The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  Masista gestured to the men arrayed before the king, a small number compared to the guards surrounding them. “Surely Your Majesty cannot mean these caravan guards.”

  Tigranes thrust his weak chin forward. “I know cataphracts when I see them. You’ve brought threats into my throne room. You are ever crafty, Masista. My kingdom is caught between the might of Rome and Parthia. You may be here to assassinate me. Why should I trust you?”

  Masista bowed once more, then straightened. “The conflict between Rome and Parthia is the very reason we are here, Your Majesty. We seek passage to the Roman Empire.” He swept his arm in an arc encompassing Yehudah, Hakam, and Myrad. “These three magi have received a dream from their God of a king arising in Israel.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  Queen Erato reached across the narrow space between the two thrones to lay her hand on the arm of her husband. “Hear them, brother. Any offer of aid is welcome.”

  He jerked his arm away from the sister-queen’s touch and glared at her. “Can they offer anyone whose word I can trust?” Before she could answer, the king shook his head. “No. The world is filled with traitors. I know none of these men.” His gaze darted around the throne room, fear in his expression, before it came to rest on his lap. The queen called his name softly, but Tigranes appeared incapable of hearing her.

  She straightened on her throne and surveyed the men before her. “Speak to me of this king in Israel,” she ordered. “I will hear you while the king ponders your case. Leave nothing out.”

  Yehudah stepped forward and related their tale, taking time to emphasize the slaughter of the magi and Myrad’s escape. At the end, Erato nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Is this Myrad among you?”

  “He is.” Yehudah signaled Myrad forward.

  When he moved forward, the queen’s eyes slid from his face to focus on his feet. “Why do you walk that way?” she asked.

  His face flushed as the entire populace of the throne room followed the queen’s gaze. “My right foot is crippled, twisted since birth.”

  The queen’s gaze softened, looking on Myrad with a certain kinship. “Are you of the royal line then?”

  Myrad stifled a laugh, not knowing how it might be interpreted. But he couldn’t help but smile. “No, my queen. I know only my mother, a poor merchant in Ctesiphon.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Why give an honest answer when a lie would have served you better?”

  “When my father brought me into the magi, my queen, he stressed the importance of our creed to tell the truth always.”

  The deep brown of Erato’s eyes took on a distant look. “Would that kings and queens had such luxury.” She glanced at Tigranes, who still mumbled to himself in his seat, unaware of their conversation. “The king’s foot is also deformed, and his mind has aged before its time. His clearest memories are those of years ago.”

  “Can you grant us passage to the Roman border, Your Majesty?” Yehudah asked. Sensing his interview with the queen to be finished, Myrad stepped back to stand next to Aban.

  Erato shook her head. “I will not presume on the king’s indisposition.”

  “Is there any way to gain his confidence?” Masista asked.

  “Only if there is one among you he knows from his youth.”

  On Aban’s far side, Storana turned to regard her husband, obviously waiting. After a long moment, he sighed and stepped forward. “May I speak to the king, Your Majesty?”

  The queen took in his plain clothing, dusty and worn, at a glance. “The king knows you?”

  Aban bowed from the neck. “Perhaps. Our encounter was brief and long ago.”

  The hint of a smile brightened the queen’s eyes. “A mystery then. Remove your weapons and approach.”

  Aban left his sword and dagger in Storana’s hands and ascended the dais, where the king continued to murmur against unseen threats. “Tigranes, it is done.”

  The king’s stream of nonsense syllables stopped, and his eyes flicked back and forth, searching. “Who speaks? What is done?”

  Aban cleared his throat. “It is as King Artavasdes and King Phraates agreed. Marcus Antonius’s baggage train is destroyed. The Romans will have no choice but to withdraw.”

  The distraction cleared from the king’s demeanor, sharpening into something too close to anger for Myrad’s comfort. “Artavasdes will blame me for our retreat,” Tigranes said, “though the deception was his idea.” His face twisted into a snarl. “And Phraates will crown you with glory for the victory our retreat hands you.”

  “The Parthians do not crown our heroes as they do in Rome. You remember Surena, do you not?”

  The king’s expression softened. “Ah. The only thing that threatens a king more than failure is succeeding too well.” Tigranes straightened and looked around the throne room as if becoming aware of it for the first time. When his gaze fell on Aban, he squinted, peering at him. He lifted one hand, making gestures in the air as if he were smoothing away the wrinkles on Aban’s face. “Bahram?”

  “My name is Aban now, Your Majesty, as it has been since Marcus Antonius retreated from our lands.”

  “You pressed for speed against the Romans,” Tigranes said. “Advice Phraates ignored. The only thing worse than disagreeing with the king is being right when you do it.” His eyes lowered to take in Aban’s clothes. “You became a common horseman.”

  “It was necessary to blend in with the tribes north of the Hyrcanian Sea.” Aban glanced at Storana and flashed her a smile. “I would hesitate to call them common. And you became a king.”

  “I did,” Tigranes said. “What is it you need?”

  “Passage through Armenia and into the Roman Empire,” Aban said. “Nothing more.”

  The king waved a hand toward the captain of his guard. “Done. The gods dealt unfairly with you, Bahram. Your destiny should have been a better one.”

  Aban shrugged. “It’s been a good life, Your Majesty. I have many friends, and the worries of armies and empires are no longer my concern.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Myrad stared across the expanse of the Euphrates, remembering a time months ago when he almost boarded a ship to let the river take him far away from Ctesiphon and so escape his past. The idea still held some appeal.

  “It’s beautiful,” Yehudah said. They’d risen together early that morning, Hakam scowling at them both, to pray to the Most High God and to keep the calendar. “To cross the Euphrates is to cross from the east into the west, from the lands of Qian, Khushan, and Parthia into the Roman Empire.”

  “What is it like?”

  Yehudah shook his head. “I don’t know that my putting the experience into words will help you.”

  The magus’s answer surprised him. “But most of what we learn is by reading or hearing from others.”

  With a smile, he said, “Knowing of a thing and knowing the thing are very different. Many people know of the Most High God. The Hebrews have been scattered across the world by conquest like the wind sowing drifting seeds of grass. Whatever foreign soil we’ve fallen upon, there we’ve taken root, bringing the knowledge of the Most High to those around us. Many know of Him, but few know Him. The two are vastly different.”

  “Do you know Him?”

  Yehudah gave a slight shrug. “As much as I can.”

  “Is that what this journey is for you?” Myrad asked. “A chance to better know your God?”

  “And yours as well.”

  “I’m Persian, or have you not heard Hakam’s reminders?”

  “Hakam’s lineage is Hebrew, though his birth is Median. He . . . struggles with his identity, and the result is sometimes harsh. I hold a belief some may not agree with,” Yehudah said, “that the title Most High means our God is the God of all people, and that we have been conquered over and over again and taken away to Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, Parthia, and Rome to take root and spread the knowledge of Him.”

  To Myrad, this sounded as if it were a harsh way for God to spread t
he knowledge of himself. “What do you believe is the Messiah-King’s purpose in our journey? Why go to Judea if the Hebrews and their knowledge of the Most High are already there?”

  Yehudah seemed not to have heard the question. “Have you ever wondered why we refer to the land of our ancestors by two different names? We call it Judea, as you just now did, and in the next breath refer to the place as Israel? I think, though, there is wisdom in that confusion. Judea is a restless province beneath the heel of the Roman Empire, whereas Israel is the kingdom of the people of God. My hope is that the Messiah-King will restore Israel to its intended destiny, as a light shining to the world to bring all peoples into the knowledge of God.” Yehudah shifted from his contemplation of the river to meet Myrad’s gaze. “I don’t know why we’ve been told to go. I’ve never been to the land of my fathers, nor do I have any idea what we will find once there.” A rueful smile overtook his features. “I have the feeling that when you ask the question ‘Why us?’ what you really mean is ‘Why me?’”

  Myrad nodded.

  “I don’t know,” Yehudah confessed. “I have the same question.”

  They led their horses forward to board the ferry, a wide raft that would carry them into the lands of the west.

  Six weeks later, with their guards and cataphracts dressed in their full panoply, they arrived in Antioch. The city sprawled along the road before them, and Myrad found himself struggling to see everywhere at once. They passed a huge oval construction towering over the road on their way to the western part of the city to sell Walagash’s silk. Myrad marveled at its size. “What do they do there?”

  “Chariot races,” Aban replied. “Only the Circus Maximus in Rome is greater. But the finest horses in the world come from Persia and race here, proving their worth before being taken to Rome. They’re a commodity some value even more highly than silk.”

  They rode across one of the bridges over the Orontes River into the expansive trading grounds, which reminded Myrad of Margiana. Up ahead of them, Myrad could see the tension building in Walagash’s posture. “Will he be able to get a good price for his silk?”

  Roshan shrugged. “It’s impossible to know until we speak with the silk merchants. Supply and demand ebb and flow with circumstances. Father may go completely broke with this venture.”

  “That doesn’t concern you?”

  “Not overly much. My father is a shrewd trader, just as he has taught me to be. If we cannot trade in silk, there are plenty of merchants who will allow us to trade in something else.” She paused and added, “Perhaps spices. They’re almost as profitable as silk and they smell nice.”

  The caravan stopped, and Walagash came striding back to them, worry etched across his face. “I don’t know anyone here,” he said to Roshan and Myrad. “Discover what you can of the silk prices in Antioch.” When Myrad turned to leave, Walagash caught him by the sleeve, his voice low. “But do so discreetly and without drawing attention.”

  The two of them ventured farther into the market on foot, Roshan keeping to Myrad’s stilted pace. Without delay, she led them to a horse trader on the far side of the market. There were no traders of other goods anywhere close, much less silk. “Why him?”

  Roshan smiled. “We’re planning a sneak attack of sorts on the silk merchants here. It would be unwise to announce our presence too soon.”

  “You make it sound like battle,” Myrad said.

  She gave a little laugh. “Compared to trade, battle is driven by random circumstances despite a captain’s intentions to plan for them. This is more a contest or game of strategy, a match of wits where those with the best information and strongest nerves prevail. That is why we’re going to an isolated horse merchant first. He’s unlikely to communicate our presence to the silk merchants. Even so, we’ll take other measures too.” She bit her lower lip, and an eagerness came into her stride. With her face glowing in anticipation, she became transformed, beautiful.

  “You love to play this game of strategy then,” Myrad said.

  Roshan nodded. “Trade is everything. There is nothing like it.”

  Now he understood why she’d chosen him. He’d given her exactly what she most desired and it had been by blindest instinct. “What you most wanted,” he said out loud.

  She stopped and faced him. “What?”

  “It’s why the silk trade means so little to you. The game you speak of can be played with anything—silk, spices, even grain. You chose me because I promised you this.”

  “Yes. Every other man in Margiana wanted to keep me in his tent or house and give me gifts I didn’t want. You saw what I desired most, and you were courageous as well.”

  They came to a tent leaning against the entrance to a broad pen where they waited for the merchant to finish haggling with a Roman soldier over a bay stallion. After a few moments, the soldier left with his purchase.

  The trader turned to them, searching their faces and clothing before he gave them a nod. “Welcome to the pens of Licinius,” the man said in Greek. “How may I serve you?”

  Roshan ducked her head, playing the part of the embarrassed youth. “Your pardon,” she answered in the same language. “My master is new to Antioch and unfamiliar with its market. Where would one go to purchase silk?”

  Licinius made a vague pointing gesture. “Ordinarily you’d go to the north end of the trading grounds closer to the palace and circus, but I’m afraid your master is in for a bitter disappointment. The only silk left in Antioch is on the backs of those who wear it. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Myrad asked.

  “There’s war in Parthia. The caravans haven’t made it through in weeks.” The merchant frowned. “You didn’t know? You have the look of Persians.”

  “You have a good eye, but we’ve only just come from Armenia.” Roshan glanced westward. “What about ships? Surely some of them have dared the voyage around Arabia.”

  Licinius made to turn away. “You won’t find any silk for sale here. Storms off the peninsula have delayed everything. Silks and spices from the east are so scarce, they’re almost nonexistent.”

  Roshan tendered her thanks and spun on one heel, her face the picture of restraint, but a tremor worked its way into her voice. “I think Father will be pleased.” She reached out with a surprisingly strong grip and pulled Myrad along until he asked her to slow her pace.

  Yet when they reached Walagash and shared the news, instead of celebrating, he became still. Roshan stepped closer to him. “What’s the matter, Father?”

  He scanned the crowd, distracted. “There’s danger here.”

  “In the market we used to say desperate men make for great customers,” Myrad said.

  “We say the same on the trade routes,” Walagash said, “but these men will be more than desperate, and we’re foreigners in a Roman city.” He looked around again, likely searching for the guards. “We must hurry. If any of the guards or magi have let it slip we’re hauling silk, we’re in danger.”

  When neither Myrad nor Roshan stirred, Walagash brought his hands together in a thunderclap. “Move! We have to get the caravan to the silk merchants.”

  A half hour later, with the guards posted around the caravan as if they were expecting an attack by bandits any moment, they entered the trading ground set aside for the silk merchants. There they waited in silence as Walagash fumed. “Too scarce and too slow,” he said. Despite their efforts to be circumspect, word had raced ahead of them of a silk trader’s arrival, yet there were no merchants waiting. The prolonged absence of goods from the east had emptied the trading grounds.

  “What do we do now?” Roshan asked.

  Walagash handed her a purse that clinked with silver coins. “Hire runners to find the silk merchants. Tell them we’ve arrived and bring them here. Give each messenger a drachma up front, another when the merchant arrives, and two if they’re here within the hour.”

  They stood with the cataphracts and guards posted around the horses and the crowd looking o
n. “Would they attack the caravan in front of this crowd of people?” Myrad asked.

  Walagash barked a humorless laugh. “That was never a danger. My fear is that one of the silk merchants makes a charge against us with the Romans. They might plant some stolen goods in our packs as proof. Then when the centurion places the charge, the merchant relieves us of our cargo.”

  “They would do such a thing?”

  Walagash nodded. “Search the packs. See if anything has been placed within them.”

  The urgency in the merchant’s voice set Myrad’s heart to racing, and the looks from the gathering crowd took on a menacing cast. He moved from horse to horse as quickly as his foot allowed, unfolding the heavy oiled cloth that protected the silk and searching for any sign of tampering. When he came to the rear of the caravan, he spotted a corner untucked, fluttering in the wind. Moving his body so as to shield the pack and avoid the eyes of the crowd, he thrust his hand into the piles of silk. There! His fingers brushed something hard. Tugging at it, he pulled a stoppered bottle loose from within the folds of silk.

  When he brought it forth, an invisible hand squeezed the air from his lungs and kept him from breathing. A light yellowish-red powder filled the bottle. Standing close to the packhorse, he worked the stopper free. The powder gave off a sweet grassy smell. Using his little finger, he tasted a tiny amount of it. The substance was bitter on his tongue. Saffron. Tucking the bottle into his tunic, he wrapped the oiled cloth over the silk, repacking everything tightly, then hurried back to Walagash. As his eyes darted over the crowds of people, he prayed no one had seen him.

  A few moments later, he tapped Walagash on the shoulder and pulled open the right side of his tunic to show him the bottle of saffron.

  A low, guttural stream of curses spilled from the merchant. “They’ll command a search of the horses. When they don’t find this, they’ll search the guards. Get that away from here.”