The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Ah, I’d forgotten.”

  “That must be nice,” Myrad said. “The magi haven’t. When I left Ctesiphon, the horse trader recognized me by my foot. Then he had me followed out of the city.”

  Walagash frowned. “I’m not going to let your misfortune keep me from my dream.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me? You can have the silk trade. Musa’s men are probably coming this way right now.”

  “Probably, and their horses are certainly better than yours,” Walagash said. “Do you think you can outrun them?”

  “I think there’s help waiting for me in Rhagae.”

  “That’s two weeks away.” Walagash stepped back, studying Myrad’s twisted foot in silence.

  Myrad clenched his fists. All his life, people stared and pointed at his foot and awkward gait. “There’s nothing more to—”

  “Hush,” Walagash said. “I’m thinking.” A moment later, he brightened. “Roshan!”

  When the merchant’s son appeared at his elbow, Walagash pointed at Myrad’s foot and spoke as if there wasn’t a person attached to it. “We need a disguise for that, at the very least for horseback, but walking would be good as well.”

  Roshan shot a look filled with suspicion at Myrad. “We’re wasting the coolest part of the day, Father.”

  “True enough. Can you put something together while we ride?”

  His son’s shoulders dipped a fraction. “Probably.”

  “Excellent. Myrad, you will ride at the rear of the caravan with Roshan, Aban, and Storana.”

  The rear. Myrad nodded, his mind working. If and when Musa’s men found him, he could pretend he and those in the caravan were nothing more than travelers with a common destination. No accusation would come against Walagash.

  The guards struck the tent, and soon after they were mounted and moving, their pace dictated by the swaying line of camels plodding across the desert. At the rear of the caravan, Roshan issued orders. “Myrad, ride on my left. It will make it harder for anyone to see your right foot. Give me the boots you bought from Aban.”

  He slipped the left one off and handed it over along with the right one.

  Aban smiled. “That’s the most profitable deal I’ve ever made.”

  Roshan grunted. “You’re not the only one. Father’s just negotiated the trade of a lifetime.” The boy’s tone was neutral, but there was a twist to his lips as he said it.

  Throughout the morning, Roshan worked as they rode. His questions about Myrad’s foot set his face to flaming, though there was no scorn coming from Roshan or the guards.

  “Show me how far you can bend your foot,” Roshan said. He held the boot in one hand, a knife in the other.

  Myrad lifted his leg and moved his foot as much as he could in every direction, which wasn’t much.

  “That’s it? This is going to be a challenge.” He made no move for a long while, just stared thoughtfully at the boot and Myrad’s foot.

  Uncomfortable beneath his gaze, Myrad’s patience dwindled. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  “It’s easier to fell a tree if you sharpen the axe first.”

  “What?”

  Roshan sighed. “We don’t have an unlimited supply of boots or time. I need to plan this out.” With a nod he cut a long vertical slit down the length of the boot and then a horizontal cut along the instep from the toe almost back to the heel to create an upside-down T-shape. “Here,” he said. “See if you can slip this around your foot.”

  Myrad took off his sandal and wrapped the flaps of boot leather around it. He saw the problem almost immediately. “You’ll never get the leather to stitch back together.”

  “We’re not trying to. We just need a disguise. Give me the boot.”

  Myrad surrendered it and started to put his sandal back on.

  “Don’t,” Roshan said. “You’ll just have to take it off again.”

  Gritting his teeth, he reached down to drape his horse’s riding blanket over his foot.

  “It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Roshan asked. He produced a smaller knife to poke a series of holes on either side of the cuts along the boot.

  “It might not if I weren’t being reminded of it all the time.”

  With the holes completed, Roshan took two long strips of leather lacing and handed them to Myrad, along with the boot. “This is the best I can do without better supplies and tools, but it should be enough to fool anyone who sees you on horseback.”

  Storana jerked around, shifting on her riding blanket. “Soldiers behind us,” she said. “Coming fast.”

  Aban barked in laughter. “Someone wants you badly, it seems.”

  Roshan growled curses in a variety of languages. “Get the boot on. Hurry.”

  Bent double as he tried to lace the boot around his misshapen foot, Myrad listened for the sound of horses. Roshan dropped another curse to keep the others company.

  “Aren’t you done yet?”

  “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

  Aban’s voice drifted down to them. “They’re getting closer.”

  “Can they see us?” Roshan asked.

  “Perhaps not yet, but any moment now.”

  “Let me help you,” Roshan said and grabbed Myrad’s foot. Quickly he laced the boot together, skipping every other hole.

  “Here they come,” Aban said just as Roshan dropped Myrad’s newly shod foot and straightened.

  “Move over to ride on my right,” Roshan said. “Make it look casual, as though you just want to check the camels on that side.”

  “But they’ll see my foot,” Myrad protested.

  Roshan huffed. “We want them to. If we look like we’re trying to hide it, they’ll look more closely.”

  And it will be easier to pretend I don’t know you if they recognize me. Myrad guided his horse over to the right without glancing back. A squad of soldiers galloped up to the rear of the caravan before splitting to ride along each side. A squat man with a puckered scar across his forehead rode toward him, searching. When he drew even, his eyes narrowed at the sight of Myrad’s horse.

  Myrad slouched, pretending disinterest. They should have swapped horses. With an effort, he kept his gaze level and his right foot tucked in tight against his horse’s flank. The soldier looked him in the eyes, then down at his foot where it dangled below the riding blanket, and then back at the horse.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Roshan watching. Only one of the boy’s hands was visible. The soldier squinted, his hand drifting closer to his sword.

  A cry from another soldier farther ahead broke the silence, and without a word the first soldier dug his heels into his mount and galloped away. Myrad waited until the men had vanished over a distant hill before he drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  Throughout the rest of the day, they made adjustments to the boot and laces until it fit well enough to be indistinguishable from its mate. An hour before sunset they pulled into the next oasis, where Walagash called for Roshan and Myrad. The two of them rode forward together, past the date palms marking the boundary of the oasis and toward the watering troughs for the animals. Walagash stopped but didn’t dismount. “We have a problem.” His eyes flicked to his right, toward a stand of trees. “There’s someone watching us.”

  “One of the soldiers?” Roshan asked.

  “I think so. He’s not the sort of fellow you can miss. He stepped back into the shadows as soon as he saw me.”

  “What did he look like?” Myrad asked.

  “Unpleasant, with a long scar on his forehead.”

  Myrad swallowed. It took more effort than it should have. “That’s the one who passed me earlier.”

  “All right,” Roshan murmured. “Keep him on your right and get inside the tent as soon as we raise it.”

  Walagash grunted. “He’s waiting to see you walk. Can you do so without limping?”

  The merchant couldn’t possibly know what he was asking, but Myrad nodded anyway.

  “Go back
to the rear of the caravan with Aban and Storana,” Walagash said. “I’ll get the other guards working on the tent. That will buy us some time.” He sighed. “I should have thought of this.”

  “What?”

  “They’re covering the oases. It doesn’t matter which way you choose to run, if Musa’s men can get ahead of you—and they can since they have better horses—they can post a man or two at each oasis and catch you whenever you show up. It’s not like you can ride across the entire desert. No one survives out there.”

  Myrad could feel the soldier’s gaze on him, waiting.

  He headed back to the rear of the caravan, sweating in anticipation. As a child, he’d tried to walk like others, desperate to be like them. Adopting a normal gait sent stabs of pain through his ankle. The farther he went, the worse the pain got. He’d never made it more than a couple dozen paces.

  That wasn’t going to be enough to fool anyone.

  CHAPTER 7

  They plodded closer to the center of the oasis. Walagash shouted orders that Roshan echoed to get his father’s tent erected and the animals watered. Myrad told himself over and over he could do this; he could walk like a normal person. Only a short distance separated him from the tent, a paltry stretch of ground to cover, but his heart pounded against his ribs and called him a liar.

  “Ride as close as you can to the tent before you dismount,” Aban told him. “Only a few steps.”

  Up ahead, he could make out the silhouette of a man watching them from the shadows. “I can’t. If I ride up to the tent and duck inside, he’ll know I’m trying to hide something.” He estimated the distance from the watering trough to Walagash’s tent, at least fifty paces. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and a line of it trickled down his back. Fifty.

  Storana rode in close beside him. “We will be with you,” she said. “If that soldier attacks you, we will give him to the crows.”

  Myrad clutched at the guard’s reassurance, but it didn’t work. “There are too many people here. If you try to protect me, Musa will have you killed as well. It’s only fifty paces.”

  But even as he said this, he realized his estimate was likely short. As they arrived, all the other guards dismounted and helped water the animals, moving the camels to the trough where they could drink before taking them to one side to tether them to the picket line for the evening. They inched closer, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

  “O God,” Myrad whispered, “help me.” At the tail end of the caravan, he would be at the farthest point from the trough. Beside him, Aban and Storana reined in, each turning their horses to let them drink.

  “Are you ready?” Aban asked.

  At his nod, the three of them slid off to stand by their mounts. Myrad felt the soldier’s eyes on him but kept his eyes on his horse and angled his body so that no one could see the inside of his boot. Long before he could ready himself, it was time to picket the horses. He followed Aban’s slow, measured pace to the line, forcing himself to adopt the man’s gait, a horseman’s swaying walk, while counting. Storana came behind, shielding him.

  Pain shot through his ankle, telling him to shorten his steps. He struggled to keep his face expressionless, but by the time he reached the picket line, his breath hissed with every step, and tears mingled with the sweat running down his cheeks. He stooped to fasten his horse to the line and then returned. Aban stepped in on his right.

  “Courage, Myrad,” he said. “The life of any man is not without pain. Distraction helps. Tell me of some joyful thing.”

  “My abba,” he said. “Gershom.” His voice broke into pieces. “He took me into his household. He gave me a home and a name after my mother died.”

  Aban nodded. “A righteous man. Tell me more.”

  He tried, but bolts of searing pain shot up his leg with every step. When they came to the line of camels, he buried his face into a camel’s shoulder and cried.

  “Come,” Aban whispered too soon. “We must take the camels to the picket line.”

  “Jamshed!”

  The shout broke through his weeping. Myrad looked up to see a red-faced Walagash, glaring at him and screaming. “Yes, you son of a dog! I’m talking to you, Jamshed. What have I said about trading behind my back. Get in there!” He pointed at the tent.

  Myrad understood. The soldier couldn’t help but watch, but Myrad only needed to cover the distance to the tent now. Seventy paces. He set out, hopeful, but after twenty he was ready to surrender himself to Musa’s man and die. He looked up at Walagash where he stood by his tent, still playing the part of the angry merchant, yet deep in the man’s eyes Myrad saw comprehension.

  They both knew he wasn’t going to make it.

  He ducked his head, nearly stumbling over a rock he couldn’t see through his tears, and gasped as pain flared through him. He looked up. Forty paces remained. He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. It might as well be forty miles. “One more step,” he whispered as he put his right foot on the ground again.

  Tremors wracked his legs, and his jaws ached from clenching.

  “Curse you, Jamshed!” Walagash yelled. “When I call, I expect you to come running.”

  Ten paces from the tent, Myrad stopped. His right leg refused to bend. One more step and he would fall on his face. So close . . .

  Walagash stood in front of him, helpless and glowering.

  Hoping the merchant would understand his intent, Myrad took a deep breath. “A man has a right to make a living!”

  It should have been impossible for a man that big to move so fast. Walagash was on him before he knew it. One of the merchant’s oversized hands knotted in his tunic, lifting him from the ground. Relief poured through him as his weight came off his foot. Myrad watched as Walagash’s other hand formed a fist.

  “You dare to defy me?” he shouted.

  Myrad saw the merchant’s fist coming for his head. He twitched in his grasp, knowing he couldn’t get away.

  The world went dark, taking his pain with it.

  When Myrad came to, night had fallen.

  He blinked and winced, rubbing the knot on his right temple. Walagash sat on a stool nearby, his hands folded in his lap in placid unconcern.

  “Is the soldier still out there?” Myrad asked.

  “No. Two more caravans arrived after ours. Musa’s man is at the inn now, spending his money on wine and other amusements.”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t make it.”

  “I know. I’ve seen men in battle when they come to the realization they’re going to die. You held that same look in your eyes.”

  Myrad pointed at the merchant’s hands. “Is that how you got the scars?”

  Walagash laughed. “No. Those came later. Before I became a merchant, I wrestled in the arena.” His expression became somber. “There’s money to be made if you’re big and strong enough.”

  “You didn’t enjoy it?”

  “No.” He grew quiet. “I think any man who does has something broken inside of him. I saved every denarius I could until I was able to buy my way into trade. No one was more surprised by my success than I was. Mostly I just wanted to stop hitting people. I tried not to hit you too hard, but it’s been a long time since I’ve struck anyone.”

  Myrad pulled a long, shuddering breath into his lungs. “Now what?”

  “I’ve sent men to the inn. They’ll buy this soldier enough drink to loosen his tongue and discover what he knows. Regardless, Musa’s man will be unable to rise with the sun tomorrow. We’ll be gone before he awakens.”

  “That’s not what I meant. If they have men posted at every oasis, they will catch me sooner or later. I can’t keep this up.”

  Walagash turned his head toward the entrance of the tent and called Roshan’s name. Soon his son stepped inside but stayed near the entrance. When the merchant beckoned his son closer, his steps were slow and reluctant.

  “We need something for Myrad’s pain,” Walagash said. “What can we get?”

  Roshan glanced down at M
yrad’s foot as though it were a mere thing instead of living flesh. “There’s always poppy sap in the oases.”

  Walagash shook his head. “No, only as a last resort. He’s got to be able to walk.”

  Roshan lifted his hands. “Camphor oil? It’s mild, but it might take the edge off.”

  Myrad nodded. “I’ve used that before. It helps, some.”

  Walagash didn’t look convinced. “What else can we do?”

  Roshan shifted in obvious discomfort. He stood with his body turned halfway toward the tent flap as if he couldn’t wait to leave. “We could bind the ankle with cloth and fold rags into the instep of his boot to give him more support.”

  “That sounds good.” Walagash nodded. “Tend to him, Roshan. I wish to see if Aban and Storana have learned anything from Musa’s man.”

  Roshan stiffened. “Shouldn’t someone else do it?”

  Walagash didn’t respond, but a quiet, tense stillness came over him as he stared at his son. Finally, Roshan ducked his head and left the tent, his sandals striking the ground in frustration.

  “Does he dislike me?” Myrad asked.

  “Roshan never wanted the silk trade. Having it means meeting the expectations that go with it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The merchant rose from his stool and lumbered over to the tent flap. “You will in time. Someday.”

  Roshan returned a few minutes later, carrying strips of linen and a stoppered bottle. Without looking Myrad in the eye, he knelt and unbound the lacing of Myrad’s right boot before removing it. Lifting the deformed foot, Roshan set it on a thick cushion. For a long moment, Roshan stared at it until heat spread in Myrad’s face.

  “It’s not going to change,” Myrad said.

  Roshan finally looked at him. “You must have done something to anger the god of the shining fire.”

  Again? How many times must he have this same conversation? “The Most High God is not the god of the shining fire. I was born this way. What sin can a child commit in his mother’s womb?”

  Roshan shrugged away the question, taking the bottle of camphor oil and pouring it in his cupped hand. He began massaging Myrad’s foot, using both hands to work the pungent oil into the flesh all the way up to the knee. “If what you say is true, then perhaps your parents must have done something.”