The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  He waited for an hour, ignoring the growing pain in his foot until dawn, but no light, no sound came, and his prayers to his father’s god fell from his lips to the ground beneath the walls, unanswered. Defeated, he made his way in pain down the steps and back to his father’s house.

  When he entered, he found his father waiting for him. Gershom sat at the table, his hands clasped before him, the hands of a scribe, hands accustomed to writing. They were still now, completely reposed, and sought nothing of each other as Myrad’s hands did. The two of them looked nothing alike, the Hebrew father and the Persian son. One was old with a graying fringe of hair clinging desperately to his head, the other a sparse young man of some nineteen years with dark hair and eyes typical of the Persians. Fear ate at him, setting his feet in motion despite his deformity while Gershom sat quietly. The two men were different that way as well. Gershom could wrap stillness and peace around himself seemingly at will, while his son struggled to be at rest even in his sleep. More than anything, he wanted to please his father.

  “You woke early,” Gershom said.

  “I had another dream.”

  “Tell me about it.” To the magi, dreams were the primary way their different gods communicated. Even among those who followed the god of the Hebrews, like his father, dreams were considered important.

  Myrad sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not a true dream. I went up to the city wall to check, but nothing had changed.” He clenched his teeth around the rest of his words, but too many defeats pulled them loose. “You should have left me in the market with the traders and melon sellers.”

  “I saw something in you,” Gershom said. “I still do. You remember what happened after you found out I was one of the magi?”

  Myrad shook his head. Gershom had adopted him as his own son two years prior, when his mother joined his father in the sands of the desert. Next to that gift all other memories became trivial.

  “You asked me questions about everything.” Gershom smiled. “I never realized how little I knew until I met a merchant woman’s son who thought I held the answers to all of creation.”

  Myrad nodded. He remembered now, yet he still didn’t understand. Adopted out of poverty, the ranks of the magi would be closed to him unless he could prove the favor of the gods by having a true dream. “I’m not meant to be one of the magi. I’m half a dozen years older than the other apprentices.”

  “You have the heart and mind of a magus,” Gershom said. “God gave you an insatiable curiosity, and I believe He called me to adopt you when your mother died.” He leaned back to reveal the small sheet of parchment before him, his wispy circlet of hair fluttering with the motion. “It so happens I remember a dream myself. It seemed sufficiently different for me to write it down.” Glimmers of hope danced in his father’s eyes. “Tell me your dream.”

  Hoping despite himself, he recited his dream in strict chronological order without pause, as he’d been trained. Smiling, his father flipped his sheet of parchment over and slid it across the table for him to read.

  Myrad couldn’t seem to bring his gaze under control. His eyes kept leaping past the sentences to the end. Tremors in his hands sent the words jumping on the parchment. It took him three times as long to finish as it should have.

  “They’re the same,” he breathed. “Exactly the same.” Questions poured through him, but one stood above the rest. “Does it have anything to do with the calendar?” Every day since his adoption, he’d watched Gershom mark the passage of time on a calendar that tracked hundreds of years.

  Gershom smiled but shook his head. “Impossible to know. We can inquire of the Most High, but if He does not answer . . .” His lifted hands punctuated the sentence. Gershom pulled him into a fierce embrace. “But, my son, tonight you will come with me. You will be counted among the magi.”

  Yet the habit of doubt refused to surrender so easily. “Will they believe you, Father? I wasn’t born to you.”

  Gershom nodded. “Magi are forbidden to lie. They may not welcome you, but you will be admitted. And when your masters discover your curiosity and passion for knowledge, they will love you just as I do. Come. We have time for our prayers before we depart.”

  Myrad reached up to adjust the circlet slipping to the right to rest unceremoniously on his ear, another sign, and not the least, that he didn’t belong. He removed the band of silver-copper alloy and squeezed it between his hands, hoping to force the emblem of power and influence into a better approximation of his head. The single palm engraved on it mocked him.

  Gershom took the crown with his ink-stained hands and balanced it atop Myrad’s head. “Until we have time to have it fitted to you, the trick is to carry yourself so it doesn’t slip.” His eyes crinkled. “And carrying your head high and steady will convey confidence.”

  Gershom grabbed his ceremonial quill and parchment. Then he retrieved a pair of jeweled ceremonial daggers, which he placed through their sashes. With a nod, his adoptive father turned him toward the door. “It’s time. Remember, walk one step behind and to the right, as is proper for an apprentice.”

  They stepped out into the hallway. With his first ungainly step, the circle of metal resumed its accustomed position on his ear. His trousers couldn’t disguise his deformity. Beneath the flowing silk his right foot was fixed, bent inward, forcing him to walk on the outer edge. Try as he might, he couldn’t straighten it or keep the limp from staggering his gait for more than a few feet without pain. After the fourth attempt to keep the symbol of elevation atop his head, he gave up, determined to carry the crown in his hands until they reached the imperial court. His fingers brushed the engraved palm. Someday, if he rose high enough in the ranks of the magi, there would be five more to keep it company.

  They rounded the corner, merging into a vaulted hallway decorated with tiles in a thousand shades of blue, and their solitude vanished. Everywhere Myrad looked, magi flowed toward the throne room where King Phraates IV, the Arsacid, the king of kings, held court. Brilliant colors rippled with their steps, every shade of the rainbow in evidence. Two men, walking close to each other and speaking in whispered tones, wore crowns bearing six palms.

  “Father.”

  Gershom turned, his dark eyes, even more wary than before. “Yes?”

  “Do you think I will ever attain the sixth palm?”

  His hand drifted up to touch the four palms of his own crown. “Who knows? Perhaps you shall. It’s not unknown for Hebrews to be elevated to the highest positions in the land. Do you wish to be one of the twenty? A satrap bears much responsibility.”

  Myrad looked at the men again. Something in their conversation must have concerned them. The man on the left schooled his features to stillness, but a muscle twitched in his cheek as he glanced over his shoulder at the guards following as if seeking reassurance. The man on the right brushed his hand against the dagger at his belt. The folds of silk parted enough for Myrad to see a plain hilt, no jewels or decorations, just functional leather.

  Dropping his voice to a whisper, he nodded toward them. “Father, they’re frightened. Why?”

  Muscles twitched along his father’s jawline. “Musa.”

  The king’s concubine? What did she have to do with this?

  A man with five palms on his crown stepped out of a side corridor, matching their pace. A moment later, when they came to another intersection, the man put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Gershom, a word.”

  His father pointed toward one of the heavy columns lining the passage, and they stepped aside into the shadows. “Masista, I thought you were in Antioch.” They exchanged arm clasps, but the other magus’s expression never warmed.

  “Phraates had me recalled. He no longer wishes to oppose the might of Rome with might of our own.” His face twisted. “He wishes a more conciliatory stance.” He leaned in closer. “There are whispers,” Masista added. “Musa means to be queen despite the vote of the magi.” His eyes darted toward the recesses of the hall. “You need to leave
Ctesiphon.”

  Gershom shook his head. “The magi have been kingmakers in Persia for centuries. Whatever Musa intends is of no importance. Why are you telling me this?”

  The planes of Masista’s face hardened. “We’ve become too much like the Romans. Our kings slaughter their way to power, and blood is spilled in the throne room. The influence of the magi has waned with the years. Augustus’s concubine has the king’s heart in her hand. Do you think mere tradition will stop them?”

  Gershom straightened, his head lifting a fraction. “I’m not so naïve as you might believe. I have made preparations. If need be, Myrad and I can flee.”

  “Then go now. There are more soldiers in the palace than usual. Many more.” The magus glanced once more over his shoulder and then left them, continuing toward the throne room without looking back.

  “Who is he, Father?” Myrad was shaken by the conversation. “A friend?”

  Gershom pursed his lips. “He’s one of our emissaries to Rome and Armenia. Not necessarily a friend, but not someone to ignore either. Your apprenticeship can wait. I think a quick trip out of the city for a few days would be wise.”

  They started back toward their quarters, but before they made it to the previous crossway, soldiers in gleaming mail stepped into their path to block them. “The king requests the presence of all magi tonight,” the soldier in the middle ordered. “No exceptions.”

  Gershom’s hand found Myrad’s arm, squeezing a warning. “Of course, Captain. I have forgotten some important papers in my rooms.” He stepped to the side, but again the soldier blocked his way.

  Gershom bowed. “Perhaps you would allow my son to retrieve them for me? He’s not one of the magi.”

  The captain studied Myrad with a hard gaze that stopped at the circlet he held at his side. “The king demands the presence of all magi. Now.”

  Myrad tried to swallow the knot of fear in his throat, but it wouldn’t go away. Politics in the empire could be ruthless and bloody. The magi were the stabilizing influence, the power behind the throne that smoothed tensions between clans. No king would attack his own magi, would he? He swallowed again, or tried to.

  They turned a corner, and the corridor, already massive, opened, the ceiling fleeing toward the sky as echoes of a thousand conversations merged into worried murmurs. Ahead, a large vaulted arch led to the imperial throne room. Rank upon rank of cataphracts stood at attention before the doors, hereditary nobles sworn to fight for the satraps or the king. Each man wore scaled armor and a helm covering everything except the eyes, and each held a long spear in addition to the sword belted at his waist. Masista stood at the back of the crowd in front of them, then melted into it with a last look of warning.

  Gershom stopped so quickly that Myrad walked into his back. The buzz of voices in the entrance hall carried nervous undercurrents. He heard snatches of conversations, the tone becoming strident as they waited for admittance. Then the massive doors to the king’s court opened, and momentary relief settled over the assembled magi as those closest stepped through.

  His father didn’t move but stood staring behind them at the way they’d come. Quickly, he turned away. Myrad shifted his weight to his good foot to look backward.

  His father’s hand found his shoulder. “Don’t.”

  “What’s back there?”

  “Soldiers,” his father whispered. “Many of them. Listen to me, Myrad. The magi are about to cast their final votes to confirm or deny Musa as queen. The votes will be taken in order of rank with the satraps first and the apprentices last. You must vote in opposition to me.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know and that’s my fault.”

  “But—”

  Gershom clutched at his tunic, pulling him forward. “Don’t argue. Just watch me and vote in opposition, and pray no one will think to connect you to me. If nothing happens, then I’ll explain.”

  “And if something does happen?”

  His father touched the dagger at his belt. “Then find me. Now stand apart and go in with the last of the apprentices. We don’t want the king’s men to see us talking.”

  He stepped away, back toward the rear of the crowd as his father moved ahead. The satraps, all of them with six palms and personal guards, entered as the senior administrators, those with five palms on their crowns, queued up under the unblinking stares of armed men lining the entrance.

  One of the men veered to the side as he neared the entrance, as if he might leave, but a soldier stepped in with a muttered command, his hand on his sword. The administrator, his eyes wide, slunk his way into the throne room.

  Myrad backed away from the entrance, searching for others with a single palm on their circlet. Fear accentuated his limp. Muted laughter put a rod of iron in his spine, and he tried again to place the circlet on his head.

  “You’re wasting your time, city rat,” a voice behind him said. “The circlet has rejected you.”

  He turned to see a younger apprentice eying him. His tarnished band of silver and copper alloy chose that moment to shift and slide toward his ear.

  They edged toward the vaulted archway, and the buzz of voices died down as the entrance hall emptied. The echoes of conversation no longer blended together but became discrete, threatening judgment and condemnation. Behind him, row upon row of mailed soldiers stepped forward, blocking retreat.

  Myrad entered, following the apprentice in front of him, his mind a jumble. Not all of the magi seemed nervous. Some laughed and joked among themselves. Perhaps he worried without cause. He took a seat on the rearmost stone bench arrayed before the king’s dais. There, Phraates IV sat in splendor, the king of all the kings in the Parthian Empire. On his right sat Musa, the concubine given to honor the ruler of the empire by its greatest enemy, Rome and Emperor Augustus.

  On Musa’s right sat her son, a man close in age to Myrad. But the son wore as much arrogance as a king, and the looks he exchanged with his mother smoldered.

  Silence fell over the hall.

  “We are here to install Musa, my favored one, as queen,” Phraates announced. His voice quavered with age, and he struggled to make himself heard, though any sound carried well in the hall.

  “Such an interesting custom,” Musa laughed, “asking your magi for permission. In Rome the emperor’s word is law.”

  One of the satraps in the front row shifted as if to stand, but the man to his right put a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

  “Alas,” Phraates said, “this is not Rome.”

  “O king, live forever,” said the satrap who’d held his neighbor down. “Is it not good we are Parthians and not Romans?” His gaze shifted to Musa. “Did not the cavalry of Parthia leave tens of thousands of Romans dead in the desert and take the head of that vile snake, Crassus?”

  The king nodded at the flattery, but Musa’s eyes held murder.

  “Is there not wisdom in much counsel?” the satrap asked.

  Musa leaned over to whisper in the king’s ear, her hand caressing his thigh.

  “In some cases it is so,” the king replied, “but the king should choose his queen.”

  The satrap dipped his head and sat. To his right, another man with six palms on his crown stood. His voice, deep and resonant, carried the tone of a man used to being obeyed. “O king, live forever. For centuries the magi have approved the marriage to the king in order to keep the empire strong. If it pleases the king, keep whatever concubines you desire. Only consider that Rome, having failed to defeat us by military might, will seek to compromise us by other means. Have they not suborned treason against us by placing pretenders to the Parthian Empire on the throne of Armenia?”

  Rage twisted Musa’s face for an instant, no more. When she spoke, her voice was as smooth and silken as the garments she wore. “If that is the king’s wish,” she purred, “I will abide by it and remain his devoted consort.”

  At her side, her son flushed. Without turning to him, she placed a hand on h
is shoulder.

  “If it is our wish, you will abide by it,” the satrap said.

  Phraates’s expression clouded, his face becoming as stone. His gaze swept across the magi like a scythe. In the instant Myrad’s eyes met the king’s, fear stilled his breath. He’d seen that same look in the marketplace, moments before men fought and died.

  “Proceed then with the vote, magi.” Anger gave the king’s voice resonance.

  Ten paces ahead, he saw his father bend over, his quill in hand, scratching at the parchment. Myrad shook his head. Gershom hadn’t brought any ink.

  A satrap Myrad recognized as the governor of Pamphylia stood and bowed to the king and Musa before addressing the assembly. “I request a formal vote to confirm Musa, the king’s most favored consort, as queen of the empire.”

  A man Myrad knew as his father’s superior, Katanes, master of the mint, stood and added his assent. “The issue has been debated for three days in accordance with the laws of the empire, which cannot be altered. Those against may stand.” He resumed his seat.

  A moment of silence passed. The two satraps who’d spoken against Musa at the beginning fidgeted in their seats, but no one stood. Her eyes glittering, Musa leaned over to whisper to the king. He nodded.

  “You.” The king pointed to a satrap sitting in the front row. “For three days you have argued against my taking Musa as my queen. Have you lost the strength of your conviction? Stand up.”

  The magus licked his lips but remained seated.

  “Stand, magus!”

  Slowly, he levered himself to his feet. “O king, live—”

  “Silence!” Phraates’s gaze cut across the room. He stabbed his finger at those who’d defied him, shouting and gesturing for them to stand at once. “You.” He pointed at Gershom. “Stand!”

  Myrad watched as his father joined the others at the command of the king.

  “For three days I have suffered your insults against my crown and my queen.” Phraates held out his hand. Musa placed a scroll in it. Phraates unrolled it, looking out across the throne room, his anger flaring into rage. “You have each been found wanting. Your places will be given to others.”