The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  Walagash sighed. “Esai. He’s a silk merchant, one of the elect. They sell the most valuable goods in the empire, but their ranks are closed. Unless one of them dies, or Phraates grants a commission to another, it’s impossible to join their ranks.” Walagash laughed. “Esai is a friend of long acquaintance, and yet I’ve never been able to persuade him to sponsor my request to trade in silk and I’ve tried more than once. I hope to set Roshan up in the trade someday.” He paused. “When the time is right.”

  Myrad watched the other merchant, who stood there giving directions to his men. With a start, he realized the man was speaking Hebrew. The barest spark of hope came afire in his chest. “Is it so difficult to earn his recommendation, then?”

  Walagash nodded. “Normally, it would be impossible. The recommendation is hereditary, and Esai is childless. I’ve tried to discover what he values more than silk, but if it exists, he’s never said.” He took a breath until his chest strained his striped robes and set off toward the silk merchant. Myrad trailed in his wake without invitation, hobbling to keep up.

  “Greetings, Esai,” Walagash called.

  “Walagash,” Esai said. “Fair weather to you.”

  “And to you. How do you fare?”

  Esai shrugged and dipped his head. “Trade is good. The Romans are willing to pay almost any price for silk. But the bandits know this as well, and they’re starting to work in concert. I’ve had to hire extra guards.”

  “Come to my tent. I have wine, and perhaps we may speak of trade.”

  Esai nodded. “A cup of date wine would help to wash away the dust of the road.”

  Myrad moved to follow Walagash back to his tent. “He seemed willing to talk at least,” he said.

  “He always talks,” Walagash said, “but he never says much, despite my best efforts to ply him with food and drink.”

  “Would you mind if I accompanied you when you speak to Esai?” Myrad asked.

  “What do you have to offer?”

  “Esai is Hebrew, and so was my father. I may be able to discover what he most prizes.”

  “You may,” Walagash said after a pause, “but that doesn’t mean I’m granting you a place in my caravan.”

  Myrad slumped. He couldn’t blame the merchant for his caution.

  Two hours later, he sat in Walagash’s tent, placed by the merchant at the entrance. Walagash and Esai sat in the center, drinking date wine and speaking of inconsequential things. Roshan sat on his father’s right, the look on his face that of boredom.

  The small talk continued for another fifteen minutes. When the pauses in conversation stretched and became awkward, Esai rose. “Thank you for your hospitality, my friend. I must be leaving now. It’s almost time for evening prayers.”

  Walagash held out his hand. “We’ve yet to talk trade. Won’t you tarry a few moments more?”

  Esai grimaced. “To what end? I trade the most valuable commodity in four empires. I have all the wealth a man needs and have no interest in trading anything else.” He edged toward the tent flap.

  “Enough, Father,” Roshan said. “You know I have no wish to trade in silk. Robe me with the red and white of your colors and that’s enough.”

  “Might I accompany you, honored Esai?” Myrad asked. “I haven’t shared evening prayers with anyone since leaving Ctesiphon.”

  Esai’s generous eyebrows betrayed his surprise. “You worship the Most High?”

  Myrad bobbed his head. “My adoptive father was Hebrew. Three times a day we would pray to the Most High and read from the Torah.”

  Esai’s lips trembled in time with his hands. “Then you are blessed beyond all men. I would give almost anything to have a Torah with me.”

  Walagash called Myrad’s name, waving him over. When he drew close, the merchant tapped his ear.

  “The Torah is the holy book of the Hebrews,” Myrad murmured, stepping back.

  “If it is a book you wish,” Walagash said, “I will get you one. I’m sure one can be bought or copied.”

  Esai shook his head. “You don’t understand, Walagash. The Torah is perfect.”

  “How so?”

  Esai sighed. “You understand a letter in an alphabet can represent a number as well, yes?” At Walagash’s nod, he continued. “The only people allowed to copy the Torah are scribes designated by the high priest in Jerusalem. When they are done with a page, they add the letters and check the sums both horizontally and vertically, comparing them to the original. If even one of the sums is wrong, they do not correct the page. They burn it and start over. If you think it is difficult to get me to part with my silks, you haven’t seen me trying to get a synagogue to part with their Torah. There are some things money cannot buy.” Longing filled the Hebrew’s expression.

  Myrad moved forward again, settling himself beside Walagash to make his allegiance plain. “Why do you want a Torah of your own?”

  The old man’s eyes clouded. “My travels do not take me to the land of my fathers, and synagogues along the route are rare. Even in those few cities boasting a synagogue large enough to have their own Torah, the frantic schedule of a merchant rarely allows attendance, leaving me parched and hungry. The word of the Most High God is like bread and wine.”

  Myrad held out his hands to the merchant, fearful he might leave. “Please, stay a moment longer. I shall be back shortly.”

  He hurried from the tent to his belongings, mouthing the words of a prayer. He opened the bag that held his father’s papers and pulled the thick bundle of parchment sheets from their protective wrap. Setting aside the calendar, he leafed through the remaining pages one by one until he came to a sheet with the heading The Book of Beginnings.

  Doubt flooded through him. Gershom valued his Torah above all his other possessions, but it had taken Esai’s powerful desire, a stranger, to prove to Myrad its great worth. What right did he have to trade it away? For a long moment he wavered. Surrendering his father’s Torah tore at him like losing Gershom all over again. Yet he wanted to discover what his dream meant, and for that he needed to go on living. “I’m sorry, Father.” He clutched the Torah to his chest and returned to Walagash’s tent, where Esai stood, obviously trying to leave. Only Walagash’s bulk blocking the entrance kept him there.

  “Here.” Myrad held the first page up for Esai to see.

  The merchant gaped, his hands feeling for the stool behind him. “You have it? Here? But how?”

  “How isn’t important,” Myrad said. “That I do have it and am willing to trade for it is what matters.”

  Seated at last, Esai’s head bobbed with impatience. “It’s complete? May I inspect it?”

  Myrad handed his father’s Torah to the merchant, who spent half an hour leafing through it, devouring the words. At moments he would stop, his fingers brushing the page as tears gathered in his eyes. “It’s all here,” he said and lifted his head to look at Myrad. “Please tell me it’s not stolen. As much as I desire it, I will not deprive another of the words of the one true God.”

  “It was my father’s,” Myrad said. “He . . . he passed away a while ago, and as his only son it has come to me. It is mine, Esai, and I have the authority to trade for it.”

  The merchant nodded slowly. His hands clutched the edges of the parchment as though unwilling to part with it. Myrad held out his own hand, and very reluctantly Esai surrendered it. “Name your price, Myrad. I will pay anything I am able.”

  “But you don’t have what I want, Esai.” He motioned toward Walagash. “He does.” Without waiting to be invited, Myrad retrieved his stool from his spot by the entrance and brought it over to sit with the two merchants, creating a triangle. He didn’t doubt the symbolism of the gesture would be plain. “I propose a three-way negotiation. I am willing to let Walagash bargain on his own behalf as though he owned the Torah. If the two of you come to an agreement, I will then bargain with Walagash for what I desire. If we reach an agreement, I will deliver the Torah to you.”

  “No,” the silk
merchant said. “What you propose is overly cumbersome. You own the Torah, and I am not without resources. Come, deal with me directly.”

  The suggestion held merit, but when Myrad drew breath to agree, a voice within put him in mind of his dream and he demurred. Surprised, he refused. “No. Walagash has what I require.”

  Esai licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the stack of parchment sheets in Myrad’s lap. “Very well. Let us begin.”

  Walagash looked from Myrad to Esai, his eyes darting with speculation. “I desire two things. First, I wish the finest silk in your packs for Roshan. I will pay a fair price.”

  “A simple thing,” Esai said. He eyed Roshan. “I have a deep blue cloth that flows through the hands like water. It’s cool in the summer and warm in the winter. It is the best I have and worth more than its weight in gold. What else?”

  “Second, I wish for you to bring me into the silk trade.”

  Esai gaped, and a short burst of laughter filled the tent. “You ask for a shekel and then demand a talent, Walagash. The silk trade is closed. I have no power to open it.”

  “But you do. You have no children and the trade is inherited.”

  The other merchant’s eyes grew wide. “You wish to enter my household?”

  “It is common enough. Adoption confers legitimacy throughout the world. In the Roman Empire an adopted son is given even more status than a natural-born one.”

  Esai stroked his chin. “You have a reputation for shrewd bargaining. Is it deserved?”

  “I like to think so.”

  Silence settled over the tent as the two men regarded each other. “I think we can come to an agreement,” Esai finally said. “I am willing to offer you the opportunity to enter the trade in exchange for the Torah, an opportunity only, perhaps a run from Margiana to Palmyra with a middle grade of silk.”

  Walagash gaped. At last he said, “The opportunity you are offering is to send me to one of the largest trading towns in the world . . . with a middle grade?”

  Esai nodded. “The quantity will be substantial enough to allow you to exercise the skill you claim. If you prove adept, then we can arrange an adoption to satisfy the laws of the empire and execute secondary agreements in the nature of a partnership.”

  Walagash frowned. “Even if I am successful, what would keep you from dissolving the partnership?”

  The two men negotiated at length. Midway through, Walagash summoned his factor, who brought in a small writing table with pen and parchment. The frantic scratching of the factor’s writing struggled to keep pace with the stipulations each merchant sought from the other. Two hours later, they were done.

  After the two shook hands, Esai faced Myrad, his eyes burning. “May I have it?”

  “No. I still have to negotiate my price from Walagash. If we’re successful, I will bring it to your tent in time for evening prayers.”

  The merchant turned to Walagash. “Give him whatever he requires.”

  After he left, Walagash dismissed his factor, but Roshan remained. He stared at his father, his expression verging on anger. “I told you, Father. I never wanted silks, only linen in your colors.”

  Walagash’s eyes held affection, even empathy, but resolve as well. “Shouldn’t a father wish the best for his children? Now, I need to speak to Myrad alone.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Instead of speaking, Walagash rose from his seat to refill his goblet with date wine. When he returned, he held another out to Myrad. “It would be improper to refuse a fellow merchant refreshment before negotiations.”

  Myrad laughed. “I’m not a merchant.”

  “But you are,” Walagash said. “You proved that the moment you gave Esai what he desired in exchange for what he offered, and you followed it with as shrewd a piece of bargaining as I’ve ever seen. Now, what do you want from me?”

  The wine, sweet and smooth, tickled his throat and sent warmth to his belly. He took another sip, and the light from the brazier in the tent took on a softer glow. “What do you have to offer?”

  “I think you have the makings of an excellent merchant,” Walagash said. “The look on Esai’s face when you took the Torah from his hands told you everything you needed to know. If you want to measure how much something means to a man, give it to him and then take it back.”

  Myrad took another drink of the wine and a knot of worry he’d carried since fleeing Ctesiphon loosened, but grief poured in after it. More than anything he just wanted to see his father again. The light from the brazier wavered now. “You have the silk trade if you want it,” he said. “What can you offer me?”

  “I only seek to know what it is you most desire.”

  Myrad blinked and looked down at his goblet. Strange, it was full again. “I want to see my father.” The normal spaces in his speech disappeared, and his words leaned on each other as if they couldn’t stand up on their own.

  “What happened?” Walagash asked.

  “They killed him.”

  “Who killed him?”

  He couldn’t seem to pull his chin up off his chest. “Musa and Phraates, but mostly Musa.”

  Walagash dropped a mix of curses onto the floor of the tent.

  The room floated in Myrad’s vision. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “A merchant is a fool if he trades in ignorance,” Walagash said. “Who was your father, Myrad? And who are you?”

  He looked at the empty goblet as if it had betrayed him. “Date wine is stronger than I remember.”

  “Who are you?” Walagash repeated.

  He’d said too much already, and yet he needed someone to trust. Walagash would connect the pieces of their conversation together as soon as word of Musa’s slaughter reached his ears. “My father was Gershom, minister in the treasury of the king and one of the magi.” He lifted his gaze from the goblet to Walagash. “On the day of my induction, my first day as an apprentice, Musa and Phraates killed every one of the magi who didn’t support their marriage. Musa is queen now in Ctesiphon.”

  Walagash’s eyes widened. “That Roman concubine is queen?”

  Myrad raised the goblet in salute and laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “All hail Rome.”

  “Is Phraates mad? He’s given the Romans a foothold in the throne room of the empire.”

  Myrad nodded, though the motion felt exaggerated.

  “You escaped, then?”

  “The vote happened earlier, before I was made a magus. I left before they could make the connection between Gershom and me. They think I fled to Babylon.” He hoped this to be true, but he said nothing of his doubts to Walagash. “I need to get to Rhagae. They’re looking for me.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why.”

  “It’s Parthia, Myrad. The kings here kill their own: fathers, sons, brothers. They’re not in the habit of leaving political opponents alive.”

  “I’m nobody.”

  “You’re a witness to a slaughter that could divide loyalties in the empire,” Walagash said. “Who knows what fable they’ll spin out of this?” He paused. “You didn’t need me. You could have bargained with Esai directly to take you safely to Rhagae. Why didn’t you?”

  Myrad shrugged, or thought he did. The wine made his body feel heavy. “I’m not sure. You knew I was on the run as soon as you met me. I could see it in your eyes.”

  “And so you bargained with Esai to give me what I most desire.”

  “Yes.” The answer took longer than it should have. “I need to hide. My father told me to go to Rhagae.”

  Silence settled over them, and he might have dozed for a moment. Myrad’s next clear thought was of Walagash carrying him with ridiculous ease to place him on a sea of cushions. “By the god of the shining fire, for this I will take you under my protection and as far as you need to go.”

  Myrad extended his hand toward the merchant. “We have a bargain.”

  Walagash’s grip swallowed his.

  “I need to get the Torah to Esai,” Myrad mumbled. Even his words felt heavy. “He’ll
be waiting.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Walagash said. “Sleep now.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice.

  Someone, Myrad felt sure, was using his head for a drum. The beat was steady and timed in perfect cadence with the rhythm of his heart. Where was he? He lay still, waiting for awareness to come and the pain to subside. He worked to pry his eyelids open and saw the white and red of Walagash’s tent. The stripes writhed in his vision.

  When he sat up, the sudden movement brought a flash of white-hot pain stabbing across his temples. Limping his way out into the late winter sunshine, he saw Roshan and the merchant’s guards had already struck most of the camp. Horses nickered and pranced in the crisp dawn.

  He didn’t know Walagash was behind him until he heard the rumble of his voice at his elbow. “May peace be upon you.”

  Myrad jerked at the sound and immediately regretted it. “And upon you.” He massaged the sides of his head. “That wasn’t just date wine, was it?”

  Walagash smiled without any trace of apology or regret. “The caravan is more than just my livelihood. It’s my family and friends. I needed to be sure of you before we struck a bargain.”

  Memories of the prior evening came crashing into his awareness. “I can’t stay with you, Walagash. It was wrong for me to ask.”

  “How so?” The merchant’s smile took on an edge. “You cannot renege on our bargain. The Torah has already been delivered to Esai and he has departed on his way to Palmyra.”

  “He can keep it, and you can have the silk trade. But Musa’s men will be checking the other roads leading away from Ctesiphon, and when they realize I didn’t go to Babylon . . . what will happen to your caravan if they catch me with you?”

  “How do you know they’ll find you?” Walagash asked.

  Blood rushed to his face in embarrassment. “They know what I look like.”

  “You’re well-featured enough, but hardly remarkable, Myrad. We will dress you as a guard. There must be any number of young men on the trade routes who look like you.”

  His face burning, Myrad pointed at his deformed foot, his finger jabbing the air. “I’m hard to miss.”