The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  His relief vanished. “Perhaps they did. I never knew my father. Gershom adopted me two years ago. I’m still learning the ways of my God.”

  Roshan didn’t respond for a moment. “Is he so different, your god?”

  “Yes. I mean no.” He sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”

  Roshan smiled but didn’t meet his gaze. “It sounds like it.”

  Myrad took a deep breath. “I grew up worshiping the god of the shining fire the same as most people in Ctesiphon, but I don’t think any of us took it seriously. We might have visited the eternal flame once or twice my entire life, even though we lived just a few streets away. My mother was a poor merchant in a community of men and women like her. What we really worshiped was commerce. If you don’t sell, you don’t eat. She died two years ago. That was when Gershom adopted me.”

  Roshan cocked his head. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Ever since I can remember, he would come to the market and buy melons from me and my mother, even when they weren’t as good as others. He always paid a bit more than she asked. As I grew older, we would talk and he would answer my questions, questions about everything. Mother would tell me to stop bothering him, but he seemed impressed. After Gershom adopted me, he told me there was another god, the Most High.”

  Roshan nodded. “The god of the Hebrews.”

  “You’ve heard of Him?”

  “We’re merchants of the great road,” Roshan said. “We’ve heard of almost everything.” He took a long strip of linen and began wrapping it around Myrad’s swollen ankle.

  He thought of telling Roshan about Gershom’s calendar, but a nagging voice inside him argued against it. The heat and the scent of camphor oil tempted him with offers of sleep, and he nestled back into his blanket as Roshan tied off the wrap. “Thank you.” Talk of Gershom had opened a hole in his chest. More than anything at that moment, he wanted a friend. “I’ll tell Walagash how much you helped me.”

  Roshan shrugged, then dropped a roll of linen at Myrad’s feet. “Use that to pad your boot.” He paused before adding, “I wish you’d gone with Esai. My future was set the moment my father obtained his heart’s desire.” And without another word, he left the tent.

  For the next five days, the combination of camphor oil and bindings allowed Myrad to walk normally enough to fool the soldiers posted at each watering station, but each day the pain worsened and took longer for him to shed. On the sixth day, with at least eight days’ travel still ahead to Rhagae, Myrad clawed his way to wakefulness from dreams invaded by scenes of torture to see the tent already struck and the sun well up from the horizon.

  Aban brought him his horse. “Courage now.”

  The words must have been meant for someone else. Out of the corner of Myrad’s eye, he saw the guard look to Walagash and give a small shake of his head. When the caravan started out of the now-empty oasis, even the gentle gait of his horse set his ankle to throbbing. He dropped into a state of semi-wakefulness where time crept, measured by the intervals between each stab of pain.

  Two hours after midday, Storana roused him by shaking him by the arm. “Eat, Myrad.” Her hand darted into her pack to offer him flatbread.

  He couldn’t remember his last meal, yet food held no interest for him. He held up a hand in refusal.

  “You must.” Storana thrust the bread at him. “You cannot heal if you don’t eat. Pain is a burden that can be borne like any other.”

  Myrad took the bread and ripped off a bite with his teeth. Satisfied, Storana drifted away. He left the bread unfinished but couldn’t seem to drink enough. Beneath the sea of pain, part of his mind noted that he seemed to be sweating more than usual.

  They were still an hour from the next oasis when Aban rode forward. Soon afterward, Walagash and Roshan came into view, the merchant scowling at everyone around him.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Aban said.

  “I see that,” Walagash snapped. “You have it?” he asked Roshan.

  When Roshan nodded, stiff disapproval filled Aban’s expression. “You’ll cripple him.”

  “He’s already crippled. If he’s discovered, he dies. We all die.”

  Myrad forced himself out of his stupor. “What are you talking about?”

  “They want to give you hul gil,” Aban answered. “The joy plant.”

  He frowned, the name unfamiliar to him. “What is it?”

  “Poppy-seed tea.”

  That name he knew. He couldn’t help but know it. The streets of Ctesiphon, Seleucia, and Babylon were littered with the human detritus of those who’d surrendered to it. After a time—weeks or months or perhaps a few years—it killed them. Myrad drew a shuddering breath. Better that than the pain. “Give it to me.”

  “Walagash,” Aban said, “there must be another way.”

  “Then tell me what it is.” When he didn’t reply, Walagash continued, “Stay with him. Remind him often to walk normally. If he falls, carry him into my tent at once. There are enough people on the trade routes who have given themselves to the tea to make one more unremarkable.”

  They halted the caravan, and Myrad watched Roshan through a pain-filled haze as he dismounted and rushed forward to a camel loaded down with their supplies. He dug through the packs, his hands submerged in their contents, until he pulled a small glass bottle free. A moment later he produced a heavy earthenware cup.

  “How much do you weigh?” Roshan asked him.

  Myrad answered with a slow shake of his head, grimacing. Even that motion sent lightning bolts of pain up and down his leg. “I don’t know. Why would I need to know that?”

  Walagash answered for him. “Two and a half talents, minus a mina or two. I carried him.”

  Roshan nodded without looking at his father and carefully measured out a dose of tea, which looked pitifully small.

  “Is that enough?” Myrad asked.

  The boy bit his lip. “Possibly too much.”

  Myrad took the cup and drank without hesitation. The agony in his leg had beaten him.

  “Don’t reveal yourself,” Walagash told him. “You must walk without a limp.”

  He handed the cup back to Roshan. Already the horizon swam in his vision, the colors of dun and blue waving sinuously as if he were looking through a sheet of running water. Then the drug pulled him under.

  CHAPTER 8

  Time stretched and compressed, marked by periods of light and dark that passed without counting. Had Myrad been able to number their intervals, he still wouldn’t have trusted the sum. Night and day chased each other, short or long depending on the mood of the drug. He woke at one point on his horse’s back, the desert hills rolling away from him. With a shock he realized he couldn’t recall Gershom’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut, working to bring his memories into focus, but the images blurred and his father’s features became indistinct. Myrad put his face to his horse’s mane and wept.

  Then there came a day when the pain burned away the drug’s sleepiness and he found himself staring at the stripes of Walagash’s tent, gasping for air. An unfamiliar face filled his vision, staring down at him. Myrad squirmed away, his hands groping. But his knife, even his clothes were gone.

  “Calmly,” the man said. His eyebrows were extremely long. “Poppy tea leaves its mark on the body and the mind alike.”

  Walagash’s voice came from outside his field of vision. “Be at peace, Myrad. He’s a healer. We’re in Rhagae now.”

  They’d made it. He took a breath filled with pain and an aching need he couldn’t identify. “How long have we been here?” His voice croaked. Twisting on a pallet, he saw Walagash and Roshan sitting behind him. They fidgeted, like a man and a boy who’d been seated for too long a time.

  “Only a day,” Walagash said. “Yet that’s the wrong question.”

  The poppy tea no longer numbed him, though his senses felt blunted, dull. “What’s the right one?”

  “How long will it be until you’re healed.”

  The physici
an shrugged. “If he stays away from the poppy tea, that portion of his trouble should dissipate in another day. The leg is another matter. The tissues around the bone have been strained to the breaking point. If he uses a crutch, time will restore it eventually, but I have no cure for a clubfoot.”

  “How much time?” Myrad asked.

  “Four weeks, perhaps six.”

  “No,” Walagash said. “We can’t stay here that long, and a crutch will arouse suspicion.”

  His comment had no impact on the healer. “Then you’ll have to leave him behind.” He stood, packed up the implements of his trade, and left.

  “I never planned on going any farther than Rhagae.”

  “Plans change with need,” Walagash said. “There were soldiers along the entire route here.”

  Myrad managed to sit up a few moments later. After the room stopped spinning, he gave what reassurances he could. “My father told me to come here. There must be someone he wants me to find.” He searched the tent for his clothes before spying them at his feet. The tent flap was closed, so he reached down to toss aside the blanket covering him.

  Walagash’s hand covered his. “You need to rest. If your friend can be found, I will find him.”

  “I’ll do it,” Roshan offered. “If you go, Father, you’ll be remembered. You have a tendency to make an unforgettable impression on people. I’m just a boy.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled. “No one will notice me.”

  Myrad tried again to stand, but Walagash’s hand kept him on the cushions. “What’s his name?” the merchant asked.

  Myrad surrendered. “Amin Ben-Yirah. If there’s a synagogue in Rhagae, start there.” He didn’t tell them what the name meant.

  Walagash kept Myrad pinned beneath his blanket until Roshan left. Then he handed Myrad his clothes. “Rhagae is a big city. There are any number of people who walk with the aid of a crutch. I’ll find you one. If the god of the shining fire is willing, you’ll be able to pass unnoticed.” He left, closing the tent flap behind him.

  By the time he’d finished dressing, a fresh layer of sweat bathed him, and a thirst for poppy tea filled him—even a sip or two to take the edge off his pain. He searched the interior of the tent but found nothing other than a waterskin he drained within minutes. Hopping on one leg, he made his way to a stool to wait.

  Walagash returned first, his hands clutching a heavy crutch made of some dark-grained wood. “Here. Try this.”

  Myrad had never used one before, yet he’d seen countless others with one. War and disease left any number of men and women lamed. He tucked it beneath his right arm and took a step with his left foot. Swinging the crutch and his right leg forward in unison felt strange, but after a few moments he managed to navigate the perimeter of the tent in slow, deliberate steps. “Why are you doing this?” Myrad asked.

  Walagash’s face, large like the rest of him, broke into a smile. “It’s just a crutch.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. Why help me find Ben-Yirah?” He swallowed and then forced himself to put words to his fear. “I’m not even sure he’s here.”

  Walagash’s eyes grew thoughtful above his smile. “I swore to take you as far as you needed to go. I deal shrewdly, but I’ve never given less than promised. I won’t start now.”

  Myrad’s gaze slipped to the floor of the tent. “But I’m not even sure where I need to go. My father and the life he planned for me are gone.” Even as he said this, a nameless desire filled him, urging him to action. But what?

  “You’re young,” Walagash said. “The inclinations of the heart change with the seasons of a man’s life. At least allow me a day to search for your father’s friend. Come,” he said, breaking the mood. “You’ve eaten little in the past few days. You must be hungry.”

  He and Walagash left the tent and went into Rhagae. It was late afternoon when Myrad stopped to take in the view. Gone were the rolling deserts of Ctesiphon. Mountains rose to the north, the valleys between them lush and green.

  Walagash caught his stare. “This is what keeps me on the road. The ever-changing earth in all its beauty is like a woman in her moods—sultry, serious, playful.”

  “Where is your wife?” Myrad asked, a little surprised the question never came to him before.

  “She died,” Walagash replied, his tone wistful.

  “It was a long time ago?” Myrad asked.

  The merchant nodded with a little smile. “You read people well. That’s the beginnings of a good merchant. Yes. After Roshan was born, Adrina conceived again, but mother and child were lost. I have tried to be both mother and father to Roshan.”

  “I’m sorry,” Myrad said. “I shouldn’t have reminded you.”

  “Don’t be. I like remembering her. Roshan is like Adrina in many ways.”

  They worked their way toward the market with frequent stops. Myrad’s arm hurt with the effort of using the crutch, but the pain was nothing compared to before and it served to distract him from his craving for poppy tea.

  They found a vendor selling roasted goat and flatbread. After purchasing their meals, they sat and ate in silence. Myrad worked his way through every memory he had of Gershom, from the time he first met him to the day of his death, lifting them up to the Most High God as an offering and a prayer. Walagash sat across from him with a faraway look in his eyes.

  When they returned to the tent at sunset, Walagash departed. Alone, Myrad knelt to offer his prayers to the Most High, feeling Gershom’s absence as a wound. Then he retrieved the calendar. How long since he’d marked the days? He didn’t know. Amending his prayer, he tried to correct the count, but precision eluded him.

  Walagash returned then, followed by Roshan. “It’s bad,” Roshan said. “There were soldiers at the synagogue, asking after a clubfooted man, and no one there knew anyone named Ben-Yirah. A few of them laughed at the name. They said it was a joke. Then I walked through the markets and visited every Hebrew’s stall I could find. No one had heard of a Ben-Yirah. No one.”

  Myrad shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Gershom send me to look for someone who doesn’t exist?”

  The tent flap fluttered. When it stilled, a clean-shaven man with dark curly hair stood just inside. His appearance and clothes were unremarkable, and he could have been anyone on the street, Persian or Hebrew, except for the eyes. Deeply set and restless, they did not simply see. They darted or glared at people and objects alike.

  “I saw you at the synagogue,” Roshan said.

  “I am Ben-Yirah,” the man answered, but his gaze never left Myrad. “Tell me what happened to Gershom.”

  In halting sentences and without any emotion that would betray him, he described Gershom and the last meeting of the magi.

  Ben-Yirah sighed. “I feared as much. The kings of Parthia lack the wisdom of Nebuchadnezzar or Cyrus. Gershom was never a threat to them, no matter how he voted.”

  Myrad stared at Ben-Yirah. He could see nothing of deception in the man’s expression, only an intensity that put him on his guard. “Why would Gershom send me to you?”

  The man smiled, his eyes almost disappearing. “My real name is Hakam. Ben-Yirah is a signal, a warning. Along with your father and others, I keep the calendar. Do you have it?”

  “Calendar?” Walagash asked.

  Myrad didn’t reply. Instead, he removed the papers from his bag and pulled the calendar out from among them, offering it to Hakam.

  The stranger gave it the merest of glances before speaking. “You’ve marred his work. I see there are two days unaccounted for.” His accusation came out in staccato, a voice speaking at Myrad instead of to him. “Don’t you understand? It has to be perfect.”

  “I tried,” Myrad said. “But ever since I left Ctesiphon, I’ve had Musa’s men after me.”

  Hakam dismissed the excuse with a wave of his hand. “The calendar of the Most High does not permit such excuses. The count must be exact.” He tapped the papers, revulsion twisting his expression. “You’re just
an apprentice. There’s no reason for Musa or Phraates to expend their efforts on you.”

  “It’s true,” Walagash said.

  “Because he said so?” Hakam sneered, his eyes still on Myrad.

  “Because we got one of the soldiers at the oasis drunk enough to tell us what he was doing,” Roshan said, his voice hot. “He said he’d been ordered to find a clubfooted apprentice to the magi.”

  Hakam dismissed Roshan with a shake of his head. “Did he say Musa ordered it? Why would the queen waste her time on you, Myrad?”

  The question cut. “I saw what she did,” Myrad said. “I’m a witness.”

  Hakam waved away his argument. “So did hundreds of others. Musa and Phraates don’t care about witnesses; they want them. Word reached us here in Rhagae days ago of what happened. Emperors rule by fear. The more you spread the story of your father’s death, the more you do Musa’s work for her.”

  “There were soldiers at every oasis and way station along the route from here to Ctesiphon,” Walagash said. “They were after him.”

  “There must be some other reason. Did you steal something?”

  “No.” The accusation burned. “I took only what belonged to Gershom. I’m his son.”

  “He never mentioned you.” Hakam’s gaze swept over Myrad’s features. “You don’t have his looks or his coloring.”

  “He adopted me. Two years ago.” For some reason Myrad couldn’t put words to, he wanted Hakam’s approval. Or at the very least, his acceptance.

  Walagash came to Myrad’s defense. “In some cultures an adopted son is as highly valued as a natural one.”

  Hakam shrugged. “Yes, some cultures, like the barbarians in Rome. But the Hebrews prize blood above all else. Since Gershom didn’t tell you why you needed to seek me out, I will not risk myself with you. Do you know why he taught you to mark the days?”

  “I will keep the days like my father before me and his father before him,” Myrad said. “Gershom was my father. He taught me Hebrew and told me about the sixty-nine weeks.”