The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  Myrad could hear the ululating cries of horsemen. He nocked an arrow and waited. The thunder of hooves came closer, yet from his perch he could see nothing. Panic and realization hit him as one. “How will we know our targets?”

  Nimar raised his voice above the clamor and shouts of the approaching horsemen. “Our men wear black on their sleeves.”

  The soldiers of Artabanus came rushing into view with a hail of arrows chasing after them. Myrad saw a soldier go down, taken by an arrow to the back. He struggled to crawl away, but the horses behind trampled him. A cry filled the air before it was cut off.

  Myrad put an arrow to his string and drew. Too soon, those who wore black armbands passed by, less than half the number he’d seen in the valley. And more were falling. “They’re being slaughtered.”

  Nimar’s scowl promised retribution. “Survival was never our purpose.”

  The first rider without black on his arms came into view. Nimar put his hand on Myrad’s arm as he prepared to fire. “Patience. Give the trap time to work.”

  They waited until Musa’s last rider entered the ravine and then a hundred men placed on the hillside let fly. The ordered column of horsemen erupted into chaos. Men toppled from their horses before they could bring their bows to bear. Farther up the ravine, those who fled from Musa’s men turned, hiding behind whatever cover was available to fire into the front ranks. Withering fire answered them, but they held.

  Musa’s column of riders collapsed from back to front. A stray arrow flew by Myrad, but only one. His hands found their rhythm—nock, draw, aim, release—as over and over again he fired into the column, sighting along his arrow and aiming slightly to the right as Aban had taught him. He never checked to see if his arrow struck true, an admonishment from Storana. The screams of men and horses filled the canyon, then echoed from the rocks in weak imitation, turning plaintive.

  And just as suddenly as the battle had started, it ended. Men descended from the hillside in pairs to dispatch enemies or succor allies. The dead were left lying on the ground for scavengers.

  Sweat streamed from Myrad’s face into his eyes, and his back ached from drawing the heavy bow. A trickle of sweat worked its way down between his shoulder blades.

  “You told the truth,” Nimar said.

  “I’m bound to,” he said without thinking.

  “You fought with discipline,” Nimar went on as though he hadn’t spoken, “but you ride and shoot as one new to the craft.”

  They followed the surviving men down the hillside, where the others busied themselves looting the dead. Of the one hundred men Nimar placed on the hillside, only two had been lost, one to a stray arrow that took him through the eye and another to one of Musa’s men who killed him as he lay injured. Of those men who’d led Musa’s soldiers into the trap, only fifty remained.

  They rode back into the valley with a long train of riderless horses in tow. Nimar pointed to them. “Your idea was timely. A warrior should have a horse beneath him fast enough to carry him to safety. I offer you the first pick.”

  Myrad had spent enough time with Aban and Storana to appreciate the honor Nimar bestowed on him. He bowed low enough to touch his forehead to his horse’s mane. “Thank you, but any of these fine horses would be wasted on me. It will be years before I master the Parthian shot.” He smiled and patted Areion on the neck. “My horse may not be the swiftest, but he has saved my life, and it would be poor thanks for his loyalty to trade him for another. But if you could spare some oats for him, I would be grateful. He’s earned that and more.” He swept his arm from left to right to indicate the possible directions from the valley. “Where will you go now?”

  “To tell Artabanus the way east is open.”

  “I can’t go with you. The caravan I was separated from will be headed west.”

  Nimar shook his head. “Where you go or do not go will be determined by Artabanus, but I will tell him of your aid.” He smiled. “And that neither you nor your horse are suited for battle. Did you watch the flight of your arrows?”

  “My teacher told me not to. It would only slow my release.”

  Nimar chuckled. “That part is true enough. You never struck a man, though twice you came close enough to frighten their horses. Your lack of skill may be what saves you from being pressed into Artabanus’s service.”

  CHAPTER 25

  For the next two days they rode northwest at a canter, switching horses to quicken their pace. They traveled ancient roads fallen into disuse as the seat of Parthian power moved west and south from the district of Parthia on the eastern side of the Hyrcanian Sea to the satrapy of Babylon. By the time they arrived at the ruins of Zadracarta, the smell of salt hung heavy in the air.

  They emerged at dusk from the forested roads onto a flat shelf of land filled with the gray, broken remains of a city. Guards ghosted into view from behind trees, rocks, and the carcasses of buildings. Whispers of movement behind them brought an itch to Myrad’s back, but when Nimar called out a phrase in Parthian Myrad didn’t understand, the guards relaxed and a pair of men came out from the shadows of the nearest ruin to meet them. The larger of the two, a man who wore authority as naturally as the thick beard proclaiming his Persian heritage, greeted them warmly.

  “Nimar, this is an unlooked-for pleasure. Was Phraates’s force smaller than we reckoned?”

  “No, Sharif. If anything they brought more men than our scouts reported, but the fates offered us a means toward victory. None of their men survived. The way east is open, for the moment.”

  Sharif’s eyes widened for an instant before he smiled. “Come,” he beckoned. “I will let you bring Artabanus this news yourself. He will want to reward you, I think. There is food and water near the center of the city for your men and horses to take their rest.”

  Nimar pointed to Myrad. “If I may have that man join me, honored Sharif, I believe Artabanus will wish to hear what he has to say.”

  Sharif eyed Myrad, noting his clothes and appearance the way a merchant might examine an item before purchase, but any conclusions he drew were kept from his expression. “A mystery answered and another posed,” Sharif said.

  Myrad surrendered his horse to one of the guards, with Nimar stepping in beside him. “Give this horse fresh oats and a good brushing as if he were the finest Nisean mount in the desert,” Nimar told the man.

  “Thank you,” Myrad said.

  They caught up to Sharif, who led them deeper into the ruined city. As night fell, they came to a large building without a roof, which had managed to retain all four of its walls. Sharif took them inside to where the prince of the Hyrcanian satrapy held an improvised court. They approached a circle of light. There at the center, a man was seated, impressive in stature, speaking to other men of similar bearing to Sharif, all of them surrounded by guards. Sharif stopped at the outer edge of the light and waited until they were beckoned forward.

  Myrad felt a touch on his sleeve. “If you are familiar with the throne room of Phraates,” Sharif said, “then you would do well to behave likewise here. The prince of Hyrcania holds similar power, if on a smaller scale.”

  At last they were called forward. Sharif led them into the lighted circle, and Myrad gaped. Though younger by twenty years or so, the prince of Hyrcania bore a stunning likeness to Phraates, the dead king.

  “Greetings, Nimar,” the prince said. His gaze, piercing in the subdued light, sifted them with a glance. “Are you here in retreat? Your orders were to hold as long as possible and then lead Musa’s men away.”

  Nimar bowed. Myrad rushed to mimic him, holding his torso parallel to the broken stones of the floor. “Retreat and deception were both unnecessary, my prince. Musa’s cohort lies dead in a ravine. Not a man of theirs escaped.”

  The prince’s brows rose. “How was this accomplished?”

  Nimar straightened from his bow. Again, Myrad mimicked him. “I was reminded of the power of a deceptive retreat,” Nimar said, favoring Myrad with a smile.

  “S
peak plainly,” the prince commanded.

  Chastened, Nimar ducked his head toward Myrad. “This is Myrad, my prince. He rode into the valley where we chose to make our stand after being caught in a storm. He suggested using the ravine that was nearly his death to trap our enemy. We engaged as planned in the valley, protecting the road. Then, when the timing was right, we fled into the ravine, making sure we had enough men to remain a threat if we were not pursued. The enemy took the bait. They came after us, pursuing where we had archers waiting on the sides of the canyon. After all of Musa’s men entered, we turned and boxed them in. None escaped. The way east is open, at least until word of the defeat reaches Musa or her forces.”

  The prince stood, musing on this news. Myrad watched with interest. For the second time, Nimar referred to their enemy by Musa’s name, not Phraates’s, and again the prince showed no surprise. He knew. Somehow word had already reached him of Phraates’s death.

  “That is well,” the prince said. “Musa’s second force is no more than two days south of here. When they arrive, I want to make sure we’re not here and they cannot determine which way we’ve gone. See to it.”

  Nimar pivoted on one heel and departed, but when Myrad made to go with him, the prince’s voice stopped him. “You will remain.”

  The echo of Nimar’s footsteps followed him out of the derelict building while the prince reseated himself on the makeshift pile of stones and allowed himself the leisure to examine Myrad. “Where does a youth come by the knowledge to give instruction to one of my captains?”

  Myrad bowed before he spoke, unsure of the correct response. “My father was one of the magi. He taught me as much as I could learn before he was killed at Musa’s command. Some of the Greek stories he read to me were about war and how smaller forces defeated larger ones.”

  The prince registered this in silence before he spoke again. “A caravan stumbled into our perimeter a day and a half ago, trying to reach the coast of the sea and the Hyrcanian road. Several of their number petitioned me for permission to search east and south of here for one of their number who’d been lost.”

  Myrad’s heart leapt within him and he took a step toward the throne before he realized it. Guards in heavy armor on either side stepped forward to block his way. He quickly retreated, bowing his apology. “Roshan? Walagash?”

  The prince nodded. “I see you are familiar with them.” He turned to one of his guards. “Bring the merchant and the rest.”

  The man left at a run.

  “You should know,” the prince continued, “I have commanded the loyalty of the merchant and everyone with him to help break through the forces Musa sent to keep me from gaining the east.”

  Myrad dipped his head at the expected moment, but his response seemed to irritate the prince.

  “You have nothing to say? According to this merchant, you have orchestrated not one but two daring thefts from Musa’s treasury, not only providing the eastern satrapies of funds to buy men and weapons but also depriving Musa of the ability to do the same. You look ordinary enough. From the merchant’s description I expected something closer to the divine to walk among us.” The prince stared at him for a heartbeat before he continued. “Most men would protest they’d already rendered more than enough service. Yet you stand there in silence as if the gods have taken your tongue.”

  He groped for words. “I . . . I should be dead,” he said finally. “Abandoned in the desert, hunted by Phraates, caught in a flood. My prince, I can’t tell you why I’m not, although those with me would tell you it’s the favor of God.” Weak laughter caught him by surprise. “It doesn’t feel like favor, my prince.”

  “And how would a mere apprentice to the magi, and a lame one at that, come by such favor?” the prince asked.

  Myrad held his hands out, palms up, the gesture of ignorant surrender he’d seen Gershom use countless times. “I don’t know. God gave me a dream of a star and told me to follow it to His King.”

  “One of your company told me of this dream. This is true?”

  Myrad nodded. “The dream is true, my prince, yet I cannot tell you if the interpretation is sure. I’m only an apprentice.”

  Artabanus took a deep breath to continue, but noise at the entrance to the roofless building stopped him, and movement there set the torches to guttering. “Stand behind me,” he ordered. “Stay hidden until I signal you.”

  Myrad complied, stationing himself next to one of the massive guards whose hands never left his weapons.

  Walagash, Hakam, Yehudah, and Masista stepped into the circle of torchlight and bowed to the prince.

  “I have considered your request, and I still deny it,” the prince said. “I cannot spare any men to search for your friend. The fight against Rome’s influence is too important to have them out looking for a single magus.”

  Hidden in the shadows, Myrad could read the expressions of each man standing before the prince. Walagash seemed utterly stricken, pain wreaking violence on his bluff features. Next to him, Yehudah appeared perplexed, as if the deaths of Dov and Myrad himself served to undermine a fundamental belief. Hakam and Masista wore identical expressions of resignation.

  The prince waited, but none of the men before him spoke. The pressure of the silence built until it became an unwelcome guest. Masista took a half step forward. “My prince, please reconsider my request.”

  The prince cocked his head to one side, the resemblance to Phraates surfacing again. “You wish for me to allow a gift of armed men and gold we cannot help but need to slip through my fingers?”

  Masista nodded. “Yes, if these gifts can persuade the Armenians to throw their weight against Rome. A few more men can hardly compare to the advantage gained if Musa is forced to fight a two-front war.”

  The prince laughed. “You expect the family of Tigranes to commit to the weaker side? I thought the magi were learned men. The Armenians have ever been allies of circumstance, and circumstances change. I am more interested in this messiah in Judea. The Hebrews are not so numerous, but they have a history of rebellion that could prove useful. Even an unsuccessful uprising would serve to pin Roman forces there instead of bolstering Musa’s claim.”

  “Forgive my surprise, my prince,” Yehudah said, “but I don’t understand why you would consider an option you previously mocked as a fable contrived to secure our release.”

  “Your story was impossible to confirm, magus,” the prince replied. “Only those in your company, and not all of them, can see this star, and I’ve heard nothing of any prince in Judea to challenge the might of Herod and Rome.” He paused. “Our situation has changed, however. It may be the god of the shining fire or the god of the Hebrews has smiled upon us. My men have utterly defeated Musa’s force to the east. I no longer have such pressing need for a single group of caravan guards. Though I think you have little chance of convincing the offspring of Tigranes to aid us, you now have the luxury of making the attempt.”

  From his vantage point in the shadows, Myrad saw Walagash’s eyes go wide. “You said their story was impossible to confirm. How have you verified it, my prince?”

  Seated, the prince didn’t turn, but his right arm came back to beckon him. Myrad stepped forward into the pool of light.

  And he found himself in Walagash’s crushing embrace. He fought to pull air into his lungs. “I can’t breathe.” His voice came out in a whisper.

  Smiling, the prince rose. “Take your caravan and those of your tent into Armenia, merchant. I’ll give you a warning by way of recompense for the apprentice’s aid. Mount your horses and do not let your feet touch the ground until you’ve left Hyrcania. Musa’s larger force is coming from the south.” He stepped forward to take Myrad’s forearm in his grip. “If you and I survive, your counsel would be welcome in my court.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Myrad stumbled after Walagash and the other magi, buoyed by their joy, but so weary he would have gladly dropped to the dirt and slept for a week. Nimar himself brought Areion to him. Tr
ue to his word, his chestnut coat gleamed, and bits of oats dropped from his lips as he tossed his head in recognition. Myrad patted him on the neck.

  Still, his body cried for sleep, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his familiar corner of Walagash’s tent. But more than sleep, he needed to see Roshan. When they arrived at the square within the abandoned city where Walagash and his company had been placed, she waited.

  There were strangers present, so he didn’t call her name. Then, at the sound of their approach, she turned toward him. Her eyes widened, and her expression opened for a fraction of a moment until she recovered herself. She came toward him with the gait of a colt whose desire was to break loose of its halter and run. Her footsteps, the swing of her arms, the way her hands clenched and released all spoke of a need for haste. Regardless, she kept herself to a walk.

  When she stood no more than a pace away, she glanced once at his face before her stare took in the mud and stains of battle. “I prayed to every god who might hear me that you would live.” Her voice rasped, and she refused to let her gaze meet his.

  Unsure of how to respond, he stood there discomfited beneath the stares of Walagash, the magi, and his betrothed. They seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but no one asked a question and fatigue left him unsteady on his feet and muddled in his thoughts. “I wasn’t sure I would, but I had reasons to fight,” he said, surprised by how much he meant it.

  The magi left, and the tension of the moment passed somewhat. “We will leave as soon as there is light enough to travel by,” Walagash said to him. “Roshan, see to your betrothed.” He pointed to a building retaining a bit more of its structure than its neighbors.

  “Come,” she said. “I’m sure your foot pains you. I’ll see what can be done.”

  She led him toward the tent, her hand straying from her side several times to take his, but each time she halted before they touched. They stepped through a doorway, and Roshan retrieved a pair of torches and wedged them into niches in the ruins of a wall that shielded them from the rest of the company. Even so, she checked to make sure no one could see them before she threw her arms around him.