The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  Hakam blinked. “Sixty-nine weeks? What did he tell you exactly?”

  Gershom had told him the words of Daniel so often that Myrad could have recited them in his sleep. The prophecy was part of him, inextricably linked to his identity as Gershom’s son.

  Hakam listened as the words spilled from him, but when Myrad stopped, he stood, his head cocked as if he expected more. For a long while, Hakam didn’t speak. When he did, it wasn’t what Myrad expected.

  “There’s nothing about the prophecy that’s a threat to Musa or Phraates or anyone else. The Messiah-King isn’t supposed to appear for decades yet. What did you take from Ctesiphon?”

  “I told you. Just the money Gershom had saved, and his papers.” Myrad glanced at Walagash. “He had a copy of the Torah that I traded for safe passage.”

  “The calendar is in your hands, and you traded away the Torah?” Hakam pointed. “What did you just put back in your bag?”

  A hole opened in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t know.”

  Hakam growled something in Hebrew Myrad didn’t recognize. “Foolish boy.”

  The four of them looked at Myrad’s bag as if it contained some demon intent on springing forth to devour them. Myrad opened it and removed the papers. There were half a dozen and they were written in Greek, but the language was beyond him. He handed them to Hakam.

  He looked at the first one, then the second, then the rest. His hands moved faster and faster, flipping pages as his brows rose until the whites showed around his eyes. “What have you done?”

  “I was in a hurry,” Myrad said. “I needed to get away.”

  “What do they say?” Walagash asked.

  Hakam stared at the papers in amazement. “Gershom worked in the treasury of the king, helping to oversee the mints. These are letters of transfer. With them a man could walk into any mint in the empire and empty it.” He looked again at Myrad, his expression stopping short of compassion. “This explains the soldiers searching the city.”

  Walagash shook his head. “Couldn’t Phraates simply issue new letters, replacing the old?”

  “Yes,” Hakam said, “if he knew the old letters had been stolen. If you were master of the mint, would you want to tell the king the letters of transfer to every mint in the empire are missing?”

  “Can’t we just return them?” The looks Myrad received from the others, even Roshan, told him how bad an idea that was.

  Myrad started at the sound of Walagash’s sudden laughter. No one else joined in but watched him in surprised silence. Finally, the merchant wiped the mirth from his eyes. “I hope word of this never gets out,” he said. “All you wanted was safe passage to Rhagae. Now I discover I’ve been out-traded by a mere apprentice. Ha! It will be a miracle if I get out of this with my life.”

  “Katanes is head of the treasury,” Hakam said, ignoring Walagash’s comment. “How did he vote?”

  Myrad thought back and replayed the scene in the throne room for the thousandth time. “Katanes stood with those wanting to install Musa as queen.”

  Hakam nodded. “After the king and queen, he’s the most powerful man in the empire. Something must have led Gershom to keep the letters of transfer in his personal possession. My compliments, Myrad. With Gershom’s death you’ve managed to become one of the most dangerous men in the empire—at least until Katanes and his men find you and kill you.”

  His mouth went dry. “What do I do?”

  Hakam shrugged his indifference. “Get to the eastern edge of the empire as quickly as you can. The eastern satraps never fully supported Phraates, and they’ll despise the idea of a Roman queen. You should be safe there.”

  “I had a dream I don’t yet understand, and I must keep the calendar.”

  “The calendar is for Hebrews,” Hakam said. A sudden passion lit his face. “The Messiah-King will come in my lifetime and then Judea will be free.”

  Walagash rose to escort Hakam from the tent. After, he said to Myrad, “I swore by the god of the shining fire to take you to safety. I keep my vows. Once we reach Margiana, you can travel by caravan to anywhere in the world you wish to go: Khushan, Qian, Judea, even Rome if you wish.”

  But Myrad wanted only to return home, back to Gershom, his father, and the life they’d had together.

  CHAPTER 9

  They slipped away the next morning just as the sun broke the horizon. Rhagae receded behind them, and with every step a tiny bit of worry lifted from Myrad’s shoulders. Once again he’d evaded capture, yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that sooner or later his luck or favor would run out. When they came to the next oasis, just after midday, Walagash called Roshan forward. Instead of slowing, the caravan increased its pace.

  “We’re not stopping?” Myrad asked when Roshan returned.

  “No. The next way station is close enough for us to make it before nightfall. My father wants to put as much distance between us and Rhagae as possible. We’ll water the horses here and catch up.” Aban and Storana both nodded, and as one they galloped ahead toward the oasis.

  After the rolling beat of their horses’ hooves faded, Myrad turned to Roshan. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” the boy asked.

  “Helping me find Hakam.”

  Roshan spat. “His kind is everywhere. So concerned about whether or not you’re Hebrew, he never considers you as a person. You can no more change the circumstances of your birth than I can. If this ‘Most High God’ really exists, then he will look in your heart, not at your skin.” Roshan glanced down at Myrad’s leg. “Or your foot.”

  They kept to the same schedule for the next four days, early out of camp and late into the next oasis. The horses began to flag, walking across the hot sand with their heads drooping toward the ground. Even the camels tired, becoming more temperamental. Lines of fatigue showed on Walagash’s and the guards’ faces, and the lighthearted banter that usually accompanied their travels vanished.

  Yet Myrad breathed prayers of thanks. Every minute he spent on horseback was a minute he didn’t have to spend on his crutch or his foot, and he gladly traded the pain for the fatigue that came from their rigorous travels. The stabbing ache receded from his leg until it shrank to a knot in his ankle.

  Then, nearly a week out from Rhagae, despite their haste and Myrad’s prayers, their luck ran out. “We have a shadow,” Aban said. The last light of dusk cast the oasis in shades of dun and charcoal.

  “Perhaps several,” Storana added.

  Roshan searched the pack behind him. He pretended to pull some insignificant object free and rode forward.

  Myrad kept his attention focused ahead, pressing his right leg against his mount to keep his foot disguised. “What do I do?”

  “Wait and watch,” Aban said.

  The caravan slowed as they pulled the camels and horses aside for water and feed. Out of the corner of his eye, Myrad watched as the rider circled around to the left to enter the oasis from the opposite side. Aban dismounted and handed his reins to Storana. He slipped into the shadows, flitting from tree to tree. Myrad sat on his horse, his eyes searching the area, but he saw no soldiers and none of the other people milling about gave Walagash’s caravan more than a cursory glance. Before he could talk himself out of his decision, he dismounted and handed his reins to Storana.

  “This is unwise,” she said. “You’re not built for stealth.” But she made no move to stop him.

  In the dark, with only occasional torches and the light of the inn ahead to guide him, progress was slow. He bypassed the arched entryway and circled around to one of the open windows. Keeping his face out of the light spilling through the opening, Myrad searched for Aban and found him a few moments later, reclining on a stack of cushions to one side, sipping date wine. Aban’s gaze wandered over the room with seeming disinterest but came to rest on a particular spot more often than any other. Myrad tried to see what it was, but several carvans already filled the oasis and the inn teemed with guards eager to wash the dust from their throats.


  He waited, his arm going numb from supporting his weight on the crutch. Customers filled the low tables and an elevated counter running the length of the room by the kitchen. Noise and smoke punctuated the conversations. When a pair of men left the counter, Myrad got his first clear view of Aban’s target, a man whose face he knew.

  Turning, he scuffed along with his crutch across the uneven ground to the entrance and through. Aban rose from his place and started toward him, but Myrad waved him back. The man he recognized might have sensed his stare. Perhaps he’d heard the sound of Myrad’s crutch behind him and guessed what it meant. Whatever the reason, Myrad was still three paces away when he turned.

  His eyes registered recognition, though his face showed no reaction. Instead, he swung back to the counter and took another drink of his wine.

  The beat of Myrad’s crutch sounded in counterpoint to his heart. He took the empty spot at the counter next to the man and paused to fill a goblet with date wine. His hands shook. He lifted the rim to his lips, intending a sip, no more, to wet his throat. But the drink, unexpectedly cool in his mouth, warmed his belly and calmed the frantic racing of his heart. When he put the goblet back on the counter, it was empty.

  “Allow me,” Masista said with a nod, refilling his cup.

  Myrad bowed his thanks. Over Masista’s shoulder, Aban positioned himself closer, his hand creeping toward the dagger at his belt.

  “You remind me of someone,” Myrad said.

  “A friend of your father perhaps?” Masista asked.

  “Perhaps a friend, or possibly a man with a common enemy. Is the enemy of my enemy necessarily a friend?”

  “I suppose that would depend on the enemy,” Masista said. “But I would hope so.” His eyes betrayed the circumstances of some extremity that had driven him from Ctesiphon. They darted to either side, always searching.

  Myrad took another swallow of wine, savoring the warm sensation that eased the pain in his leg. He let his eyes wander from Masista’s drink to his head. Like most, his hair was dark and thick, but without a leather strap to keep it from his face and neck. “You’re not wearing your cr—”

  Masista’s hand caught Myrad’s wrist in a desperate grip. Aban rose. With his free hand, Myrad knocked his goblet over, sending the wine splashing toward their laps. Masista jerked to avoid the dark liquid, breaking eye contact, and Myrad shook his head. Aban settled himself back at his table, but the dagger was in his hand now. “My apologies for my clumsiness,” Myrad said. “For a moment you reminded me of someone else. Are you here for trade?”

  Masista bobbed his head, smiling amiably, yet he sat on his stool like a coiled viper. “I am, but regrettably few merchants trade in the commodity I most desire.”

  “Perhaps you will favor my master with the opportunity to supply your needs. I have found him to be a man of discernment, and he carries a surprising array of goods.”

  “Perhaps,” Masista said and turned away.

  Myrad allowed himself the leisure of refilling his goblet and downing it before pushing himself from the counter. “My master abides in a red-and-white tent.” His eyes locked with Aban’s and then flicked toward Masista, hoping the message was clear.

  He made his way out of the inn and back to Walagash’s tent. The merchant waited inside, his face and posture the picture of unconcern, but his eyes glittered. Roshan stood to his left, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  “It would be wise to seek counsel before you put the rest of us in danger,” Roshan snapped.

  “The danger was to me. If there was danger to the rest of you, forcing Masista to seek me out in your tent would have tied us together in his mind.”

  Walagash pointed Myrad to the stool across from him. “Where’s Aban?”

  “He stayed behind to watch.” Myrad eased himself onto the stool. “I believe both of them will be here shortly. I invited Masista to trade.”

  “So you protect us by meeting him alone and then throw that protection away by inviting him here?” Roshan asked.

  Myrad nodded. “If he meant to kill or betray me, he would have done it already. He’s one of the magi, and in the eyes of Musa and Phraates I’m a traitor.” He paused and shook his head. “Masista’s frightened, but I don’t know why. He voted to install Musa as queen.”

  Walagash raised a hand to forestall Roshan’s next objection. They waited in silence by the light of the small brazier. An hour later, they were still waiting. The date wine no longer warmed Myrad, and he found himself fidgeting as much as Roshan. Walagash sat on his stool brooding, his expression unreadable.

  At last, Masista stepped through the tent flap, and although no one greeted or beckoned him, he joined them in the center of the tent. Aban and Storana appeared a moment later. Walagash pointed and made a circling motion, his desire plain, and they ghosted back into the night.

  “No on will hear us except my most trusted,” Walagash said.

  Masista eyed the tent’s closed flap. “And how do you know they are worthy of trust?”

  “My guards are my family,” Walagash said.

  “Here in Parthia we betray family as quickly as friends.”

  “Magi and nobles perhaps,” Walagash said. “Now, what do you want?”

  Instead of being insulted, Masista smiled, dipping his head. “It’s rare to meet a merchant who is so . . . forthright. I’m here to trade.” He turned to Myrad. “Your father’s death leaves the burden of your care to me, and I will shoulder it if you will allow me.”

  “The burden of care,” Walagash mused, his eyes narrowing. “Myrad is part of my caravan. I will negotiate on his behalf.”

  Masista started in surprise. “You have brought him into your tent?”

  Now it was Walagash who dipped his head. “I see our ways are known to you.”

  “Father,” Roshan said, “you ha—”

  “Go and check the perimeter, Roshan,” Walagash interrupted, his voice firm. “At once.”

  Roshan spun on one heel and stalked from the tent.

  CHAPTER 10

  Walagash leaned forward, looming over them, his attention centered on the magus. “You speak of a burden of care, but you said you came here to trade. I’ll ask you once more, what do you want?”

  Again Masista looked to Myrad. “Musa has blinded the king. You’ve seen it. If she’s not stopped, all of Parthia will fall under Roman rule. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” Myrad answered. He still had no idea why the magus continued to appeal to him.

  “Roman or Parthian, what’s the difference?” Walagash said. “General Surena crushed the Romans at Carrhae and was killed by King Orodes for his efforts. Phraates killed his father and a score of brothers and half brothers to secure the throne. Together, he and Pacorus drove the Romans from Syria and Israel and set up Antigonus as king of the Hebrews. But the Romans reclaimed their territory a few years later and killed Antigonus for his folly.” His gaze shifted back and forth between Masista and Myrad. “And they just didn’t kill him; they crucified him as an example to any who might defy Rome. So, magus, what difference is there between Rome and Parthia?”

  Masista ignored the question, instead addressing Myrad as if the two of them were alone in the tent. “Musa killed your father. She and Phraates struck him down for daring to put the needs of Parthia before the desires of Rome. Would you abandon the man who adopted you? Doesn’t Gershom deserve justice?”

  Heat flooded into Myrad’s face and his heart beat accusations against him, reminding him of his vow. He jerked his head in agreement.

  “Be very careful, Myrad,” Walagash said.

  Again, Masista brushed off Walagash’s words. “I was there as well, Myrad. Your father didn’t even try to defend himself. The king’s soldiers slaughtered their way through the front rows of the highest magi and their guards, those who might have offered real resistance to Musa. But they didn’t stop there. Musa’s thirst was not so easily satisfied. The soldiers kept coming, killing defenseless m
en, good and faithful administrators like your father.”

  Myrad stood and faced Masista, though he couldn’t remember rising from his stool. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and his hands ached from the clenching of his fists.

  “No good can come from this rage,” Walagash said.

  His warning slid from Myrad, unheeded.

  Masista went on. “It wasn’t enough just to kill innocent men. No. Musa wanted more. She ordered the servants to gather the bodies, including your father’s body, and throw them into the streets so the beggars and thieves of the city could pick over them. I watched, Myrad. Your father was my friend. I watched the detritus of Ctesiphon strip his body naked and fight over his clothes with no more regard than they would give a dog.”

  Tears blurred Myrad’s vision. “She took everything from me.”

  “Then help me defeat her,” Masista said.

  “Anything.”

  “And now we come to it at last,” Walagash said.

  Masista confronted the merchant, his voice rising. “Would you deny him his birthright? Does he not bear a duty to avenge his father’s death?”

  Walagash shifted in his seat toward Myrad, holding up a huge fist for him to see. The knuckles were covered with so many layers of scars, the skin resembled a turtle shell. “It took me a very long time to learn that this”—he waved his fist in the air—“will only get you this.” He held up the other fist. Both were equally scarred.

  “Phraates and Musa entered the streets the next day,” Masista continued. “Even the death and dishonor of those they hated was not enough for them.” He swallowed. “I will not tell you what they did, but they defiled the bodies of all those who had stood against them.”

  “Enough!” Walagash’s voice cracked. “Please . . . what do you want?”

  Masista nodded. “Winter is breaking. Within a month, Phraates and Musa will leave Ctesiphon and travel north to their palace in Hecatompylos, but we will be there before them.” A grim smile brought a gleam to his eyes. “The main treasury is there. When they arrive, they will find their silver gone, spirited away. They believe all their enemies to be dead. By the time they learn we have rallied the eastern satraps, the true Parthians, it will be too late.”