“You want the letters of transfer to the mint,” Myrad said. “How do you know about them?”
“Katanes is frantic to find you. After I voted with him to support Musa, he confided in me. Since I know what you look like, my offer to help was graciously accepted. Those few pieces of parchment could turn the tide against Musa and Phraates.”
Walagash sighed. “And what do you offer in exchange for your revenge?”
“For his part, Myrad will be numbered among the most powerful when the new king takes the throne. A crown of six palms will be yours, Myrad, along with lands and slaves. With the ear of the king, you could ensure slaughter such as Musa’s never happens again.”
“What else do you offer?” Walagash said.
Confusion clouded Masista’s expression. “I am offering lands and titles and the opportunity to see justice done, merchant. What more could the son of Gershom desire?”
“What more indeed?” Walagash said. “Leave now. You will have your answer in the morning.”
“Wait,” Myrad said, drawing the attention of the two men to him. “I have a question.” He faced Masista squarely. “Why are you so afraid?”
The magus attempted a dismissive smile, but his eyes betrayed him. “What reason could I have for fear?”
Within the culture of the magi it was forbidden to lie, but centuries of following the stricture served to make them masters in the art of evasion. “That’s not an answer,” Myrad said. “You’re not wearing your crown. You had five palms and all the authority that went with them. I will not help you unless you answer honestly.”
“Musa was suckled on intrigue since birth,” Masista spat. “She made a show of killing her enemies, and the morning after their bodies were dumped in the street, she ordered her men to search their rooms. You should have taken all of Gershom’s papers. You left behind bits of correspondence between Gershom and me. One of them mentioned Musa in uncomplimentary fashion. Though I voted for her as queen, that was enough to condemn me. Magi are flooding from Ctesiphon and the rest of the western cities to flee east. Another war for the empire is coming, but we have a chance to strike a blow before we leave, a blow that will turn the tide in our favor. Give me the letters and I will make her pay for Gershom’s death.”
Myrad shook his head. “Give? No, I made a vow to make her pay, big or small. I want to be there when you take her ability to fight. I can help you. I made the trip to the mint with Gershom several times. I can tell you what to expect.”
Masista’s eyes narrowed, and at last he nodded. “Let it be as you say.”
Walagash sighed, then clapped twice, the noise like tree branches breaking. Aban and Storana appeared at the tent’s opening. “Escort our guest to the inn,” Walagash said. “Our negotiations are done for the day.”
Masista moved quickly to the entrance but then stopped and turned. “I miss Gershom as well,” he said. Then he disappeared.
Except for the two of them, the tent stood empty. “You have a way of seeing to the heart of a man,” Walagash said to Myrad. “But you should be wary of those who offer the future against the present.”
“I don’t understand.”
Walagash took a deep breath. “Masista has nothing to offer you now, only vapors and smoke, hopes for revenge and power in the future.”
“You advise that I reconsider and refuse his offer?” Anger still churned in his gut, but there was no target, no outlet for it. “You think I should just forget my father and ride around the country in a caravan?”
“On the contrary,” Walagash said. “I think you should give the magus everything he asked for. And then let him go. The letters from your father are a trap. If you do not give them to Masista, he can simply denounce you and take them. Once he has the letters, he has no need for you, and anything he does with them will draw the pursuit to himself.”
Myrad shook his head. “He tried to warn us that day in Ctesiphon, told us to turn back before we went into the throne room. Only it was too late; the king’s soldiers blocked the hallways behind us. No. I’m going to help him.” Even as he said it, doubt whispered to him. Is this what Gershom would want him to do?
Walagash looked at him over his steepled hands. “Because you want revenge.”
His tone cut, and a hard knot formed in Myrad’s chest around his grief. “Gershom took me from the street and gave me a name and a life. Musa and Phraates took all of that.”
“And you want to give her your life as well? Come with us, Myrad,” Walagash urged. “Leave revenge and politics behind. Soldiers and kings die. Merchants continue. We don’t take sides, and because of this we are left in peace.”
“I saw him,” Myrad said. “They left him naked in the street.” He swallowed. “I left him there.”
Walagash breathed a sigh lasting a dozen heartbeats. When it ended, he looked to be a smaller man. “I will not help you raid the mint in Hecatompylos. That was never part of our bargain. But this I will do for you. If you make it out of the city with your silver, you may find us on the main trade road heading east. If not there, then search for us in Margiana. You will always be welcome in my tent.”
Nothing further was said, and before long Roshan appeared. Father and son left the tent, speaking in hushed tones. Walagash’s warning about Masista sent him to his pack. He needed a guarantee of safety. He took out his father’s papers, reading through them as best he could until he found the one he sought. This he removed and placed at the bottom of the pack, hidden beneath his spare tunic and trousers. The others he left at the top, undisturbed.
Exhausted, he sought his blanket and then lay down to sleep. His imagination conjured visions of revenge and bloodshed upon Musa and the king, but the thought of leaving Walagash’s caravan opened a hole in his heart his savage imaginings couldn’t fill.
Four days later, Myrad sat atop his horse on the outskirts of Hecatompylos, the summer home for the kings of Parthia and the site of one of the mints. To the east, a thinning cloud of dust marked the departure of Walagash’s caravan. Masista nodded his satisfaction. “The pace of the caravan would only hold us back. Camels are sturdy but slow.”
Myrad counted the number of beasts Masista had purchased. There were at least twenty camels, along with an even greater number of horses.
“Do you understand what you are to do?” Masista asked.
“Yes,” Myrad said, but he couldn’t suppress a thick swallow. Other magi, some he recognized from Ctesiphon, sat on their mounts in company with Masista. All of them wore their crowns and had mustered every soldier and cataphract owing fealty to them they could. To Myrad, they appeared a fearsome company.
Masista gnawed his lower lip every time he looked at them. “Too few,” he said more than once. “But hopefully enough to allay suspicion. It’s a pity we won’t be able to empty the mint completely.”
Just within sight of the towering walls of the city, Masista signaled a pair of soldiers who untied the spare horses and departed east into the desert, leaving the rest of them to continue. As they approached the gates, Myrad tried to look his part. Unlike Ctesiphon, which cowed its visitors with its towering parabolic entrance, Hecatompylos exuded a squat strength. The city encompassed a low rise, its broad walls sketching a rectangular perimeter wide enough for four chariots to ride abreast. As they rode down the main road toward the center of the city, massive temples adorned with dozens of towering columns in Greek fashion passed by them on either side, the largest reserved for the god of the shining fire, the closest the Parthians came to an imperial religion. There, priests tended a blaze that never died so that adherents might come and offer their sacrifices and prayers. Gershom taught Myrad there was only one true God, the Most High, but did He hear the prayers offered to the others?
He thrust those speculations away. If he wanted to live to see his revenge, the task at hand demanded his full attention. They passed through the shadow of the palace. Steps led up to the base, which loomed thirty feet or more above them. The king’s residence s
urmounted the plaza created by a staggering retaining wall. He gaped at the monstrous construction.
“Keep your eyes ahead,” Masista hissed. Around them the other magi, cataphracts, and soldiers paid the palace no mind. Their goal lay deeper into the city. With an effort, Myrad pulled his eyes from the mammoth structure and fixed his stare over the top of his horse.
They came to a building constructed of great blocks of granite, guarded by grim soldiers in heavy mail. Masista rode forward. “Inform the master of the treasury the magus, Masista, is here to see him.”
One of the soldiers disappeared into the shadows of the interior. A moment later, a man with six palm leaves on his circlet came forward. His eyes were mere slits, a consequence perhaps of permanent suspicion. “I am Sadeq,” he said.
“Greetings,” Masista said. The magi pitched his tone to match the treasury master’s expression. Without ceremony, he held the letter of transfer out for inspection. When Sadeq took it, he added, “Katanes begs your pardon for the irregularity.”
Sadeq nodded absently as he read the authorization. Then he looked up. “That’s a lie.”
Myrad’s heart struggled to keep its rhythm. Another dozen or more soldiers appeared from within the treasury to join those at the gate.
“No,” Masista said. “It’s the truth. He did say that, but I don’t think he meant it.”
The hint of a smile ghosted across Sadeq’s mouth. “You know him then. Perhaps you can explain this unscheduled transfer to Seleucia?”
Sweat trickled down Myrad’s back, which had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Yet Masista sat patiently on his horse, a look of unconcern on his face. “Magus Katanes did not deign to tell me, but I assumed it was because Musa has been made queen. It’s rumored King Phraates—may he live forever—has decided to commemorate her elevation by having coins minted with her likeness on them.”
Sadeq’s expression soured. “Doubtless she’ll take a title. Perhaps ‘queen of queens.’” He gazed out over the men and horses gathered before them. The group which seemed so large earlier now seemed pitifully small. “Bring your camels,” Sadeq said at last. “My men will load them.”
Myrad breathed a sigh of relief as they moved into the courtyard of the treasury. Sadeq’s men emerged in a line from the interior of the treasury building, each sweating under the load of a talent of silver. Masista’s men dismounted and loaded each camel with six talents, fastening them together with heavy ropes so that three hung on each side before covering them with thick blankets.
The process took hours. Myrad watched from his position, kept on his horse by his infirmity and his role as scribe for each talent taken from the treasury. By the time they were finished, it was nearly noon and they’d lightened the Parthian treasury of over one hundred talents of silver. Masista ordered the camels in a ponderous circle and began their departure.
“A moment, magus.” Sadeq’s voice cut across the courtyard.
Myrad jerked his horse around and trotted over to the magi. “You can’t leave,” he hissed under his breath.
“Are we discovered?” Masista whispered. Around them, Masista’s men shifted on their horses, casual, but their hands strayed closer to their weapons.
“The receipt,” Myrad said. “Each delivery of metal has to be accounted for by both sender and receiver. Otherwise the men shipping it could take some for themselves.”
Sadeq approached them from the entrance to the treasury, his expression hard.
“You’re sure?” Masista asked.
“Yes.” Myrad schooled his hands to stillness, away from the knife at his belt.
Masista caught the gaze of his men and gave them the slightest shake of his head. Then he dismounted and bowed. “Your pardon, honored Sadeq. I still require the receipt to the master of the mint in Seleucia.”
“Indeed.” Sadeq offered a sheet of parchment with the tally and his seal on it. “Otherwise they might think you’ve kept some of the king’s silver for yourself. If the queen suspected you’d deprived her of the coinage bearing her likeness, she would be . . . displeased.” He favored Masista with a thin smile. “I hear her temper is noteworthy.”
Masista bowed, taking the receipt that validated their theft. “I have seen both it and the consequences of it. You have heard correctly.”
They departed, the camels passing single file through the narrow arch of the treasury. The city spun in Myrad’s vision, and his hands shook on his horse’s reins. They exited the city the way they’d entered, with four cataphracts posted in front and two in back and soldiers filling the space between, their bows strung and a quiver of arrows at the ready. When they rode past the palace, Masista chuckled. “Phraates and Musa will never know their own silver has been used to finance their enemies.”
“They will,” Myrad said. “When the head of the mint fails to send confirmation of receipt of the silver we’ve taken, Sadeq will know he’s been robbed.”
Masista laughed. “Ah, but if he tells anyone, his head is in danger.”
“When,” Myrad said. “The king’s vizier will come to take an accounting and discover the missing silver. That is, unless Sadeq can cover over a hundred talents of silver from his own accounts.”
Masista peered at him, his eyes speculative. “Your aid at the treasury was timely. You’ve struck a great blow against Musa. Now, would you like to strike another?”
The mention of Musa’s name and the image of his father’s death would be inextricably linked forever. One went with the other without fail and always would.
“You have similar letters of authorization for the other mints,” Masista prompted.
Myrad paused to consider the camels, stalling. “Even if our theft isn’t discovered for some time, won’t your absence from Ctesiphon arouse suspicion? The queen, or Katanes, is already looking for me. They will be looking for you now as well.”
Masista smiled as they passed back through the gates of the city to head southeast. “Speed is our friend. If we can outrace word of my departure, we can plunder the other mints before Katanes makes the connection.”
Now Myrad understood. “The horses.”
“Exactly,” Masista said. “Even if they discover we’ve robbed them here at Hecatompylos, they’ll be searching for camels.”
But the theft failed to give Myrad the satisfaction he hoped for. An unexpected shame filled him, as if he’d dishonored Gershom’s memory. “I won’t be going with you. Take the letters. I have a dream I need to understand and a calendar to keep.”
Masista pursed his lips below a flat gaze. “A pity. You would have been useful.”
An hour later, they left the road to make their way into the desert, heading due south toward a solitary mountain. After another hour they met the two men they’d left behind with the horse train. Masista’s soldiers dismounted and began shifting the silver from the camels to the horses, fastening two talents to each horse. When they were done, there were three times as many horses carrying burdens as there had been camels.
“What will you do with the camels?” Myrad asked.
“We have no further use for them,” Masista said. “We’ll put them to the sword here where they won’t be discovered for some time.”
The thought of killing the animals troubled him. “Someone is bound to wonder why there are so many vultures in the air above this place. The tale might reach the city.”
“This far away?” Masista asked. “What then would you suggest?”
“Strip them and set them loose. Any caravan finding them is more likely to take them for their own, and they’ll do so without speaking of it since they won’t want to find the owner.”
“Wisely argued,” Masista laughed. He wheeled his horse and ordered his men to strip the camels and set them free. The animals lumbered away to forage for whatever scrub they could find. “There,” Masista said. “It is done.”
But the magus’s expression mocked him somehow. Shadows from behind fell across Myrad’s vision, and a moment la
ter he heard the whispering hiss of steel against leather. Then a pair of sword points pricked the skin of his back. He didn’t move and kept his hands very still on the reins, terrified his horse might shy and the swords impale him.
“Our race across the desert is long and not without risk,” Masista said. His voice held no tone or timbre that carried threat. “We’re going to need every spare horse. Dismount. Now.”
Myrad kept his voice even. “If not for my advice, you would have been discovered at the treasury.”
“And for that you have my thanks,” Masista replied. “And your life. But the time for subterfuge has passed. Are you a cataphract? Have you been raised to the bow and the sword since you were a boy? A broken pot may be useful for a time, but when its usefulness has passed, it must be discarded.”
The threat of the swords remained. Masista’s expression, though neutral, gave no hint he might be open to further bargaining. They’d already bargained, and Myrad had surrendered everything of value he owned. He’d even shown Masista how to escape detection at the mint. Here at the moment when he’d begun to fulfill his vow to avenge his father, Masista’s betrayal would kill him.
Sliding to the ground, away from the swords of Masista’s soldiers, Myrad managed to grab his sack of spare clothes before one of the soldiers seized his horse and led it away from him.
“You promised me vengeance,” he said.
Masista’s wide-eyed gaze mocked him. “And you’ve achieved it. By surrendering your horse, you’ve helped to ensure it.” He dismounted and closed the distance between them until their faces were inches apart. Then Masista leaned over and took Myrad’s bag from him. “And you will continue to ensure it.” He opened the sack and took Gershom’s papers that lay on top, then tossed the bag back to Myrad as he remounted.
The End of the Magi Page 9