The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  “I invited you into my tent. What did you think I was doing?” Walagash shrugged. “But the decision is hers, and Roshan is a woman of strange inclinations, perhaps because I raised her in the caravan.” He nodded toward the center of the tent. “I think she’s ready to hear your offer. That is, if you wish to make one.”

  Myrad turned to see Roshan speaking to the last merchant of the inner circle. The others had resumed their seats with airs of confident or hopeful expectation. His head spinning, Myrad worked his way back to the table he’d shared with Yehudah.

  “Are you married?” he asked the magus.

  Yehudah nodded. “I was. She died while giving birth. I still miss her.”

  “You didn’t remarry?”

  “No.” He smiled against the grief in his eyes. “I needed time. I still do. Perhaps someday I will find one who will capture my heart as thoroughly as Hannah did. You know, it’s the custom of our people for a man to abide in his tent with his new wife for a year so they can come to know each other.” He looked up and around. “This is a very nice tent.”

  “What could I offer her?” Myrad asked.

  Yehudah looked him in the eyes. “The desire of her heart.”

  The tinkling of bells warned him of Roshan’s approach. He rose, turning to see her staring at him, the face the same and yet completely different, framed by long lashes and lustrous hair. Idly, he wondered if she had a knife secreted away in the folds of her silks.

  “Do you wish to make an offer for my hand, magus?” Roshan asked. She made a sweeping gesture. “I’ve been offered jewels, horses, servants, gold, even a palace. And my prospective husbands have promised to lavish me with all the attention I desire. What do you offer?”

  “Would you want a man like me for a husband?” He bit his lip, frustrated he’d spoken the thought aloud.

  She leaned in closer so that no one else could hear them. “Don’t you really mean, would I be willing to marry a cripple, a man with a clubfoot?”

  He nodded.

  Her shoulders rose and fell, dismissive. “Foolishness. Now, if you didn’t know how to ride a horse, that would be another matter.” She smiled. “Can you give me the desire of my heart, Myrad?”

  The way she asked the question told him none of the other men had managed to offer her what she most wanted. He thought back to their time on the road. She’d always seemed content in her father’s caravan. With a flash of insight, he remembered the horse trader in Hecatompylos, the woman who’d surpassed her uncle.

  He lifted his head to see Roshan waiting, her lips parted, ready to accept or deny him.

  “If you marry me,” he said, “I will hold you equal to me in everything, and where your wisdom exceeds mine, I will defer to you.”

  Her eyes widened, and the beginning of a smile curved her lips. “I’m afraid such vague promises won’t suffice, honored magus. You will have to be more specific.”

  “The caravan is yours.”

  She nodded. “A worthy beginning, but what about you?”

  He thought for a moment about what Yehudah had told him. When he spoke he ducked his head, too afraid to meet her gaze. “I’m yours as well, if you’ll have one such as me.”

  “Closer,” she said, “but I want you to prove you know my heart and mind.”

  “This”—his gesture encompassed the tent—“wasn’t what you wanted. You said so. Here in this tent you may choose your husband, but it’s not really your choice. You have to pick a silk merchant. This is why you wanted your father’s linen. I am not a silk merchant. In truth, I’m not a magus either. You would be hard-pressed to find someone poorer than I. Why would you want me?”

  Roshan lifted his chin, her hand soft, her eyes kind and luminous. “I saw a depth of courage in you I never expected to see. Day after day you endured torture to keep yourself and the rest of us from being discovered.” She moved closer until she filled his vision. “I would be honored to have one such as you.”

  Myrad glanced around the tent. All eyes were on Roshan, all awaiting her decision. “What do we do now?”

  By way of answer, she kissed him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Myrad stood with Yehudah just outside of Walagash’s tent before dawn, waiting for the merchant to emerge. Myrad tried to draw a deep breath and winced, gasping when a needle-sharp pain lanced across his middle. “I think Walagash cracked a rib. Maybe two.”

  Yehudah nodded. “The Parthians are a demonstrative people, and the merchant is big enough to make his enthusiasm dangerous. Take shallow breaths.”

  Ignoring the advice, Myrad tried to take another deep breath in an attempt to clear the effect of countless toasts from his head. The hour was either very late, very early, or both.

  “Look there,” Yehudah said.

  Myrad looked to where his friend had pointed. There, two hands over the western horizon, the King’s star shone with a pure and steady light.

  “It appeared at sunset,” Yehudah said, “and the star hasn’t moved all night.”

  Wonder filled Myrad as he gazed at it. “Like the mariner’s star.”

  “Except this one is down near the horizon.”

  “It frightens me a bit,” Myrad admitted.

  “Understandable,” Yehudah said. “Fear of such a mystery—such power—should be felt by any man with sense. God has touched His creation with His own hand. Who knows what will happen?”

  “Is the calendar wrong?” Myrad asked, but inside, his question went further. Had Gershom given his life to a mistake?

  Yehudah took his time before answering. “I don’t think so. It’s been kept by hundreds, even thousands over the centuries, constantly checked and double-checked to ensure not even one day was lost.”

  “Then what does the star mean?”

  The magus smiled. “If the Most High wills it, we’ll find out.”

  The flap to Walagash’s tent fluttered and the merchant emerged, his scowl hinting at the consequences of the previous night’s excess. Even by torchlight his eyes looked bloodshot. When he saw the pair of them, he brightened. “Myrad, you and your friend are up early. Come, we will eat and greet the eternal fire of the day together.”

  “Walagash, please, we need to talk.”

  The merchant halted his advance, his gaze taking in Yehudah. “This business you spoke of, it involves your friend here?”

  “Yes.” He stopped. Now that the moment arrived, words failed him. He looked from Yehudah to Walagash, but the two men simply waited. “I’m one of the magi who keep the calendar.”

  “I know this,” Walagash said.

  Again, Myrad tried taking a deep breath but to no avail. “I have had a dream, a dream of a light in the heavens, with the voice of God telling me it’s the Messiah’s star and that I should go and see.”

  The merchant’s expression clouded. “You’re not coming with us?”

  “I am.” Myrad searched for some combination of explanation and apology to satisfy him, but his thoughts became a jumble. “I also have to go to Judea.”

  He expected anger. Instead, Walagash grew still. “Your dream is telling you this?”

  “Yes. It’s the same dream I had the night before Gershom was killed.” He gestured toward Yehudah. “The same dream the other magi have had, and it’s what made me seek you out here in Margiana . . .” He stopped.

  Walagash waved his hand at him. “Go on.” His voice sounded neutral, though a storm seemed to be gathering in his expression.

  With a nod, Myrad continued. “We’re hoping to travel together as far as Palmyra. After that, I will journey to Judea with Yehudah and the rest of the magi.”

  “What of Roshan?” Walagash asked. “Do you still want her for your wife?”

  The thought of her, how she’d fooled him for weeks, made him smile. “Yes. When I’ve satisfied the command of the Most High, I will return.”

  Walagash leaned forward, his gaze intent. “And be part of my tent?”

  This was no simple question; Walagash soug
ht a commitment. “If the Most High allows it, I will return to marry Roshan and be part of your tent,” Myrad promised. “It shouldn’t take too long. Jerusalem is but three weeks from Palmyra. I won’t be more than two months behind you.”

  Walagash paused, then nodded his concession. “Who am I to argue with your God? But if you do not return to us within six months from our parting, I will allow Roshan to choose another. Now,” he said to Yehudah, “there are those seeking Myrad’s life. Do they seek yours as well?”

  “The magi with us are no friends to Phraates and Musa, but we do not have their attention as Myrad does. Without our circlets, no one we’re likely to encounter will recognize us.”

  “And what do you offer in exchange for traveling with my caravan?”

  The magus bowed. “My cataphracts will travel with me, and they will guard your silks as if they were my own.”

  Walagash extended his oversized hand. “We have an agreement.”

  They gathered to leave later that morning. This time there would be no camels. Their cargo, a supply of silks of middling quality, lay strapped to sturdy packhorses bred for the task. If for any reason they needed to travel with speed, they would be able. Yehudah, along with his cataphracts and the other magi, left momentarily to claim their gold from the banker. When they returned, Masista and three additional cataphracts rode with them.

  “You’re the one going with us?” Myrad said.

  The magus smiled. “With the silver from Hecatompylos secure, Orodes is considering other options. He thought it best if I personally oversee the success of your mission.”

  Roshan reached over to squeeze his hand. Her other hand was on her knife.

  Yehudah seemed to take Masista’s company in stride. “I’m surprised Orodes would sacrifice the counsel of such an esteemed magus.” He shrugged. “Perhaps with the delivery of the mercenaries you supplied, he no longer sees you as indispensable.”

  Masista’s smile never wavered. “Your mission is more valuable to Orodes than you imagine, and at more risk. If you wish to travel through Judea, you will need someone who speaks fluent Latin. The Romans are unforgiving of offense. Who knows? Perhaps, with my help, you will be able to claim a part in the rebirth of the Parthian Empire.” He held an arm up in invitation. “Shall we journey forth?”

  “Not just yet,” Yehudah said. “We’ll be traveling with the good merchant Walagash.” He eyed Masista’s cataphracts. “Under the circumstances, I thought it best to travel in strength.”

  When Masista pivoted to consider the cohort of guards assembled there, his expression darkened. “We don’t have time to plod along with camels.”

  “Of course.” Yehudah gave him a mock bow. “That’s why we’ve secured passage with a silk merchant. He’ll travel quickly and provide us with disguises once we reenter Phraates’s territory.”

  Masista’s gaze lightened. “Gold and silk? What a prize you’ve arranged, my friend. Very well, I consent.”

  “No,” Walagash said. “I will not permit it.”

  “Permit?” Masista scoffed. He turned to Yehudah. “You haven’t told him?”

  “Told me what?”

  Yehudah inclined his head toward Masista. “Orodes has granted this magus authority to travel with us.”

  Walagash’s voice came out in a bark. “What does Orodes have to do with you?”

  With a sigh, Yehudah answered, “Apparently, he thinks our mission may serve his ends somehow, though where he got that idea is anyone’s guess.”

  Masista’s smile returned. “It is a mystery.”

  They departed Margiana an hour later. This time, Myrad rode in the center of the caravan alongside the other magi. They and their gifts for the Messiah were on one side of him, Roshan on the other. Walagash and his guards followed just behind, each man with his bow strung and ready. As they crested a hill, he looked back toward Margiana, whose merchants and soldiers grew increasingly restless. What would war look like?

  “If Orodes does not strike quickly, war will come and the Khushan will try to take the city,” Yehudah said.

  “The first strike will belong to us,” Masista said. “And every strike thereafter. The Romans fight well in the hills and mountains, but they are incapable of defeating the horsemen of Parthia in the plains and deserts.”

  “Perhaps,” said Walagash. “But Musa has Parthians to fight for her now, does she not? The real question is, will she learn from her countrymen’s mistake, or repeat it?”

  Walagash’s question penetrated the fog in Myrad’s thoughts. “What mistake did the Romans make?”

  Yehudah pointed to one of his cataphracts. “Tomyris, I could relate the facts but not their import nearly so well as you, I think.”

  The cataphract took a pull from his waterskin, then trotted his horse over to ride at Myrad’s side. “Most people, even military men, will tell you the Romans blundered when they tried to engage cavalry with foot soldiers, but that reveals a lack of understanding. If Crassus had attacked from the mountains the way those cursed Armenians offered, we would have been hard-pressed to defeat him.

  “Mounted men will destroy an army on foot in the plains or the desert, but it takes infantry to besiege and hold a city,” Tomyris continued. “The Romans’ mistake lay in thinking they could overcome the disadvantage of the terrain with sheer numbers. They assumed at some point, Surena, the general in charge of the Parthian cavalry, would have to engage the Romans in order to defeat them.”

  That made perfect sense to Myrad. “Didn’t he?”

  Tomyris gave him a grim smile. “Actually, no, though he tried at first. He sent heavy cavalry against the Roman line, hoping to break through and kill Marcus Crassus in a single stroke. But the Romans held. That was a tactic they were familiar with. Surena ordered a retreat, then sent his light cavalry ahead to rake the lines using the bow. What the Romans never counted on was that Surena brought an almost inexhaustible supply of arrows.” The cataphract shook his head. “They crouched behind their shields as death rained down on them, thinking we would run out of arrows. But when the arrows showed no sign of stopping, Crassus grew desperate, and desperate men lose.”

  Myrad almost felt sorry for the Romans, caught in the middle of the desert, frantic to engage an enemy who remained just out of their reach. “Wait. Didn’t the Romans have bows as well? Why didn’t they fire back?”

  A voice came from behind him. “Because they didn’t have these.”

  Myrad swung around to see Storana holding an unstrung bow made of horn and sinew, its tips almost touching to create a heart shape. “Behold, the weapon that will rule the world.”

  A few hours passed before Myrad, at a signal from Yehudah, let his horse drift back a few dozen paces to where their conversation would not be overheard. Hakam and Dov joined them some moments later.

  “Masista presents a problem,” Yehudah began. “Despite his words, I don’t think his ends and ours align. Orodes seeks the throne. Even with mercenaries and the eastern satrapies, the issue is in doubt. Indeed, I think Phraates’s soldiers will still outnumber his. It looks as though Orodes seeks to create a war or the threat of war between the Romans and the Parthian Empire.” Yehudah pointed forward, where Masista’s cataphracts surrounded the magi. “Orodes isn’t sending a peaceful mission into Israel; he’s sending a show of force. He wants the Romans to respond.”

  Hakam pursed his lips. “Not necessarily. It’s possible he seeks to align with Israel simply to keep the Romans there, so they can’t serve as reinforcements for Phraates and Musa. Our people”—his glance excluded Myrad—“have always been restless beneath their conquerors.”

  “Perhaps,” Yehudah said. “Once we enter Syria, we will be in Roman territory and Masista will bear watching. My Latin is too weak to prevent subterfuge.”

  So many questions clamored for attention in Myrad’s head, he didn’t know which to ask. From the time Gershom brought him into his household, he’d bent to the task of learning the languages of the empire: Greek, A
ramaic, and Parthi. Gershom had added Hebrew to the list early on, though few magi and even fewer people knew it. Myrad had become just fluent enough in those languages to begin his studies in history when Musa killed the magi. In every conversation since, he felt as though half of it were taking place in yet another tongue. Merchants and magi made references he couldn’t grasp, and before he could ask for clarification, the conversations had moved on.

  He and Roshan let their horses drift farther back, past the rear of the caravan where in the past they’d ridden with Aban and Storana. His gaze slipped to his betrothed, noting again the delicate features sprinkled with freckles and the sweep of her jawline, and he laughed at himself in disbelief. More than one veil had lifted with their betrothal. How could he ever have thought her to be a boy?

  “What troubles you, joon-am?”

  His speculations dispersed in an instant, forgotten at her greeting. She’d just called him her life. “There’s too much I don’t know.” More than anything he wanted to understand, yet the pace of recent events had left him reeling.

  Roshan’s eyes danced with her smile. “You need a diversion. Do you dice?” She dug into the pack behind her and brought out a small, flat board with elevated rims around the sides. Then she pulled out a pair of dice, numbered so that two was on the opposite face from one, four on the opposite side from three, and six opposite from five. Gershom used dice to teach him the rudiments of probability. It had been the study he enjoyed most and he’d taken to it immediately. When he’d learned everything Gershom could teach him, his father sent him to an ancient magus named Otanes, a Mede who bragged he could trace his educational lineage to Archimedes.

  Otanes claimed every decision a man made could be aided by analyzing the probabilities involved. Myrad bowed his head in grief. The old magus hadn’t foreseen the likelihood of Musa’s coup.

  “I did once,” he replied, “but that was to learn calculations. I don’t know much about games.”

  Roshan laughed lightly. “You diced without gaming? That is like owning a horse without riding. Come, let’s play.”