“Herod is there,” Masista said. “Perhaps he will be the one to throw off the Roman yoke.”
Hakam turned on him, his face twisted in disgust. “Herod is no Hebrew! He’s a mongrel, a dog from Edom.”
“Pardon my mistake.” Masista bowed. “Perhaps I was unaware of his origins.” He turned and left while Hakam went back to his contemplation of the star.
Myrad considered the two men before him. Yehudah seemed as placid as ever, but Hakam’s anger troubled him. Masista’s litany of Roman atrocities had stoked the magus’s fury until it burned in the depths of his eyes. Even Yehudah’s disagreement earned Hakam’s scorn now.
“What of the calendar?” Myrad asked. “Why did God bring us here early?”
Yehudah continued gazing at the star. “The acts of God are difficult to understand before they occur, clouded as they are by our preconceived notions. Yet after they have happened, they seem obvious.” He rolled his shoulders as he shifted his weight. “The prophecy says the coming of the Messiah-King, and within those words are any number of interpretations.”
“Any Hebrew king will have to cleanse the land,” Hakam said. “The Roman Empire is vast. Conquering them could take thirty years.”
The pronouncement could have come from Masista. “You believe the Messiah-King will defeat the Roman Empire?” Myrad asked. He would have laughed, except Hakam was in earnest. “Israel is a small strip of desert and little else. It took us months to get here but less than two weeks to cover half the kingdom. How can they fight the Romans?”
Hakam’s eyes traveled to Myrad’s clubfoot and back up to his face. “You know nothing of Israel. Nothing! Egypt was once an empire much like the Romans, yet they couldn’t keep their slaves from escaping to freedom. Because the Most High God was on their side.”
With an effort, Myrad kept his voice even. “I know more of Israel than you suppose. Even before Gershom taught me the language, he told me the stories. How many times did the kings of Israel and Judah presume God’s favor only to be defeated in battle?”
“You think to lecture me?” Hakam spat. “You’re a Persian, born in the gutter, and blemished. You’re not alive because of God’s favor. You’re alive because He won’t accept the sacrifice of a cripple.”
Myrad took a deep breath to ward off the truth and hurt of Hakam’s words. “And yet the dream came to me, a Persian boy from the street, long before it came to you, O exalted magus.” He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he strode away.
When he entered Walagash’s tent, Roshan came to him, her eyes searching. Then, without speaking, she reached up to caress his face, her hands moving to erase his scowl. “What happened?”
In halting language, he told her of the exchange with Hakam.
“Hakam’s hatred of the Romans is poisoning his heart,” she said. “What would Gershom tell you?”
“To honor God and not worry about what others say.”
“Wise advice.” Her brow furrowed. “Remember, I chose you rather than the richest merchants in the empire, and God chose you as well.”
Later, when he lay in his bed, sleep took him despite the anger that still made his heart pound. Without transition, he found himself standing on a hill beside a circular palace overlooking a strange city. Yehudah and Hakam stood next to him. Before he could speak, the King’s star appeared in the heavens. They watched as the star left its place where it had hovered over Jerusalem and moved south. A voice encompassed the heavens, which Myrad felt as much as heard: “Find the child who has been born king of Israel.”
Myrad awoke the next morning to find the room he shared with Aban and Storana empty. The guards were gone, perhaps to check their mounts before departing. He dressed and went in search of Yehudah. In two days’ time they would be at the end of their quest, once they found the Messiah-King in Jerusalem, but they were headed straight into the seat of Roman power. Myrad swallowed past a knot in his throat.
He descended the stairs into the stable yard of the inn and stopped. Walagash, the magi, and all the guards were there. Surrounded by Roman soldiers.
Myrad started to count but stopped when he saw a man with a red horsehair crest atop his helmet, running from ear to ear. A centurion. Here in the heart of Israel, they were hopelessly outnumbered.
Masista and Hakam sat on their horses with disdain, their backs straight. Walagash and Yehudah wore looks of calm concern. The cataphracts and guards were still armed. Myrad moved off the porch, his footsteps tentative. A Roman soldier brought him his horse.
“Ah,” the centurion said upon seeing him. “A welcome morning to you.” He spoke in flawless Greek. “King Herod sends his greetings and his escort to our guests from Parthia. He requests the favor of your presence, that he might hear the news of your homeland.”
Behind the cordial centurion, dozens of Roman cavalry sat on their mounts, their faces like iron. Roshan sidled up to him. “Get on your horse, Myrad,” she murmured. “The invitation isn’t optional.”
Myrad mounted up, and the Roman cavalry led them out of the yard with a third of their force up front and two-thirds at the rear. They set a steady trot that would have them in Jerusalem by nightfall. Myrad waited until the streets of Jaffa were behind them before he spoke to Roshan. “What happened?” he asked in Persian.
“They were in the courtyard when I woke,” she answered in the same language.
“They came two hours before dawn,” Aban added.
Roshan’s hand took his for a moment. “They didn’t wake anyone or threaten the guards keeping watch over the horses. They just waited until everyone woke. Then they extended King Herod’s invitation, along with his welcome to emissaries from a sister kingdom.”
“Sister kingdom?”
Aban yawned and stretched, looking at the rolling hills around them and the mountains to the east, before he said in a subdued voice, “There’s no way of knowing. It may just be Roman flowery, or it might mean he believes Musa has control of Parthia and we’re her loyal subjects.”
Myrad glanced toward the front where the magi rode next to Walagash. When his gaze fell across Hakam, his heart stumbled in its rhythm. “I have to speak to Yehudah.”
Aban leaned across his horse to put a hand on Myrad’s arm. He nodded toward their escort. “Be careful. These men are soldiers, and we’ve been their sworn enemy for hundreds of years. In close quarters, those short swords of theirs are deadly.”
“And watch your words,” Roshan whispered. “I think I saw more than one look of recognition when we switched to Persian.”
Calmly, Myrad urged Areion forward until Walagash and the magi took note. The merchant and Yehudah parted enough to allow his horse between theirs. Masista rode just ahead. At a nod from Yehudah, the cataphracts surrounding them let their mounts drift ever so slightly. The result was a space in which they might be able to speak without being overheard.
“What are we going to do?” Myrad asked.
Yehudah’s brows lifted. “Go with our escort and meet King Herod. What else can we do?”
“But what are we going to say once there?”
Masista turned on his horse to meet Myrad’s gaze. It flicked briefly to Hakam before returning. “The truth,” he said in a normal voice loud enough to be overheard. “Magi can do no less. We’re here so that you three may visit the land of your fathers. By happy circumstance, your betrothed’s father is a silk merchant.”
Walagash’s cheeks bunched with a too-big smile. “A very happy circumstance. Trade here on the outskirts of the Roman Empire has proved lucrative. Well spoken, magus.”
The shift in Walagash’s demeanor toward Masista caught Myrad by surprise, but the company of Romans offered no opportunity to pursue it. He leaned forward to press the question, but Masista cut him off. “I understand the prospect of speaking to the king makes you nervous. Would you like for me to speak on your behalf?” He leaned back toward Myrad and added in a low mutter, “Herod is sick, close to dying, and he’s not going quietly. A wrong
word could kill us all.”
So many undercurrents to the conversation confused Myrad, yet only a fool could miss the suppressed rage in Hakam’s posture. Yehudah caught his eye and gave a slight nod. For some reason, everyone present save Hakam had conceded to let Masista speak on their behalf. Even Walagash.
“Thank you,” Myrad said. Gratitude tasted like gall on his tongue, but the prospect of being held prisoner or killed at Herod’s command settled the issue. “You may understand why royalty makes me nervous.”
They all smiled, except for Hakam.
The caravan kept up its steady trot forward. They stopped once to water and change horses at a small village, Emmaus. Afterward they continued on toward Jerusalem, climbing from the basin bordering the sea into the hills of Judea. They came to the city just before sunset while they could still see flat-topped buildings nestled among the hills and winding roads that ran between them like water. Somewhere in the distance, someone blew a horn. Next to him, Yehudah murmured a phrase in Hebrew as a tear tracked through the dust on his face.
“What is that?” Myrad asked him.
“The call to prayer.”
They ascended a steep hill toward a massive retaining wall that defined the border of the city. They followed their Roman escort around to the northwest corner, where three towers built with enormous, fitted stones loomed over them like a threat. The last rays of the day faded as they came to an entrance on their right and were led inside the walls of Jerusalem.
“The Old City,” Yehudah said.
“The City of David,” Hakam corrected. “And it will be his descendants’ city.” He drew breath to continue, but sharp looks from Yehudah and Masista reduced him to glowering silence.
They entered through the gate and doubled back toward the wall until the three towers cast them in shadow. Climbing a steep road, they came to a broad archway lit by giant braziers tended by Romans in glittering armor.
Their commander spoke to them in a language Myrad supposed to be Latin, but he didn’t need Masista’s translation to understand the dark looks the sentries shot toward the cataphracts and caravan guards. The composite bows in particular held the Romans’ attention.
“Veterans,” Yehudah said.
Masista nodded. “They know who we are. Keep your hands in sight and don’t make any move they might perceive as a threat.” His face stretched as he donned his customary smile, only here it looked forced. “King Herod has favored us with this invitation. Let us behave as honored guests.”
Hakam jerked at the use of the word king and mouthed curses. They waited as the sky darkened, their horses stirring beneath them, restless. Masista, his smile wilted at the edges, addressed the head of their guard, speaking in Greek, “Is there a problem, Centurion?”
The man’s scarlet crest waved in time to his denial as he spoke in the same language. “King Herod is a busy man. Though your arrival is expected, there are doubtless other details of governance requiring his attention.”
“Your Greek is more fluid than my Latin.” Masista bowed. “My compliments.”
The centurion nodded but otherwise ignored the flattery. “I was born in Athens. It should be.”
At last, a soldier appeared at the entrance and waved them in. They dismounted to pass through the walled entrance and long colonnade into a paved courtyard between two multistory buildings. Fountains burbled, and the scent of unfamiliar plants perfumed the air. Braziers burned brightly every few feet, banishing the darkness. People filled the space, some reclining as they ate from delicate bowls, others moving about and conversing with one another. To their left sat Herod on his throne, situated at the top of the first set of stairs leading up to one of the buildings. A century of soldiers were arrayed before him, each holding a bow.
“Come, my guests,” Herod called, waving them forward. A smile etched with pain stretched his face into a parody, and one hand darted to his lap, scratching at some affliction.
They edged forward with Walagash and the magi in the front row, flanked by Yehudah’s cataphracts on the right and Masista’s on the left. Behind them, the caravan guards formed up in a box.
Sweat poured from Herod’s brow, down the pasty contours of his cheeks and onto his robe. Silk, Myrad noticed. “Your presence in Judea is an unexpected pleasure.” He smacked his lips. “A delicacy. I have hungered for news from the east, and the gods have delivered it to me.” His dark eyes glittered with the reflected light of the braziers. “Tell me everything.”
CHAPTER 31
Then Herod called the Magi secretly and found out from them the exact time the star had appeared.
Matthew 2:7
Masista bowed, imbuing the gesture with servitude. “How shall I begin, Your Majesty? Events in Parthia are as vast and complex as its borders.”
Herod smiled like a man taking up an expected and hoped-for challenge. “Rumors have reached my ears that our countrywoman, Musa, has been named queen. Tell me, how does she fare?”
Masista nodded. “More than queen, Your Majesty. With the death of Phraates, Empress Musa, queen of queens, rules the Parthian Empire jointly with her son, Phraataces.”
Herod leaned forward, his enthusiasm battling obvious discomfort. “Does it not trouble you, magus, to see your country fall to the rule of a child of Rome?”
Masista waved away the king’s question. “Magi have never been overly concerned with the origins of our rulers, Your Majesty. Phraataces is half Roman and half Parthian. His parentage on his father’s side is more than enough to secure the loyalty of the Parthian clans. Most of them anyway.”
“Most?” Herod asked.
Masista gave a small shrug. “There are some clans in the far east, near Bactria, that have yet to accept Musa’s rule. A temporary circumstance, nothing more.”
Disappointment wreathed Herod’s expression. As if the deprivation of a contest of wills reminded him of his affliction, a spasm of pain made him wince. “You,” he said to Walagash. “I have heard of your exploits in Antioch. What favor did you earn from the queen that allowed you, among all the silk merchants, access to our markets?”
Before Walagash could respond, Masista sidestepped, interposing himself between the merchant and the king. “Pardon, Your Majesty, but our merchant is most comfortable speaking Parthian, the language of his birth.”
Herod’s eyes narrowed. “No matter, magus,” he said in perfect Greek. “Any merchant will speak enough Greek to suffice, and a man with a limited vocabulary is often more . . . forthright.” His smile conveyed his sense of victory. He repeated his question in simpler phrases as Masista stepped back to his place.
Myrad glanced around the courtyard. The soldiers stood at attention, their hands on their weapons. He and the rest of the caravan had been escorted into a trap, built upon Herod’s suspicions.
Walagash bowed. “In truth, Your Majesty, I did not gain the queen’s attention so much as I avoided it. The war with the clans of the east necessitated Musa’s acquisition of additional horses and men from the caravans as soldiers. I elected to go through Armenia.”
Herod’s smile returned. “Interesting. With one breath you tell me Musa is hardly opposed and in another you confirm to me her opposition is strong enough to warrant impressment.” He shifted his attention to Yehudah. “Why are you here, magus? You are from Parthia, but your face hints at Hebrew ancestry.”
Yehudah bowed. “Your Majesty is perceptive. My ancestors are from Judea as well as Parthia.” He inclined his head toward Walagash. “I by chance came to meet the merchant here, and when I discovered his intended destination, I persuaded him to let me travel with him so that I might see the land of my fathers.”
Herod’s smile twisted until it became predatory. “I know something of your customs. It’s said a magus is forbidden to lie. Is this true?” At Yehudah’s nod, he continued, “But a man could refrain from telling the whole truth. I find it hard to believe a wish to see the land of your fathers is sufficient to bring you all the way to Judea, especi
ally in the midst of war. Does your queen not require the counsel of her wise men?”
“Of a certainty, Your Majesty, she does. And she has it. The queen may believe a great many things about the countries around her, but wisdom would dictate sending out merchants or magi to see them firsthand and report back.”
Disappointment flashed in Herod’s eyes as he turned to Hakam. “You, magus, have a look on your face I have seen everywhere in the streets of Jerusalem, the look of a man whose food is bitter. It seems most Hebrews have no love for Rome.”
Hakam stood before the king and nodded.
“Can you not speak?” Herod asked.
“Assuredly,” Hakam said, his voice rough. “To any question the king poses, I will answer.”
Myrad winced at the acid tone.
“Any question,” the king purred. “Then tell me, why are you here?”
“It is as the magus Yehudah said. We wish to visit the land of our fathers.”
Myrad felt panic shooting through his chest. The king had found the weakest link among them, and he leaned forward wearing a victor’s smile.
“I have a report from the Roman centurion who searched your caravan in Antioch,” the king went on. “Among the silk you carried, he also found a large quantity of gold and spices, strange gifts for a simple visit to the land of your fathers.”
Hakam didn’t reply, but his face reddened, and beneath the onslaught of Herod’s gaze he began to tremble.
“What brought you to Judea, magus?” Herod pressed.
Hakam’s head came up, losing its deferential cast, until he stared at the king eye to eye. “We received a dream from the Most High God.”
Herod leaned forward, all signs of pain from his affliction absent. “What was this dream that brought magi all the way to Judea with such extravagant gifts?”
The courtyard stilled until nothing but the soft crackle of the burning braziers could be heard. Myrad closed his eyes and prayed Hakam would find some answer that would satisfy the king and let them live. The tone of his first words dashed his hopes.
The End of the Magi Page 24