The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  “What should I do with it?” Myrad asked.

  Walagash snorted. “Dump it, throw it in the river, I don’t care, but don’t sell it or let anyone see it.” A shift in the noise of the crowd around them broke their attention. In the distance, a group of men approached. Walagash put his huge hand on Myrad’s shoulder. “Hurry. If they see any member of our caravan leaving, they’ll come under suspicion.”

  Myrad left in the opposite direction, keeping a casual pace, but every stray touch as he moved through the crowd stilled his breathing. He wedged the bottle of saffron between his arm and side. The feel of eyes on him raised the hair on the back of his neck. Thirty paces farther on, he stopped, pretending interest in a display of knives, and searched for anyone following him. Not far away, a thin, dark-haired man with a wispy beard mirrored his movements, pausing to look into a blue-and-black-striped tent.

  Myrad stepped through the front entrance of the tent, but as soon as he slipped into the shadows, he rushed out the back entrance. Beyond, he lost himself in the crowd, turning at random. By luck or by fortune, he found himself amid the spice merchants. He slipped into the nearest booth, its shelves nearly empty, and searched the crowd from the shadows.

  “How may I assist you, young master?”

  Myrad spun around. “I’m looking for a quantity of ground saffron. Would you happen to have any?”

  The merchant sighed. “A small amount is all. With the delay of the Parthian caravans, I’m afraid the cost is prohibitive.”

  Myrad pretended disappointment. “Might I see it anyway? That way I can tell my master’s wife I bargained in good faith.”

  The merchant brought forth a large jar with the expensive powder filling the bottom eighth of it. When he leaned over to smell the contents, he unstopped the bottle under his arm and quickly poured the saffron into it. “Ah,” he said. “There’s no finer spice on earth.” He tucked the empty bottle in his tunic and straightened. “What is your price?”

  The merchant quoted an exorbitant amount. “You see?” he said as if to make clear his predicament. “Please offer a prayer for the shipments from the east. Until then, I’m cursed to disappoint my customers and they’re cursing me for it.”

  When the merchant moved to put his precious spice back on the shelf, Myrad slipped away, dropping the empty bottle in the press of the crowd to be trampled underfoot.

  He returned to Walagash to find him sitting on a stool, a dozen men arrayed before him. A Roman centurion stood to one side, next to a merchant who sat with one hand pointing in accusation.

  CHAPTER 29

  The centurion addressed Walagash in Latin first, then switched to Greek when he failed to get a response. “This merchant claims you’ve stolen from him.”

  Walagash spread his hands. “We’ve only just arrived from Parthia.” He pointed at the packhorses still carrying their burden of goods. “What need would a silk merchant have to steal anything?”

  The centurion’s brows rose. “You’re carrying silk?”

  Walagash gave the same smile to the Roman soldier as he would a potential customer. “Indeed.” He motioned to the group of men before him. “We were just about to open negotiations for my goods when you arrived.”

  The centurion turned to the merchant who had brought the complaint. A nervous tic worked its way across his cheek. “You have proof of this theft?”

  The merchant nodded. “Search them. If you find saffron, it’s mine.”

  Walagash scowled. “Expensive, but many merchants carry their own spices to flavor their meals, and the best saffron comes from my country. Who is to say it’s not mine?”

  The merchant pounced on the question. “The bottles have the brand of my house on them.”

  The sea of people wavered in Myrad’s vision. Bottles? He’d found only the one.

  The centurion signaled to a pair of soldiers, who began unloading and searching the first horse. Walagash stepped forward so quickly, the centurion’s hand flew to his short sword.

  Walagash stopped and lifted his hands. “No threat is intended, Centurion, only a request.”

  “What is it?”

  “May I have my own men unload the horses for your inspection?” He gestured at the merchants still seated and waiting. “We were just about to do so, and my cargo is quite valuable, as you can imagine.”

  Under the watchful stare of the centurion, Walagash ordered Aban and Storana to remove the oiled cloth to reveal bundles of shimmering off-white fabric. Myrad stared at the untold wealth the fabric represented. Then he caught sight of the merchants. Each man leaned forward, his expression hungry.

  Even the centurion gaped, and his hand brushed the fabric with a gentle motion. “I can see why the emperor and his favorites clothe themselves in it.”

  Walagash laughed. “This is nothing, Centurion. When the dyers and weavers of Rome are finished with it, the silk cloth will glimmer and shine like the stars themselves in colors we can scarcely imagine.”

  One by one, Aban and Storana unloaded the packhorses and unrolled the bolts of fabric for inspection. As they came to the last horse where Myrad had found the bottle of saffron, the merchant accusing Walagash straightened, his sharp features avid.

  Myrad licked his lips. He’d found only one bottle, yet was there another hidden deep inside the bundle of silk that he’d missed? He watched his friends carefully unroll the folds of expensive fabric, waiting for a bottle of saffron to tumble loose. But when the silk was completely unrolled, no bottle appeared. Myrad breathed a sigh of relief.

  The centurion turned to Walagash. “My apologies, merchant. When there is a theft, it is natural for some men to blame the strangers among us.”

  Walagash didn’t move, though his fists were clenched. “Especially if such a claim might personally enrich oneself.”

  The centurion left, the accusing merchant trailing after him.

  Walagash signaled to the cataphracts around him to post themselves near the merchandise. “Now that the play has reached it conclusion, we can begin. You’ve seen the silk, and I’m well aware there is a shortage in the market.” He paused to look each man in the eye before he went on. “If I deem the bids insufficient, I retain the right of refusal.”

  While several of the traders groaned, the hunger never left their eyes.

  Myrad stepped over to where Aban and Roshan stood, but as he approached them, Roshan turned away and left, darting into the crowd. “I thought there was another bottle in there,” he whispered to Aban.

  Aban took a deep breath and stretched, appearing bored, but his gaze measured the distance to those around them. “There was.”

  “What? How did you keep them from finding it?”

  “Not me. Storana.”

  Myrad looked at the Sarmatian, who grinned back.

  “My fingers aren’t as nimble as they used to be,” Storana said, “but almost anyone could have palmed that bottle. Every time we unwrapped a bolt of silk, the crowd could see nothing else.”

  “Where’s the bottle now?” Myrad asked. “If the merchants see it, they’ll call the centurion back.”

  Aban smiled. “Roshan is getting rid of it. The merchant who accused Walagash of stealing is having a very bad day. He’s lost his chance at the silk, along with a considerable sum in spices.”

  The negotiations dragged into the late afternoon. The merchants, each unwilling to let such a prize escape them, began forming cooperative groups to purchase the cargo. Often they spent more time bargaining with each other than with Walagash. Roshan stood next to Myrad, her attention fixed on the negotiations taking place. Every time Myrad’s focus drifted elsewhere, she gave him a smack on the hand.

  “Watch them,” she insisted.

  “Why? They’ve been at this for hours now.”

  She shook her head at him. “Because you’re watching a master at work. If you could hear the best musician in the world play his instrument, would you leave in the middle of the performance?”

  Myrad frowned. “
But he’s hardly doing anything.”

  “Aren’t there silences in a piece of music? Notice, every time the merchants’ negotiations with each other threaten to break down, my father says just enough to keep them in cooperation. These men are rivals. Look at the way they sit, leaning away from each other, and their expressions when they speak. Most likely some of them hate each other, yet Father has spent all afternoon building their alliance until they can bid as a single unit.”

  Myrad observed Walagash as he offered a well-chosen word, a smile, or a frown whenever negotiations appeared to be breaking down. “Amazing,” he whispered. “They’ll pool their bids to keep from losing out altogether. How much will he get?”

  “No one back east, except for Esai, will believe him, but this sale will establish my father in the silk trade for the rest of his life.” Roshan smiled, her face flushed with excitement. “And we’ve been here to see it.”

  An hour later, ten of the eleven merchants agreed to a price for the lot, with the condition it would be split based on each man’s contribution to the purchase. Roshan practically crowed at the price. “Three-eighths of a talent of gold for each talent of silk.” She turned to Myrad. “That’s as much as the finest grade would bring.”

  After the crowd dispersed and the transaction was finalized with weights and scales, Walagash sought out Myrad. “A difficult journey but a handsome price.”

  Myrad nodded. “You were brilliant. I didn’t even know what I was seeing until Roshan opened my eyes.”

  A grin split the huge man’s face. “I have learned to take what’s been given me and make the best of it.” He pointed to his face.

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

  Walagash winked at him. “I think you do. I still look like a wrestler, big and brutish. People often assume big men have small minds. They don’t stop to think that a man who looks like he can break rocks with his hands might be shrewd as well.”

  Myrad looked down at his right foot. “What do people think about the lame?”

  Walagash’s grin faded, but light still danced in his eyes. “You tell me.”

  “They tell me I’m cursed by my God, shunned for some sin of my parents or my own.” His feelings of being blemished and insufficient still lay beneath Gershom’s lessons to the contrary. “You’re telling me that’s not true?”

  “I’m telling you exactly that,” Walagash said. “You see yourself as a man cursed with a clubfoot and beset by trials at every turn. You’ve been hunted, hurt, drugged, abandoned, and caught in a war having nothing to do with you.” He laughed. This giant in linen robes had the audacity to laugh at Myrad’s struggles.

  “That is what you see,” Walagash went on. “But I see a man who has triumphed over every obstacle placed before him. By the god of the shining fire, you should be dead five times over. Yet here you stand, alive, and part of one of the richest caravans in the empire.”

  “That’s your fortune, not mine.”

  Walagash burst into laughter. “Sometimes I forget that this life is unfamiliar to you, Myrad. Even as a member of my guard, you would be paid handsomely for your part, but you’ve done much more.” He leaned forward and whispered a number that left Myrad’s mouth hanging open.

  Afer sunset, Myrad went looking for Yehudah. He found the magus with Hakam in the broad courtyard of their inn, staring into the sky. He looked up and saw the King’s star blazing as usual just above the horizon, though it no longer shone west of them but instead burned to the south.

  “It’s beautiful,” Yehudah said.

  Hakam pointed to the sky. “And right over Jerusalem.” He glanced at Myrad, then looked away without saying anything, but his dismissive expression said what his mouth hadn’t. Myrad was no Hebrew and could claim no part in the plan of God.

  “What will we do?” Myrad asked. Not for the first time, he mourned the loss of Dov. The quiet poet had always accepted him, and the peace he’d carried calmed Myrad’s fears even when he offered no answers to his many questions.

  Yehudah lifted his gaze to the star once more before he responded. “Follow where the light leads, of course. Once we find the King, we will serve Him.”

  “How?”

  Hakam gave a brief shake of his head as if to say the question wasn’t worth answering. “If God can give us a star to guide us to the Messiah, then He can provide a direction for us once we arrive there. Imagine it,” he said to Yehudah. “The land of our fathers cleansed of Roman rule once and for all.”

  Yehudah nodded, but Myrad saw hesitation in the gesture. Hakam departed, leaving Myrad with Yehudah to admire the star that had guided them to this land hundreds of miles away. He stayed just long enough to verify the Messiah’s star didn’t move while the rest of the lights in the heavens did. Then he returned to the inn.

  Myrad heard voices as he mounted the wide stone steps, voices hinting at conflict. They were hardly more than murmurs floating in the darkness. Creeping within the shadow of the eave, he made his way toward the sound.

  “. . . an end to Roman power as much as you.” Masista.

  “Our goals are not aligned. Despite the adage, a common enemy does not make us friends.” Hakam.

  Masista’s voice dropped into a lower range. “I’m not speaking of friendship; I’m merely stating a fact. The Romans are a disease that has conquered every nation and land bordering the Great Sea. Your messiah will need allies.”

  Hakam snorted. “And you’re proposing Parthia as an ally to Judea?”

  Myrad could almost see Masista’s ingratiating nod. “Consider how a Roman attack on Parthia emanating from Judea would serve us both. Musa would find herself fighting a two-front war, and your messiah would find conquest of Judea far easier with most of the garrisons dispatched to the east.”

  Myrad listened for Hakam’s response, but the silence stretched without interruption. It was Masista who broke it.

  “I was one of the emissaries to Armenia and the Roman Empire before Musa elevated herself to the title ‘queen of queens.’ If you think Parthians and Persians are harsh, shall I tell you what I’ve seen of Roman cruelty?”

  “There’s no need,” Hakam said. “They occupy my homeland. That is more than enough to earn my hatred.”

  “A magus should be equipped with knowledge. If one of their prized virgins knows a man, they bury her alive in a wooden box tall enough for her to stand in. Others accused of crimes are sealed in an oxskin with dogs and vipers and thrown into the river to drown.”

  “Stop,” Hakam said, his voice rough.

  But Masista persisted. “Their favorite form of execution is strangulation, but this doesn’t tell the whole story. The Romans are creative. If a people dare to assert their right to be free, people like the Hebrews, the Romans will crucify them. But the guards aren’t allowed to leave the condemned while they live, so they take an iron club and—”

  “Stop!” Hakam’s voice cracked like a whip.

  Myrad waited, tense, but neither of the magi made to leave. After a moment, he left them to their mutual hatred and withdrew, seeking his bed.

  Sleep and the dream came to him almost without transition. The star burned above the western horizon as before, its corona flaring in the night now as though urging him haste. There on the sands of the desert, Yehudah and Hakam flanked him on either side, staring.“Behold,” the voice said, “the promised one has been born.”

  CHAPTER 30

  After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem. . . .

  Matthew 2:1

  Myrad rolled from his blankets as soon as wan sunlight brought him to wakefulness. Without pausing to put on his sandals, he padded the narrow hallways in search of Yehudah. He found the magus at the front of the inn, speaking with Hakam. “I understand,” Myrad said as he came to the edge of their table.

  Yehudah nodded and even Hakam jerked his head in agreement. “The star was to announce his birth. Hakam and I had the same dr
eam.”

  “So the calendar is correct after all,” Myrad said. “We’re on our way to see a child.” Disappointment warred with relief. Gershom had been right all along.

  “The messiah has been born,” Yehudah said, “but it will be decades yet before he is revealed.”

  The muscles along Hakam’s jawline bunched. “It will take years for the rightful king of Israel to throw off the yoke of Rome.”

  “We’ve come thousands of miles over the course of months to see a child,” Myrad said. “Why?”

  Yehudah shrugged. “Doubtless, the Most High God has a reason for bringing us here. Perhaps, in time, we will even know what it is.”

  The caravan departed the next morning with half their horse train bearing riders, goods, or gold. With Walagash’s business completed, the magi rode toward the front just behind Yehudah’s cataphracts, whose armor and plate mail gleamed in the sun with a thousand flashes of light. Masista’s soldiers, similarly arrayed, brought up the rear just behind the packhorses. After them came Aban and Storana, who took turns scouting, though there seemed to be little need. Roman cavalry patrolled every mile of the Via Maris, the road along the sea that the Romans called the Mare Nostrum.

  At intervals, a plumed officer would ride by, leading a group of thirty or so mounted men. Each time, the officer and his men would slow their pace to eye the cataphracts and their horses the way dogs eyed wolves. Yehudah’s men merely stared back, expressionless, until the Romans moved on. But the threat of confrontation wore on them all, and when they stopped at the end of each day, Myrad was exhausted.

  They continued south with the Great Sea on their right for nearly two weeks, following the Via Maris while the star shifted from directly in front of them to shine on their left. The night they came to Jaffa, the star burned a pair of hands above the horizon directly to the east.

  “Jerusalem,” Yehudah said.

  “Where else would the Messiah-King be?” Hakam asked.

  Masista had taken to joining them each morning and evening as they marked the position of the star, and the man’s frustration at his inability to see it became palpable.