The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  At first, Myrad thought the magus had mocked him and his clubfoot, but there was no trace of humor or derision in his expression. He’d merely stated a fact. “You would leave footprints as evidence of your existence.”

  Dov nodded as if Myrad made his point for him. “And the star has too. You can see it, but it is beyond your reach. You can’t touch it, but you see the evidence of its existence in our shared experience.”

  “But anyone can see you,” he protested. “Roshan can’t see the star.”

  Undeterred, Dov went on. “Tell me, can everyone see the sun?”

  “Unless they’re blind, yes.” He saw where Dov wanted to lead him, yet he refused to follow.

  The magus’s intended explanation failed to satisfy him. “But even a blind man can feel its warmth.”

  “The warmth he feels could be from the sun or a fire. I . . .” He stopped. There would be no answers.

  Dov sighed. “Stop dressing your fear in logic and arguments that don’t mean anything. What is it that troubles you so?”

  “It frightens me,” Myrad confessed, “Roshan not seeing the star. She’s my betrothed.”

  “For some reason, God has seen fit to reveal the King’s star to us but not to others. We don’t know if the star is real. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Whether it’s a figment God has planted within our minds, or He’s blinded everyone else from seeing it, the end result is the same, is it not? He’s communicated His message. It may be that everything we consider real is nothing but an image in the mind of God anyway.”

  “That we can see the star is no credit to us,” Yehudah added. “And the fact Roshan can’t see it doesn’t mean there is anything unfit in your betrothed or God has found her lacking.” He paused and smiled. “Of course, you could always ask Him for an explanation.” Dov nodded his agreement.

  “Now you are mocking me,” Myrad said.

  Yehudah’s smile broadened. “Only a little. I still ask God for explanations of what I don’t understand. I’ll let you know if He ever gives me one.”

  Myrad spent his days in the company of Aban and Storana, riding close to Roshan, hoping by proximity to subdue his doubts. He occupied himself with the bow. After several weeks and much practice, he could now pull the string all the way to his cheek. The ache in his shoulders and back he thought would be permanent additions to the one in his foot had subsided at last, and Aban set him to drawing with a nocked arrow. But not firing.

  “Pull the bowstring back,” Aban instructed, “until you can feel the point where the draw comes easier. Then hold the arrow steady on your target for a count of two, then release the tension.”

  “When do I get to shoot?”

  “When your draw becomes as fluid as wine and as quick as a hare.”

  He sighed and pulled again.

  “Patience,” Aban said. “You’ll shoot when I think you’re ready.” The natural tilt of his eyes, the telltale sign of his Parthian heritage, gave his gaze a permanent squint. Now it swept across the landscape. “I think this will do. Leave your bow with Storana and come with me.”

  Encouraged by Aban’s strange invitation, he surrendered the weapon and followed the guard out across an empty section of desert. “If you want to master the Parthian shot, you’ll first have to learn how to ride.”

  The image of Aban and Storana flying across the desert on their horses came to his mind, the horses’ manes waving in the wind, the pair shooting like earthly embodiments of Artemis and Apollo. “Shouldn’t I have my bow with me?”

  Aban nodded. “Yes, if you want to fall and break your neck. That would definitely speed up your training. I told you the Parthian shot takes years to master. Nothing’s changed.”

  “What do we do first?” he asked.

  Aban gestured to his horse. “Your mount isn’t of Nisean stock, but it’s a good, serviceable horse. You have to learn how to guide it with just your legs. Now, let go of the reins and close your eyes.”

  Myrad did so, and Areion continued to walk, guided by the horse walking next to him. “Now,” Aban continued, “with your eyes closed, I want you to concentrate on the pressure between the inside of your legs and your horse. Curl your legs so that you have as much contact as possible.”

  He could feel Areion’s steady breathing through the inside of his thighs, a gentle force of the animal’s ribs pushing against Myrad’s legs with each breath it drew.

  Aban’s voice mixed with the whispers of the desert. “Feel the rhythm of your horse’s stride. When I tell you, turn your shoulders to the left and let your hips follow.” Aban waited a moment, perhaps two, while Myrad rocked back and forth with his horse’s stride. “Now.”

  Myrad shifted on his riding blanket and opened his eyes to find himself angling away from the caravan. Aban paralleled him, his reins loose on the back of his mount.

  Though it was a small triumph, it still brought a smile to Myrad’s face.

  Something in Aban’s expression warned him. “Now for the rest.” And for the next two hours he taught Myrad the techniques for making Areion speed up, slow down, and stop, but Aban always stopped short of letting Myrad push his horse to a gallop. Bringing his mount to a complete stop without using the reins proved the most challenging.

  “You’ll have to use the reins and the same vocal command along with the pressure from your legs until your mount understands your intention,” Aban said. “It will take a while.”

  “How do I get him to run?” Myrad asked.

  The guard shook his head. “You don’t want him to run. Not for weeks, maybe months.” Aban must have seen the disappointment on his face. “You’re training your horse to react to the pressure from your legs. At a full gallop, an unintentional squeeze will send your horse veering into a turn sure to pitch you to the ground. At that speed you could split your head open on a rock or break your neck. You are just now learning your horse in earnest. Be content and continue to draw your bow.”

  Myrad nodded. “I’ll try.”

  Aban’s dark brows came together over his prominent nose. “You’re one of the magi, the kingmakers of the empire. Why is this so important to you?”

  Myrad hesitated a long moment before he replied. “When I’m up here,” he said at last, patting Areion’s neck, “I don’t have a clubfoot. I’m like any other man.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The rhythm of Myrad’s days became defined by his efforts to master the horse and the bow. His progress in both areas pained him, coming as it did in small increments, and not even Roshan’s unfailing encouragement cheered him. At the oases, news of war and fighting came to them, and Walagash made it a practice to send guards out to scout the road ahead and behind. The caravan skirted south of Nisa and began the leg back toward Hecatompylos. The magi, even Masista, took to scouring the horizons for the telltale clouds of dust that would preface an attack.

  At an oasis eight days east of Hecatompylos, Storana beckoned to him. Aban and Roshan flanked her. “Bring your bow. We’re going to teach you how to shoot.”

  They walked their horses out to the edge of the oasis until they came upon a date tree growing in seclusion, its serrated trunk and fronds solitary against the backdrop of earth and sand. Storana pulled a scrap of red cloth from inside her tunic and wedged it into a crack head-high between the sections of the trunk. Facing away from the tree, she stepped off fifteen paces. Without hesitating, she nocked, drew, and fired. The arrow flew through the air with a hiss and struck the lower right corner of the cloth with an audible thunk. The shaft of the arrow vibrated for an instant before it stilled.

  Aban smiled at his wife’s skill and held an arrow out to Myrad. “Now you.”

  His hand trembled as he took the arrow. He missed the nock with the bowstring and tried to ignore the way Storana hung her head. On the second try he managed to get it onto the string. Hooking his thumb with the draw ring around the string, he pulled it back almost to his ear just as Aban had shown him. After many weeks of practice, his arms hardly shook. Tak
ing aim, he let the arrow fly.

  He watched as the shaft flew wide and high of the cloth, missing the tree entirely. His face heated as the two guards pursed their lips.

  “Actually, that wasn’t too bad,” Roshan said.

  “No,” Storana added. “Considering he has no idea what he’s doing.”

  Aban sighed. “Storana is the best shot in the caravan. She believes mastery of the bow is the loftiest goal of a man or woman.”

  “And I’m right,” Storana said. She stepped in and took Myrad’s bow. “Everything you’ve seen of archers standing on the ground you have to forget. Those techniques won’t work on horseback. From the moment you reach for an arrow to the moment you let it fly, every movement has to take into consideration you’re moving on horseback.” Her eyes grew wide. “And we haven’t even started on the Parthian shot. Keeping your horse running straight while you turn and fire at a target behind you is a skill unto itself.”

  For the next hour, Storana and Aban took every movement from taking an arrow from the quiver to firing and retaught them to Myrad. Each time he asked why, they gave the same answer: “Because you’re going to be on your horse.” In that entire time, he failed to hit Aban’s red cloth and managed to hit the tree trunk a single time with a glancing blow that sent his arrow careening off to the right.

  As they gathered the arrows by the last light of day, Aban queried him again. “Why is this so important to you?”

  Myrad glanced back at Roshan, where she scanned the ground a dozen paces away. His shots covered a wide expanse.

  The guard smiled, accentuating the tilt to his eyes. “It has something to do with Roshan?”

  “And Walagash. When he and Roshan look at me, they see a lie of their own making. Walagash brought me into his tent because I gave him the desire of his heart.” He laughed a little at the memory. “He thought I was being generous. I wasn’t. Musa’s men were hunting me. Without the caravan to conceal myself, I would have been killed within a day. What value does a Torah have to a dead man? Now, whenever he looks at me, he sees the man who gave him the desire of his heart.”

  Aban nodded. “Walagash is quick to see the best in men, but he’s quick to see the worst as well. Either way, he’s rarely in error. What about Roshan?”

  Myrad sighed. He didn’t want to tell the story, but he wanted even less to carry the weight of the secret. “When the caravan was attacked, I stayed at the rear. Then that bandit went for Storana, and Roshan followed. I understood everything that was happening. He was less than ten paces away when I threw Roshan’s sword at him. Nobody could have missed that target except for me. The bandit smiled as he drew, and all the time I was screaming inside to turn aside or duck. Instead I just stayed there, not doing anything, too afraid to move.”

  “Ah,” Aban said. “And Roshan thought you were being brave.”

  Myrad nodded. “Foolish but brave. When she looks at me, I see the man I want to be reflected in her eyes. I’d like to live up to that image . . . someday.”

  “It may be that Walagash and Roshan know you better than you realize,” Aban said. “Come, let us finish gathering the arrows. I’m hungry, and food awaits.”

  A week later, they reached the last oasis before coming to the summer capital of Hecatompylos. As date palms and acacia trees resolved out of the shimmering heat of day, Myrad saw throngs of merchants and camel trains lining the watering station, the grounds filled with men and animals like so many crawling insects. The men working the water pumps sweated and strained to keep up with the demand. Not a single space stood empty, with merchant masters cursing and barking orders, and guards shouting for more water. Despite the chaos all around him, the impression of something missing nagged at Myrad. He searched for what that could be, but it eluded him.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Myrad asked Roshan.

  Her eyes darted over the chaotic scene. “No.”

  Walagash’s bellow came from the middle of the caravan, calling for Roshan, Aban, and Storana. Riding his mount, Myrad followed her.

  The merchant surveyed the oasis. “Roshan, go talk to the merchants. Aban and Storana, talk to the guards and soldiers. Find the cause of this.” He turned to address the rest of the caravan. “None of those merchants are staying the night, not even the ones with camels, despite that they have no hope of making it to the next oasis before dark.”

  “How do you know this?” Hakam asked.

  “Tents,” Walagash said. “The oasis is overflowing, but no one’s putting up a tent.”

  Myrad dug his heels in to bring his horse to a canter, quickly catching up to Roshan.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. Her eyes were sharp beneath the turban hiding her hair, and a heavy plain cloak covered her fine linen.

  “I’m going with my betrothed.”

  The answer surprised her enough to make her eyes widen, but whatever she felt after that remained hidden behind their deep brown. “You’re out of place. You should stay with the other magi.”

  He laughed. “My clothes are covered with the dust of the desert, and my bow is strung and ready. The sun has burned me so that my skin is nearly as dark as your eyes. I couldn’t look less like a magus if I’d tried.”

  She gave him a grudging nod. “Stay on your horse so they don’t see your foot.”

  A month or even a few weeks earlier, he would have taken offense at the remark. Now it just seemed like sound advice. This close to Hecatompylos and the king’s mint, they couldn’t afford to have him recognized.

  Roshan led them toward the main watering trough, leading her horse between a pair of camels toward a merchant dressed in purple and black. “What’s happened?” she asked him.

  The merchant ignored her and pivoted to continue yelling orders without effect. Roshan reached down from her horse to grasp the merchant’s arm. Startled, he wheeled, grabbing the hand on his shoulder and clutching his knife with the other. Caught off guard, Roshan pitched from atop her horse and fell against him, knocking her turban to one side.

  Her long black hair spilled loose. She reached up, straining to push her hair back under the turban, but the merchant still gripped her arm. “You’re a long way from home, girl.” Something hot awoke in his eyes.

  Weeks of training set Myrad’s hands in motion. Between one heartbeat and the next, he sat with an arrow nocked and drawn, its point trained on the merchant’s heart. “Let her go.”

  The merchant’s smile became a snarl. “What do you care? Only one type of woman puts her hands on a man.”

  “She’s not that type. You’ve made the mistake of putting your hands on the only daughter of a silk merchant. We want information and that is all. If we can’t get it from you, we’ll get it from someone else. Someone breathing.” He pulled back the bowstring a little farther.

  The man threw Roshan to the dirt. Myrad let the tension in his bow go slack but kept the arrow nocked. If the merchant decided to charge, he could shoot him before he took a second step. He gestured to the crowd and chaos with his arrow. “What’s happened?”

  “Phraates is dead,” the merchant said. “Some say from poisoning, others from a dagger stroke, but they all agree on who did it.”

  “Who?”

  “Musa.” The merchant leaned to one side and spat. “Phraates was a fool. His death suits him. Still, his passing will be mourned, even if few people celebrated his life.”

  “Why’s that?” Myrad asked.

  The merchant scowled. “Are you simple? Musa and her son, Phraataces, reign in Parthia now. Her soldiers are sweeping the city. All it takes is the wrong word in the right ear and you’re taken to the palace courtyard and killed. If you’re lucky they put the sword to you. No one can say the Romans lack imagination when it comes to executing their enemies.”

  “What about the magi?” Myrad asked. As the merchant’s brows rose in surprise, he regretted the question. “My father has friends among the king’s counselors,” he was quick to add.

 
“I don’t know,” the merchant replied. “And no one with any sense will say what they know either. They’re too busy trying to escape.”

  Roshan pulled him away, and the merchant went back to tending his horse. But when Myrad looked back, the man was staring at him. “I think I’ve made a mistake. That merchant suspects I’m a magus.”

  She nodded. “The merchant has to find someone willing to pay for the information, and they’re most likely still in the city. His fear should keep us safe. We need to let my father know there’s trouble coming.”

  They returned to Walagash and the magi. Myrad expected an outburst from the merchant at hearing the news, but instead Walagash stood by his mount calmly, a mountain in repose. “How much daylight remains?” he asked Roshan.

  She peered west, extended her arms, and spread her hands. She counted the number of hands up from the horizon until her topmost hand touched the sun. “Three hours.”

  Aban and Storana approached at a trot, their expressions grim.

  “How bad is it?” Walagash asked.

  “Bad enough,” Aban said. “For now, Phraataces still has the loyalty of his father’s clan. Musa is using that to ensure no one from the family of Orodes is left alive to make a bid for the throne. She seems particularly eager to put her hands on the prince of Hyrcania.”

  “It’s not as bad as having Phraates die without an heir,” Storana said, “but it doesn’t miss it by much. Anyone with a political score to settle is trying to make the most of the opportunity.”

  Yehudah sighed. “Caesar’s plan has been fulfilled at last. A Roman sits upon the throne in Parthia.” Dov nodded as Hakam and Masista growled curses.

  Myrad couldn’t see what difference the death of Phraates could make. If civil war had already come to the Parthian Empire, what further impact could Phraates’s death have on it?

  “So,” Walagash said, “not a safe environment for buying or selling.”