The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Either of those two would suit your needs, I think,” Eskander said. The trader pointed to a bay and a sorrel standing near the gate of the pen.

  Myrad gestured to the sorrel. “That one.” The horse’s color would blend better with the scrub and sand in the desert, but more important, it stood closer to the gate. “How much?”

  Eskander nodded. “You have a good eye. Come, let us sit in my tent and we can discuss the price.”

  Myrad shifted on his feet to have an unobstructed view back toward the city. The crowd at the market was growing, and he saw no signs of anyone struggling to get through. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, good merchant, but I hope to make the trip to Babylon in a single day, which necessitates a quick departure. Let us haggle here.”

  Eskander stopped and turned. “As you wish, sir. Forty denarii.”

  Though he hadn’t intended to bargain, the merchant’s larceny was unacceptable. “Forty, you say? I’m going to ride it, good merchant, not race it. Any other trader would be glad to sell the horse to me for ten.”

  “Ah,” Eskander said, “let me tell you the history of this fine animal.”

  He was stalling. “The day wears on,” Myrad snapped. “How much?”

  Eskander’s face grew tight. “Thirty denarii. No less.” He smiled. “I will be happy to wait if you need to go back into the city for the money.”

  There. This merchant had been paid to watch for him. No respectable trader would let a potential customer out of his sight. Letting profit walk away was anathema to their way of life. Myrad dug into his purse for the roman gold coin within. Pulling it forth, he placed it in Eskander’s hand. “Bring me the horse, good merchant. Right away.”

  Eskander paused, then jerked his head in assent. “Yes, good sir.” With a snap of his fingers one of his men came running. “Bring the sorrel out.” He turned back to Myrad with a grin. “Will you be needing a bridle or blanket?”

  Myrad sighed. “How much?”

  “Only a denarius.”

  He shoved the coin into Eskander’s open hand. “Here.”

  The merchant bowed. “Always a pleasure.”

  Myrad went around to the other side of his newly purchased horse and jumped off his good foot onto the thick blanket placed across the animal’s back. It shied to the side and then settled. He set off with the merchant’s gaze boring into him. For a few moments he dared to hope he’d gotten free of the trap laid for him, but a glance backward told him otherwise. One of Eskander’s guards had mounted and was following him at a distance, trying to pretend disinterest.

  When the man saw him looking, he turned away as if to examine some other horse trader’s merchandise. Myrad kicked his horse into a canter, reining to the right to circle the nearest tent. Ducking beneath the ropes holding it in place, he turned three more times, bringing him back to the main thoroughfare. Eskander’s man sat atop his horse just ahead, searching from side to side.

  Urging his mount forward, Myrad trotted over to the guard and gathered the loose portion of his reins. As he rode past he leaned over and cracked the leather along the horse’s hindquarters. Instantly the horse reared, throwing the rider heavily to the ground. The guard’s face was a rictus of surprise, his arms flailing to catch his fall.

  Myrad heard the snap of his collarbone an instant before the scream.

  With the flat of his hand, he smacked his horse across the rump and held on as they raced away. A few miles later, he reined in and turned, searching.

  There was no pursuit. He leaned forward to pat his horse on the shoulder. The sorrel tossed its head, its ears perking. It seemed Eskander had sold him a decent horse. Vastly overpriced but decent. “The thief probably thought he would get you back when the magi caught me,” Myrad said to his new friend.

  His horse craned its neck to look back at him with one eye. Myrad twitched the reins and dug his heels in until the horse took up a quick trot. Another mile outside of Ctesiphon, he came to the road running north and south. Scattered across the distance in both directions he could see long trains of camels heading away from the city. Many more would be coming and going through the course of the day.

  His prayer came in two parts. First, that those following him would give up once they realized he’d escaped the city. Failing that, he hoped they would be forced to look for him somewhere along the road south toward Babylon. If he could stay ahead of their pursuit for the next week, the branches along the caravan routes would make finding him difficult.

  Myrad reached down to massage his foot and amended the thought. He would be hard to miss for anyone paying attention. He needed a disguise. With his legs bent at the knees and gripping the horse’s barrel, it was difficult to tell he was clubfooted. But as soon as he dismounted, even a casual glance would give him away. The twist in the bones and ligaments forced him to walk on the outside edge of his foot with a distinctive gait.

  For a while he could indulge the hope of escape. He bent his head and let the grief he’d denied flow through him, his tears wetting the thick blanket. His horse cocked an ear back toward him but made no other concession to his sorrow. Myrad kept his head down and let the soft rocking motion of his horse’s gait comfort him.

  Afterward, he sighed and put his memories of Gershom behind a door with a twinge as though he’d dishonored his departed father. Still, he could and would grieve again later. What he needed now was concealment. Musa’s men would be on the lookout for a lone rider. Grimacing, he dug his heels into his horse until they were moving at a canter toward the caravans plodding along the road ahead of them.

  CHAPTER 5

  The caravan, the fourth he’d overtaken, stretched ahead of him, each camel plodding after the one in front. As Myrad drew even with the rearmost guards, he tried to shed his fear and adopt a friendly air. Three previous caravans refused to let him ride anywhere close. He forced a smile, but the expression felt like it belonged to someone else. The mounted guards moving along at the rear weren’t interested in Myrad’s company.

  The youngest of the guards, a boy a few years younger than Myrad and wearing a turban above a scattering of freckles, gave him a blank look. “Keep riding, stranger.”

  “I thought we could share the road together,” Myrad said. He felt his smile wilting. “Where are you headed?”

  “North,” another guard answered, his mouth a line between a thin mustache and beard. They all had the skin coloring of Persians, and yet the tilt to their eyes told him their origins lay to the east and north of the Hyrcanian Sea. They were Parthians by birth, not just in name.

  Myrad nodded as if their direction wasn’t obvious. “As it happens, so am I.”

  “You can’t ride with us,” the boy said. “Not without the caravan master’s permission.”

  “Perhaps I can persuade him. Who is he and where can I find him?”

  “Walagash,” the bearded guard said. He pointed. “Up there.”

  The boy shook his head. “You’re wasting your time.”

  Myrad twitched the reins and trotted past at least a hundred camels—each with a sizable burden piled around a solitary hump on its back—until he came to a knot of men riding in the middle of the long train. One of them wore flowing robes in scarlet-and-white stripes and rode a horse larger than the rest. His bulk required it.

  “Honorable Walagash?”

  The man in robes turned to regard him. Myrad had seen big men before. Many of the cataphracts in Ctesiphon towered over him and carried more meat on their frames than he would have thought possible. Still, he’d never seen anyone who conveyed physical power the way this particular merchant did. Muscles bunched around his neck and shoulders, and his hands, easily twice the size of Myrad’s, bore layers of scars across the knuckles.

  Without blinking, Walagash’s gaze took a leisurely route from Myrad’s head to his feet and back to his face, ending with a glance at his horse. As for the merchant’s face, it was much like the rest of him, gruff with stern features. Yet the gaze seemed to be seeking
understanding through taking in the details, and the man’s expression conveyed amusement rather than confrontation.

  “You haven’t come to trade,” Walagash said. “What do you want?”

  Myrad bowed. “Merely to share the road with your caravan until our ways part.”

  “A reasonable request. Why would I deny it?”

  The question caught Myrad off guard. How should he respond?

  “Yes,” a voice on his opposite side said. “Why would he?”

  Myrad shifted on his riding blanket to see the boy from the rear of the caravan riding close by.

  “I see you’ve met Roshan,” Walagash said. From somewhere deep in his chest came the deep rumble of a mountain laughing. “Roshan is the only member of my caravan who is more jealous of its safety than I am.”

  “You said so yourself, Father.” Roshan reached up to adjust the thick folds of cloth serving as his protection from the sun. “Strangers on the road are dangerous. Send him away.”

  “Dangerous? He doesn’t look dangerous.” Walagash clenched his hand into a giant fist. “Are you . . . wait, what’s your name?”

  “Myrad,” he said, then winced. He shouldn’t have been foolish enough to give his real name.

  “Life requires rules, but flexibility as well,” Walagash said. “Return to the rear, Roshan. Let me speak with our visitor.” He waited until the boy had ridden beyond earshot. “Roshan is of my tent, part of my household, and will inherit my caravan someday. To make a profit, a merchant has to be able to read people. Roshan is nearly as skilled at it as I am.”

  “I’ve heard it said that desperate men make for good customers.” Myrad had heard the quote his entire life in the marketplace, from the lowest seller of melons to those offering the finest silks. “But I’ve always thought the most skilled merchants are those who can determine a customer’s greatest desire and fulfill it.”

  “True.” Walagash’s expression sharpened, grew speculative. “You’re acquainted with the rudiments of trade at the very least. Tell me, Myrad, which portion of the great road have you traveled and how often?”

  Something in the merchant’s demeanor warned him against trying to shade the truth. “I haven’t,” Myrad answered. “I was born and raised in the city, but I worked the marketplace with my mother for most of my life.”

  Walagash nodded. “An honest answer and well spoken, for you could have simply let me continue with my assumption.”

  Beyond the merchant’s assurances, Myrad sensed the man was still testing him in some way. Walagash’s gaze never wavered. “No,” he said. “You knew I was no merchant.”

  Walagash cocked his head. “Also well spoken. Lone travelers on the road are uncommon but not unheard of. You may ride with us until sunset, but I won’t extend my protection to you and I won’t allow you to bring trouble on my caravan. Ride at the back.”

  Myrad returned to the rear to ride with the three guards posted there. Each of them rode with two bows, matching quivers, and long knives. Roshan eyed him with suspicion, while the man with the wispy beard, Aban, offered him a welcoming nod. Myrad was surprised to discover the third guard, riding on Aban’s right, was a woman. Her name was Storana, who appeared to be of an age with Aban, about fifty, and only a fool would miss the ease with which she handled her weapons. Her face, weathered by sun and life, held traces of the beauty of her youth. When she caught him staring at her, her hand slid closer to her knife.

  “My apologies,” he said. “I’ve seen warriors among the Parthians before, but none of them were women.”

  She smiled at that and shed a decade from her face. “I’m not Parthian. I’m from Sarmatia.”

  Myrad recognized the name. The Sarmatians lived to the north of the empire, part of the conglomeration of tribes most referred to as the Scythians.

  “It’s a fairly close relationship,” Aban said.

  “It is,” Storana agreed, “but in Sarmatia, women are encouraged to be warriors. In fact, a woman so trained is forbidden to marry until she kills her first man in battle.” She gave Aban a look that held a familiar affection.

  Aban laughed. “It’s fortunate for me your skills were considerable from an early age.” He reached out and gripped her hand for an instant.

  The caravan snaked its way north at a camel’s walk. Try as he might, Myrad couldn’t help but check over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. Had those seeking him followed his false trail to Babylon? Probably not. The deception felt clumsy even as he’d said it, and merchants were experts at spotting liars.

  As though his worries held the power to conjure his fears, soldiers appeared in the distance behind them. Though there were only two of them, they came at a fast trot and would overtake the caravan in moments. If he attempted to flee, the soldiers would easily run him down. But if he stayed where he was, they would kill him as soon as they saw his sandals and the ruin of his foot. The desert swam in his vision, the air feeling too thick to breathe. He shifted on his blanket to see the guards staring at him, their expressions ranging from pity to suspicion. “If you hide me, I’ll pay you.”

  Storana glanced at Aban, but Roshan spoke first. “Whatever you’ve done to bring trouble on yourself is your problem. Drop back or ride ahead, but separate yourself from the caravan.”

  Myrad looked to Aban, and after a moment’s hesitation, the guard agreed. “If the god of the shining fire wills, you will survive. If not . . .”

  The riders’ approach ate at the distance to the caravan. Myrad’s lungs constricted, and motes of black filled his vision. The caravan crested a hill, blocking them from the sight of the soldiers, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. But instead of fleeing, he reined in a moment later beside the merchant. “There are men coming, soldiers looking for me. If you hide me, I will pay you.”

  Walagash’s face clouded. “No. Whatever trouble you have is yours to face. If I am caught hiding you, your troubles become mine.”

  Myrad’s thoughts fragmented and scattered as the need to flee flooded through him. “Then don’t hide me,” he blurted. “Trade with me.”

  The merchant’s brows rose, and the hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. “What sort of trade do you propose?”

  “I need a pair of boots. I’ll pay.”

  “Indeed?” The merchant smiled in earnest. “I’m intrigued. Aban!”

  The guard rode forward at a gallop. Walagash gestured toward Myrad. “My fellow traveler here has a sudden, and I’m guessing a quite pressing, need for a pair of boots. I judge the two of you to be of a size. Are you interested in selling your spare pair?”

  Aban nodded. “They’re my second favorite pair, so I’m not sure he could offer me a price that—”

  Myrad yanked open his purse and pulled out a gold aureus, a coin worth twenty-five silver denarii. “Here.”

  Aban’s eyes widened. “Sold.” He rummaged through the pack on the back of his horse, then turned to hand Myrad a worn pair of leather boots, pointed at the toes in the style of Parthian horsemen.

  Walagash waved toward the rear. “You have your trade. Now drop back, away from my caravan.”

  Myrad reined in his horse, removed his sandals, and hid them in his bag. The caravan passed by him as he jammed the left boot onto his foot. Yet the right boot refused to slip over the ruin of his clubfoot. He grabbed the sides and pulled harder, but neither the boot nor his foot yielded.

  The last of the camels walked past him. As the guards approached on their horses, Aban leaned toward him. “You have two minutes, perhaps three before the soldiers crest the rise behind us.”

  A panicked sob burst from Myrad. Think! What did the soldiers need to see?

  He pulled a tunic from his pack and cut the sleeves from it. These he stuffed into the boot, filling it. Then he took his dagger and cut a slit from the inside hem of his right trouser leg up to the knee. He tied the stuffed boot with string so that it hung from his knee. He shoved his leg beneath the riding blanket, rumpling it to disguise its presence. He bent to tu
ck the loose ends of his trouser leg around the boot just before the soldiers crested the rise behind him.

  He found himself a few dozen paces behind the caravan. Out of pity or concern, Walagash pulled the guards from the rear, leaving him isolated, perhaps to create the illusion Myrad was the sole guard assigned there.

  As the guards drew close, Myrad spared a single glance toward them—no more or less than he supposed a caravan guard would do—before he let his gaze sweep over the scenery, trying to adopt an air of bored indifference. His pulse hammered in his ears. The riders passed by on either side, and after a cursory glance at his feet, they rode on.

  Myrad didn’t take his eyes off them until they had disappeared out of sight over the horizon. Aban drifted back until he and Myrad rode side by side. “Walagash says you may ride with us for the rest of the day. But when we stop, our association ends.”

  On the northern horizon he could still make out the receding dust of the men hunting him. There would be more. If he couldn’t find a better way to hide, he would die.

  Two hours before sunset, the caravan came to the next oasis along the road to Rhagae. Up ahead, Roshan appeared at Walagash’s side. The merchant gave the boy orders for setting up camp, which Roshan relayed to the guards. The camels and horses were picketed on the east side of the oasis, where sweating men pumped water from an underground cistern into a long trough.

  To the north of their camp, another caravan, this one composed of horses only, also stopped for the night. Walagash stood a few paces away, eying their goods and their owner—a man in his sixties with close-set eyes and a strong nose—with what appeared to be curiosity, desire, and resignation.

  “Who is he?” Myrad asked.