I set him beside me as I fed Ziba and dressed her sores with butter. Her mange was worse, great patches of angry, red, puckered skin, spreading across her flanks and sides. She had grown slower by the day.
I felt all my hopes unraveling. Babak drifted in and out, at times seeming present, at times taken over by waking dreams. He was so ill, I feared he wouldn’t survive a journey to Palmyra, even if we managed to escape.
Still, we had survived Pirouz and the king’s Eyes and Ears, the poisoned well and the sandstorm, the desertion of our guides. We had crossed the great western desert and, compared with where we had been, Palmyra was tantalizingly close.
And yet …
Sometimes in these recent days, Palmyra had begun to feel like nothing but a comforting dream, a dream I had conjured to keep my will alive.
I scanned the courtyard until I found Pacorus, pulling up waterskins from the well. He moved as gracefully as a dancer, despite the fatigue he must feel.
Koosha had not been as pleasing to look at as Pacorus. But I could not quite banish from my mind the steadiness of his gaze, nor the stillness I had felt between us. He had seen me. Had known me, it seemed.
Still, Koosha was a rustic, a villager. And he was far, far away. I would never meet with him again.
Something my mother had said long ago echoed in my mind. “One does not marry for love,” she had said. “Yet it is good to marry someone you might come to love.”
Did Pacorus know I was a woman? I wondered for the thousandth time.
And what would he do if I told him?
*
A while after we had retired to our quarters, as two servants poured water into a copper basin for our bath, a stirring in the courtyard brought me out to the gallery. Below, the Magi emerged into the open, arrayed in full ceremonial garb. Balthazaar came first, dressed in plain white, from his tall cap down to the thin satin bands of embroidery at the sleeves of his robes. Next came Gaspar, costumed likewise in white, except for a deep blue robe that called to mind the midnight sky. And finally Melchior, decked out in princely splendor—bejeweled cap and robes of rich purple and red, all thickly embroidered with threads of gold and studded with countless pearls. All three wore the heavy, gold-wrought collars that marked them as Parthian nobles. My father had had one just as grand, which he had worn on great occasions.
Were they seeking the Roman king of Melchior’s dream? The baby of the dream that was likely Balthazaar’s? Or the king or great personage whose birth was written in the stars?
Perhaps all of them, I thought.
Now I saw Balthazaar motion for a few men—Giv among them—to accompany them to the city. When Gaspar crooked a finger at Pacorus, he leaped up with joy and began to bustle about so self-importantly that I turned away, refusing to catch his eye. But I watched him as he left, sitting straight backed upon his camel, his hair now clean and oiled, gleaming like polished mahogany.
I returned to our quarters, noting the guards at either end of the gallery. Giv and the Magi—gone! If it were night, and Babak well, and the guards asleep, and I myself not weary to the bone, I might have contemplated escape. I sighed, then set myself to bathing. My bleeding had ceased, and now was my first chance to purify myself.
When I had done, I crouched beside Babak, laid my hand on his brow, trying to feel if he was fevered. But he did not seem so.
A fly buzzed lazily round the room. A dove cooed from the rafters. The caravan noises had mostly stilled, as the travelers would be resting. I wiped the dust and grime off Babak with a clean, damp cloth as he slept—now a deep sleep, a sleep so deep, I turned him this way and that and he never stirred or spoke or even fluttered his eyelids.
Babak slept. And, after repairing a girth or two, so did I.
I woke to a sense of presence in the room. Was it something I had heard? I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The ruddy glow of sunset filtered in through the latticework of a small window. Caravan sounds had picked up in the courtyard. Had the Magi and their entourage returned? A sound at the door; as I turned to look at it, it eased quietly shut. Soft footsteps along the gallery.
Someone had been inside.
“Babak?” I laid my hand on his chest. Breathing. Peaceful breathing. I crept to the door and opened it, peered along the gallery. No one, only the guards. One of them turned toward me, caught my eye, twisted quickly away.
Had he been in the room? Or had it been someone else, someone he knew?
The courtyard was bustling, full of camels and men in the coppery light. Balthazaar and Gaspar I saw, consulting by the well. Giv was calling out orders to prepare the camels for a new journey, and Pacorus loped to and fro, fetching bundles of provisions. As I watched, Melchior strode out the doorway to the gallery stairs and joined the other Magi.
Had they found the baby they sought? If so, why the hurry to leave?
Later, as we moved with the caravan into the gathering dusk, with Babak still asleep and leaning back against me, Pacorus related what had befallen in Jerusalem. I had worried when I saw we were headed south, for I knew that Palmyra lay north and east, but Pacorus said we would not be going far.
“Where, then?” I asked.
“Just wait and let me tell you in my way! It was a wonderment, what befell us.” He leaned eagerly toward me. “When we came through the great, arched gates of the city, the beggars halted their entreaties to gape at us. The tradesmen in their booths ceased with hawking their wares. A hush fell over the street. Women gripped their children’s hands, pointed, and whispered, ‘Kings.’
“The crowds parted before us,” Pacorus continued, “and flocks of stray dogs and idle boys followed after. Hebrew priests on the wide steps of their temple paused in their preaching and turned to stare. A dove seller forgot himself and left the cage door open; a stream of birds came pouring out, raining down feathers upon all!
“And everywhere, the Magi asked about this baby who is to become the king of the Jews. People looked amazed when they heard what we sought. They had heard prophesies of the coming of a new and mighty king, but no one had news of the birth.”
At last, Pacorus told me, a man had come quietly to speak with Melchior—he deemed Melchior the foremost of the Magi because of his lordly demeanor and the splendor of his garb. This man led the company up a hill to a grand, colonnaded palace encircled with ramparts and towers: the abode of Herod, the king of that place. “Then,” Pacorus went on, “the Magi took from their saddlebags gifts for King Herod. There were other gifts as well, gifts they had brought for the baby. Gold, I heard, from Melchior, for he deems the child is destined to be a great earthly king. Holy frankincense from Gaspar, for he seeks, through knowledge of the stars, to unravel the mysteries of God’s heaven and earth. And they say that Balthazaar, hoping to welcome a great healer to this world, brought myrrh.” The Magi followed the man through a high door, Pacorus said, while the others waited in a courtyard among beautiful gardens with fountains and pools.
“An hour or more we waited,” Pacorus continued, “all of us chafing to know what transpired within.”
But when the Magi had returned, they said that King Herod did not know of the birth of the new king. Still, he had been most helpful; he had summoned his own priests, and they related what the ancient prophesies had foretold about the star-omened king of the Jews. He would be born, they said, in the town of Bethlehem, less than an hour’s ride to the south.
“Did you see this king, this Herod?” I asked. I wanted to know if he was the king of Babak’s dream.
“No. But I heard he was fearsome to behold, with a palsy on him.”
“A palsy,” I repeated. He must be the king of the dream.
“Yes. They said he was unsteady on his feet and had terrible, seeping sores. I heard he even stumbled, and his mantle tore.”
“But why wouldn’t this king know of the new king’s birth?”
Pacorus shrugged. “Perhaps the stars know what he does not. The future king is not always the eldest son of the last. Perhap
s this one does not have sons, or perhaps they will die, or—”
“But hadn’t the priests of this place noticed the omens the Magi have seen in the stars?”
“I think their priests do not set so much store in stars as do ours.”
“Still, you said ‘star-omened.’ How can this be if they do not set store in the stars?”
“I do not know!” Pacorus said impatiently. “You will see—we shall all see—soon enough!”
Perhaps. But it was strange.
We passed vineyards, with grapes ripening on the vines, and small watchtowers of sun-dried brick and stone. A cooling breeze sprang up, carrying the scents of dust and leaves, bringing relief from the day’s heat. But soon Babak began to twitch and then to moan.
“Shh,” I said, holding him tight. “Babak, hush.” I peered down at his face. In the fading light I saw that it was twisted in pain, his eyes screwed shut. Some dark dream had come upon him. Pacorus glanced at me, his brow furrowed.
All at once Babak cried out, hoarse and shrill. Hair rose on the back of my neck; Ziba flinched and stumbled; the men ahead of us turned back to look. In a moment, Giv was there, having raced all down the line of the caravan. He pushed past Pacorus, and then the three Magi appeared beside us as well. Babak stiffened, arched his back, screamed again.
“Can’t you do something?” I pleaded. “Some new decoction, or some words of power, or—”
Balthazaar shook his head. “Nothing I know can—No.” He drew his fingertips lightly across Babak’s eyebrows, eyes, and cheeks. “Peace, little one,” he said.
Babak drew a shaky breath and opened his eyes.
Melchior crowded near. “What did you dream?” he demanded.
Babak burst into tears. I held him to me as he cried, great, heaving sobs. Balthazaar turned to Melchior. “Leave us,” he said in a quiet voice that brooked no dissent. Melchior glowered but grudgingly acceded, motioning Giv to accompany him to the fore. Gaspar left too, shaking his head, and Pacorus with him.
Suddenly I recalled the presence I had felt in my room earlier in the evening, and how Melchior had come out the door into the courtyard moments after. I pulled back Babak’s cloak and slipped my hand beneath the neck of his tunic.
There. Something affixed to the inside of it, by means of a plain bronze pin. I pulled out the pin and held the thing up to catch the light of the stars. It was a tassel, of deep purple thread.
Hadn’t that king Babak dreamed of, that king with the weeping sores and the palsy … hadn’t he worn a mantle of purple, with purple tassels?
I thrust out the tassel for Balthazaar to see. He took it between his fingers, puzzled, then his eyes went hard. He clenched it in his fist and urged his camel to the head of the caravan.
CHAPTER 46
BETHLEHEM
We passed by gnarled old olive trees with dusty, blue green leaves, and stands of canopied fig trees. Far away, above dry, scrubby hills sliced by deep ravines, the stars came glimmering out. By their pale glow I could make out more vineyards climbing up the nearby terraced hillsides, and flocks of shaggy sheep. Once, a shepherd left off playing his pipe to stare at us, leaving the echo of his yearning melody lingering on the air.
Babak sobbed for a while, and then at last seemed to have cried himself out. He leaned against me, his breath ragged, shuddering harshly from time to time.
Now, low in the sky, I could see one star that outshone all others. For a moment I set my troubles aside and pondered over this journey we had taken. A journey omened in the stars. Perhaps to greet a great future king. Perhaps one as great as Mithradates, or even Cyrus.
I imagined him now, a great prince—father of the king-to-be—lifting Babak up, proclaiming to all present who he was, and then honoring me as well. Sending us both, in a royal entourage, to Palmyra …
I sighed. Truly, my mind must be addled with worry and fatigue! A high prince of Rome would find nothing to love in a lost prince of Persia. And who would even believe it, to see Babak now?
At last Babak turned back to look at me, eyes clearer, I thought, than I had seen them in quite some while.
I wiped the tears from his cheeks, not wanting to ask him what the dream was, for fear it would disturb him again. And, truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“Are you thirsty?” I asked.
He nodded. I gave him a sip from our waterskin. “He is a bad man,” Babak said, wiping drips of water from his chin.
“Who?” I asked.
“That king of my dream. His soldiers are bad. They bring death with them.”
Death.
I sucked in a breath.
Soldiers through the gates, and women crying …
“Which king?” I asked softly. “Which king’s soldiers bring death?”
“Melchior’s king. With the palsy and the sores.”
I waited for the pounding of my heart to settle. Not Phraates.
But that tassel …
Now I knew it for certain: Babak had been dreaming for Herod—the present king of the Jews.
Well before we reached Bethlehem, we glimpsed it in the distance, by the milky-bright light of the stars: a scattering of flat-roofed dwellings perched atop a limestone spur. I scanned the hilltop for some large edifice that might be a palace—but could see nothing remotely like. Just small, stone-built houses, some of which seemed to nestle into rocky outcrops or cliffs behind them.
How could a king arise from such a lowly place?
The air grew cooler as we wound up through the terraced hills. A breeze rattled in the olive trees, and a night bird called mournfully. Soon the waking dream came once more upon Babak. His face contorted as if in pain, and from time to time he startled in convulsive alarm.
I held him tight as we stopped just outside Bethlehem’s gates while the Magi spoke with someone there. Then the great wooden door creaked open and we went shuffling through.
The town slept. All was still, save for the sounds of our camels: the crunch of padded feet on packed earth, the tinklings of bells, small groans and sighs. But presently I began to see pinpricks of light flare up in windows and courtyards as we passed. By ones and twos and threes, clusters of dancing lamplight collected about us, with the shapes of men dark beside them. Dogs gathered too, nipped at the heels of our camels. Too weary to strike back, the camels simply plodded along, as if the dogs were no more bothersome than gnats.
Balthazaar asked the men a question in the tongue of that place; they glanced round at one another in an odd way, as if they were mystified, as if they were afraid—but not, it seemed, as if altogether surprised. Hands pointed up a slope to where a cluster of houses nestled into the side of a hill.
Not one of them fit for a king. Compared with our home in Susa, these were just heaps of dried mud and stone.
Up the slope we went. A spray of bobbing lights marked the front of the procession, as a few of the villagers moved ahead to show the way. More and more people came to follow; we trailed constellations of lamplight behind us. I could hear the villagers’ voices, kept soft: a rumbling of fathers, a crooning of mothers and, from time to time, the shrill, high piping of a child.
At last, near a well, the Magi stopped. Ahead I saw one of the villagers pointing: There.
It was a tiny limestone dwelling, set back against the side of a cliff.
Anger surged up inside me. They had traveled all the way from Persia for this? They had forced Babak, a scion of Persian kings, to spill out his life force for this? Some Hebrew pauper?
I glared up at the bright star. Either the Magi had erred in their calculations—or the heavens had played us for fools!
Balthazaar dismounted, his movements stiff and slow, and rummaged in his saddlebags. He had offered us nothing but kindness. A holy man, Pacorus had said.
Perhaps …
Perhaps this child-king had been separated from his kin, forced by chance or tragedy or betrayal to live among the lowly. Yes, surely that was it! And the Magi would lift him up aga
in, return him to his rightful place, to the palace in Jerusalem.
And yet there was that troubling dream. They bring death with them.
Now Gaspar dismounted as well, but Melchior did not. Frowning, he barked out something to Gaspar, stabbing an angry finger first at the sky, then at the house, and then at Gaspar.
Gaspar answered crossly and began to open his saddlebags.
Melchior suddenly wheeled his camel round and came back to us. He stared into Babak’s blank eyes, then turned to me. “Did he tell you of his dream?” he asked in a low voice. “Did he see aught of this hovel?”
I refused to meet his gaze, but pushed the words out between tensed jaws. “I know not what he dreamed, but I found the tassel you put there, from that king you saw, that Herod.”
Melchior had the grace to flush.
“Babak says that king is a bad man,” I said grudgingly, “and that his soldiers are likewise bad. He said, ‘They bring death with them.’”
Melchior’s brow furrowed. He looked with distaste at the dwelling, then turned to regard Balthazaar and Gaspar, who stood waiting, bearing fine wooden caskets that gleamed with inlaid gold.
Grumbling, Melchior returned to the head of the caravan. He dismounted, reached into his saddlebags and, with brusque, jerky movements, yanked out a gilded casket of his own.
They walked toward the dwelling with stately, measured steps, even Melchior now adopting the bearing of ceremony. The stars glittered above—one brighter than the rest—and a mirror of flickering lamplight circled about us. The flames stretched out long in a sudden breeze, pricking out, as the Magi passed, the gold of collar, hilt, and casket, of embroidered thread on flowing robes. Beside the humble dwelling the Magi seemed wildly out of place and oddly useless, like bejeweled rings on the fingers of a tiller of the soil.
A man appeared at the gate of the abode. He spoke briefly with Balthazaar and motioned them in. Several of the townspeople made as if to follow, but Balthazaar said a few quiet words in their language, and they held back.
One by one, the Magi disappeared within the gate.
Susan Fletcher - Alphabet of Dreams Page 21