The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  After eight draws, three of the magi had been chosen to take the journey west to Israel: Yehudah, Hakam, and Dov.

  With a smile, Yehudah took the bowl from him and gestured to Harel, who handed Myrad the sash.

  He gaped at them. “You’re asking me to draw? But the dream came first to me.”

  Dov reached to squeeze his shoulder. “If the Most High wants you to journey to Judea, then nothing can keep you from drawing the aleph stone.”

  That they would give him one chance in eight of following the dream he shared with Gershom galled him. “I will draw, but regardless of the outcome, I will go to Judea.”

  “Will you be like Jonah?” Yehudah asked, his eyes smiling.

  Hakam set his jaw. “This is why we shouldn’t bring foreigners into our midst.”

  Stung, Myrad tied the sash around his eyes. The stones were dropped into the bowl, rattling against each other. Despite his vow, if he could not journey to Israel in the company of these magi, how would he get there? He didn’t have the money or resources to make the trek on his own. Swathed in darkness, he plunged his hand inside the bowl, the stones shifting and sliding against his fingers. When they settled, he pulled one out.

  Hiding it in his fist so he would be the first to see it, he ripped the sash from his eyes and opened his hand. There, black against his skin was the aleph stone.

  “Greetings, Yehudah.”

  The magi started, and Myrad spun around at the familiar voice. When he saw the speaker, spots discolored his vision and he clutched for his knife.

  But Yehudah only blinked once, slowly. “Masista.”

  The man who’d left him to die stepped into the room and paused to give Myrad a slight bow. “It pleases me to find you alive. I hoped you would make it out of the desert.”

  His rage deepened, casting the room in shades of crimson. “If you wanted me to live, you wouldn’t have taken my horse.” He clenched his fists at his sides. “The horse was mine, purchased with my father’s money. You’re not a magus, you’re a thief!”

  His insult affected Masista as much as if he’d remarked on the weather. “Your anger is understandable but misplaced. A single horse can carry enough weight in silver to purchase a hundred soldiers for a time. You said you wanted revenge. I merely worked to see you get it. Don’t blame me for not using methods of your choosing. However, if it helps salve your pride, I did come to regret leaving you behind.” He shrugged. “At the time, I didn’t think your extra weight was worth the sacrifice of a horse. I see now I was wrong.”

  “How did you find us?” Hakam asked.

  Masista smiled as he dipped his head in Myrad’s direction. “Gershom left more than one letter of transfer with his son, but at Nisa I discovered the letter for that mint was gone. Thinking it lost in the desert with this apprentice, I went on about my business in the east. But lo! When I visited the gold merchant here in Margiana to exchange my silver for gold, I was told I would have to go to another banker. Mysteriously, she was unable to fulfill my request.” He laughed. “You’ve left a trail anyone could follow, Yehudah. Tell me, are you still waiting for your Messiah?”

  “Are you still conniving for power?”

  Masista grinned. “What else is there?”

  “I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand the answer to that,” Yehudah said. “Now, what is it you want?”

  Masista held out his hands, palms up, as if the answer were obvious. “I want to force Phraates and Musa from the throne. The Romans have their empire. Let them be satisfied with it. The western satrapies have fallen too far under their influence. It’s time to restore the line of Orodes. He’s here in Margiana, for a time.”

  The magi around the table stiffened, but Yehudah merely nodded. “I would imagine he would be very grateful to those who helped him secure the empire.”

  “My point exactly,” Masista said. “Every sword I can put at Phraates’s throat is a debt the next king will owe me. Surely you don’t believe surrendering to the Romans is in your interests? They take pleasure in what they destroy. What have they done to the land of your God? Tell me, Yehudah, how does Judea fare?”

  The planes of Yehudah’s face hardened to stone. “If you think I’m going to surrender the Messiah’s gifts to help you purchase swords, you’re mistaken.”

  “I have enough men to take them from you if needed.”

  “Perhaps, but not enough to keep them. Margiana is the largest trading center in the empire. It is crawling with soldiers whose job it is to prevent what you wish to do. This is no petty theft. If word gets out a merchant’s goods are unsafe, trade here will collapse. Kings need trade, Masista. All kings.”

  “There’s a war coming. Believe me, if Orodes decides he needs your gold for soldiers, he’ll have it.”

  For a long moment, the two men stared at each other, and although the muscles around Yehudah’s jaw bunched, he said nothing.

  Masista’s outburst of laughter broke the tension. “There’s no need for such harsh words, old friend. I have no desire to keep you from your quest. In fact, Orodes wishes to send one of the magi loyal to him with you . . . along with cataphracts to help you guard your gifts.”

  “Your offer is generous, but we have no need at this point for additional magi or soldiers.”

  Masista stepped over to the table to pour himself a cup of wine. He paused to sniff it before taking a lingering taste. “It wasn’t an offer, my friend. Your route will take you back through the heart of the empire where a single whisper in the wrong ear will bring the masters of the treasury crashing down upon you. I’m sure they’d be eager to renew your acquaintance.” He set down his cup with a frown. “Pity. It’s a bit stale. My men will join you in the morning. If you try to leave without them, I’ll send word to the treasury masters in Nisa and Hecatompylos, letting them know where to find you.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he stalked from the room, his cataphracts trailing behind him.

  “They’ll kill us as soon as we leave Margiana,” Dov said.

  “Perhaps not,” Hakam said. “A magus is forbidden to lie.”

  “You believe him?” Myrad was shocked that anyone would trust Masista. “I wanted revenge for my father’s murder. He told me he wanted that as much as I did, yet that didn’t keep him from leaving me for dead in the desert.”

  Shimon, the oldest of the magi, held up a forefinger. “That he wants the quest to succeed is not the same as promising your protection.”

  “We could hire additional guards,” Eliar said.

  “Orodes’s magi could buy their loyalty,” Harel said.

  “Then we need allies, not guards,” Ronen added.

  “I might be able to find some.” The group of magi shifted as one to look at Myrad. “I think Walagash is here in Margiana.”

  “How do you know he’s headed in the same direction we are?” Yehudah asked.

  “Esai promised him a trial run from here to Palmyra.”

  Mikhael sipped his wine. “The idea has merit. The merchant would take strong exception to anyone who put his caravan in danger.”

  “Too slow,” said Yehudah. “The King’s star has hung in the sky for weeks now. Do we want to burden ourselves with camels?”

  Dov lifted a hand. “Sure is better than fast.”

  “Walagash isn’t using camels anymore,” Myrad said. “He sold them all in Hecatompylos to buy horses.”

  This seemed to finally satisfy Yehudah. Their leader moved toward the door. “Come, Myrad. Let us seek out this merchant.” He put his hand on Myrad’s chest. “But allow me to negotiate. You have a tendency to be a bit zealous with your honesty.”

  CHAPTER 16

  They exited the inn and circled around to the southern part of the city where the silk merchants made their camps. Big as Margiana was, Myrad again underestimated its size, and by the time they arrived, his aching foot slowed their progress to a crawl, even with the use of his crutch. They passed one tent after another, whose entrances were flanked by guards a
nd torches in equal measure. When Myrad remarked on this, Yehudah nodded as if he expected no less.

  “Trade is the lifeblood of the Parthian Empire, and the silk trade is the cornerstone on which it’s built,” the magus said. “The wealthy of the world hunger for it and are willing to pay handsomely. Silk merchants aren’t just people who trade in a certain good, they’re the nobility of merchants. Others curry their favor, and the wealth they accumulate gives them great leverage.” His arm swept before them. “You may not see any palaces in Margiana, but you’re walking among some of the wealthiest people in the world.”

  Now Myrad understood. When he’d secured Walagash a chance at entering the silk trade, he’d effectively elevated the man to the highest plane a merchant could desire. No wonder he’d offered Myrad a place in his tent. “I was a fool.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until Yehudah answered him.

  “How so?”

  “Walagash offered to bring me into his tent for helping him secure a place in the silk trade. I lost a father and God immediately provided me a friend.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And I threw that aside for a chance at vengeance, manipulated by Masista’s worthless promises.”

  They continued on. Most of the tents they passed were quiet, holding about themselves a sense of emptiness. Perhaps the pain of his journey clouded his recollections, but he remembered Walagash’s tent having more life.

  “Over there,” Yehudah said. “I see a tent with red-and-white stripes.”

  As they came closer, Myrad heard music and laughter coming from within the large tent. When they entered the pool of light cast by torches by its entrance, he saw Aban and Storana standing guard on either side. The couple took turns peering inside, entertained by what they saw there.

  Aban was the first to recognize him.

  “Myrad!” The soldier smiled. “It is good to see you alive.”

  Storana turned from the interior to regard him. “The touch of your God must be on you,” she said, serious as ever.

  “Aban. Storana. It’s good to see you again as well.” Myrad gestured to the tent. “May we see Walagash?”

  Aban’s expression became wry, as though he harbored some jest he wished to share. “Abide a moment and let me tell him you are here.” He disappeared into the tent.

  A moment later, a roar exploded from the interior just before Walagash burst into view. “Myrad!” He lunged forward and pulled him into an embrace, threatening to crack his ribs. “Come. Come. Bring your friend.” He laughed. “I can’t explain it, but your God has seen fit to bring you to my tent at the perfect time.” He held Myrad at arm’s length, his gaze settling on his sunburned face. “The mark of the desert is upon you. Come, tonight we celebrate my entry into the silk trade. And more.”

  They stepped into the warmth and light of a dozen braziers. Rich carpets covered the floor of the entire tent, and wines and cups covered a number of low tables surrounded by deep cushions. Aromatic smoke from water pipes filled the air with earthy scents of clove and cinnamon while musicians played the lyre and tambour. The center of the tent had been cleared, though no one was dancing.

  Walagash led Myrad by the arm to a table at the edge of the clearing. A hundred or more stares from men and women in shimmering silks followed them, and conversations stilled. “Here,” Walagash said.

  Yehudah, obviously more comfortable with their circumstances than he was, dropped to a reclining position on the pillows with the grace of a dancer. But when Myrad moved to follow, Walagash held him upright. “My esteemed colleagues,” he said in a voice that filled the ample tent, “this is the man I told you about, the one who traded on my behalf so that I might join your exalted company. This is Myrad ben Gershom.”

  To one side, a man stood, his hands raised high in a sign of blessing, and Myrad turned to see Esai looking at him, his eyes welling above his smile.

  Across the clearing a dark-haired merchant with chiseled features stolen from a sculpture of Apollo pulled a pipe from his mouth and smiled. “From your description, Walagash, I expected him to be a giant.”

  Walagash’s brows rose. “Is he not, honored Dariush? Do not judge by appearances, my brothers.” He tapped Myrad’s chest. “There is courage enough here for a whole pride of lions.”

  The merchants clapped their approval while Myrad’s face flamed to match the braziers. “I need to speak with you, Walagash,” he said amid the applause. “About business.”

  “Tonight, business must wait,” Walagash replied. “Thanks to you I have the chance to enter the silk trade. In the morning I will be leaving for Palmyra.” He grinned as he squeezed Myrad’s shoulder. “I hope you can come with us.”

  “Walagash!” several of the men in the tent called.

  The newest silk merchant of the empire turned to face his guests. “But these are concerns for another day. Please, rest with your friend.”

  Myrad lowered himself to the cushions, resigned to wait out the celebration.

  “Enough,” Dariush called. “Where is this desert flower you’ve promised?”

  Walagash laughed, his face beaming. “Honored guests, tonight we celebrate my daughter’s naming day.”

  Myrad started. Daughter? He hadn’t seen any women in Walagash’s tent during their journey together.

  Walagash clapped with a sound like thunder, and the musicians on the lyre and the tambour struck a tune with a lilting, rhythmic beat. From the far side of the tent, a young woman appeared, dressed in beautiful silks and veiled so that only her dark brown eyes showed. Thick, black hair ran halfway down her back and matched the texture of her garments. Her feet were bare, but she wore anklets that rang out in time to the music. She gazed over the crowd, her eyes challenging each man there, yet they passed over Yehudah and Myrad without notice.

  She bounded into the cleared space at the center as the pace of the music doubled. The shimmering silks flowed through the air like a waterfall as Walagash’s daughter spun and leaped in counterpoint to the beat. Myrad was entranced by the sight as the young woman’s arms and hands created tales without words. For several moments, all those in the tent reveled in the music and the tinkling of her anklets, watching her dance with rapt attention. Then the music entered its coda and the dance ended with her standing still in the center, her head held high, challenging.

  Everyone cheered and raised their cups in salute.

  “There, my fellows!” Walagash said. “Is she not a worthy bride?”

  Myrad spluttered, spilling his wine. Wiping his face, he saw Walagash escort his daughter to the table where Dariush waited.

  “Walagash has given you quite an honor,” Yehudah said, then took a sip of wine. “Surrounded by the richest merchants in the empire, he’s giving you the chance to bid for his daughter’s hand.”

  Myrad choked again, clumsily setting his cup down. “Did you say bid?”

  Yehudah nodded and pointed at the other tables at the edge of the clearing. “That’s why he offered you a seat here in front, so you could watch his daughter dance.” He took in Myrad’s confusion with raised brows. “I told you the silk merchants were practically nobles, did I not? They marry among themselves to strengthen their position and to keep from diluting the trade. You didn’t know this?”

  He shook his head slowly, helpless. “What could I possibly offer Walagash for his daughter?”

  Yehudah laughed. “The customs of the Parthians are not those of the Hebrews. Women choose their own husbands. It’s not Walagash you’re bargaining with, it’s her. What does she want?”

  Myrad craned his neck, his gaze following her. “I don’t even know her—”

  At that moment, Walagash’s daughter removed her veil to speak with Dariush.

  Something must have happened to the air in the tent. Myrad couldn’t seem to breathe. “Roshan?” he rasped.

  She turned, her hair flowing, then laughed a split second later at the recognition in his eyes.

  “So you do know her,” Yehudah said.

 
; He didn’t remember sitting down, but an instant later he was staring up at Roshan and Dariush across the tent. “I thought she was a boy.”

  Yehudah smiled at his discomfort. “It’s not uncommon for young merchant women to pass themselves off as boys. It avoids certain problems on the road, though it’s quite embarrassing if they are found out. The Romans in particular don’t afford their women the standing Parthians do.”

  He watched, dazed, as Roshan made her way around the circle, stopping to speak with each merchant, hearing their offers. Though she smiled and nodded as each man presented his case, her posture remained neutral, noncommittal. Myrad drew a deep breath of scented air, which did nothing to clear his head.

  Roshan was not a boy, but a girl. A woman.

  The same “boy” who’d mocked him, who’d massaged his foot and ankle with camphor oil and given him poppy tea for his pain. A dozen confusing memories from their time together on the road resolved into clarity. His head hurt.

  He looked at her, dressed in the silks Walagash had purchased from Esai, her hair framing her face, and he admitted she was more than mildly attractive. He searched the tent for Walagash, his head swiveling, before he spotted him at the entrance. Stumbling with shock, he made his way there.

  “Walagash, we need to talk.”

  Walagash put a hand weighing half a talent on his shoulder. “Later. Do you not wish to bid for Roshan’s hand?”

  “Even if I wanted to marry, what could I offer her that would compare with the richest men in the empire?”

  Walagash smiled. “What did you offer Esai?”

  Laughter spilled from him. “I don’t have another Torah, and I don’t think that is what she’d most desire.”

  The merchant stroked his chin as if Myrad’s helplessness were some deep wisdom. Why did everyone seem to find his ignorance amusing? “True. Do you find the prospect of marriage unpleasant?”

  “I’ve never considered it. Gershom told me he would pick a wife for me when the time was right.”