blow perfectly, its force absorbed by a body securely armoured, moving in the right direction, moving at the right speed.

To him the white backpackers are abject, 'safari wiggers' who threaten to undo all his careful work at 'passing' in this culture. With their earnestness and clumsy naiveté they betray the scandalous truth of his posturing.