The End of the Magi – The Messiah foretold
Following his vision of the coming Messiah, the prophet Daniel creates a select group of men who will count down the calendar to the arrival of Israel’s promised king. Centuries later, as the day nears, Myrad, a young magi acolyte, flees for his life when his adoptive father and others are put to death by a ruthless Parthian queen.
Having grabbed only a few possessions, Myrad escapes the city, and searching for a way to hide from the soldiers scouring the trade routes, he tries to join the caravan of the merchant Walagash. The merchant senses that Myrad is hiding secrets, but when the young man proves himself a valuable traveler, an epic journey filled with peril, close escapes, and dangerous battles begins.
With every day that passes, the calendar creeps closer to the coming Messiah. And over everything shines the dream of a star that Myrad can’t forget and the promise that the world will never be the same.
The Map of The End of the Magi
Deleted Chapters from The End of the Magi
Below are a pair of chapters from The End of the Magi that did not make it to the final version because of length considerations. I’ve always liked them.
Chapter 2 – Nehemiah
Shushan – 486 B.C.
Moshe stood in the king’s court. A breeze came through the open doors, funneled by the towering walls of the city, wafted through the gates where countless subjects made their way to the seat of the Persian Empire and into the court of King Artaxerxes where Moshe, one of his magi, stood in attendance.
Outside, the sun hung two broad hands above the horizon and the king had yet to appear. Moshe shifted, distributing the pain as evenly between his arthritic feet as he could contrive. The seat behind him beckoned, but Artaxerxes, had yet to enter and one did not presume to sit until the king had been seated. Not if one wished to live, and especially not if one was numbered among the least of his magi.
Adurnarse stood on his right, tall, well-featured, and clean-limbed. Moshe sneaked a glance at the man’s feet where they showed beneath his richly colored clothing. Each sculpted foot stood flat on the floor, as calm and tranquil in waiting as the great gulf to the south of the city. The old jealousy rose up in him again. Again, he closed in eyes in prayer. Willing it to pass.
Without his pain, where would his empathy be? With an effort he forced his features to shed discomfort and adopt a pleasant expression. One did not show discomfort of any kind, physical or emotional, to the king.
A rustle of expectation flowed through the crowd, lifting Moshe’s head to the rear of the king’s throne room where Artaxerxes walked with his crown and titles. Under the weight of the king’s majesty, the nobles in attendance knelt, their eyes on the floor, as Artaxerxes processed towards the throne. Guards with oiled beards and very functional swords were posted at intervals around the room.
Here in the hall of the empire that ruled the world, Artaxerxes was law.
Moshe kept his eyes and knees on the floor, grateful for the opportunity to take the weight off his aching feet. Adurnarse leaned in, his face inches from Moshe’s own. “Count yourself lucky, that the king allows a lame Hebrew to attend him,” he whispered. “Otherwise you would find yourself foraging for scraps in that pigsty, Jerusalem.”
The insult was a familiar one, but he stifled any response. Adurnarse could recount his lineage back to one of Achemenes’ captains and his family remained powerful in the empire, boasting numerous magi and officers. Like many pure-blood Persians, he nursed his disdain for outlanders with joy and regularity.
A signal sounded from the front of the throne room and those in attendance rose from their prostrations to take their seats along the stone benches of the gallery. Moshe forced a smile onto his features. Artaxerxes, clothed in rich blue linen tunic and trousers embroidered in gold, sat next to the queen, herself richly attired in cascades of shimmering cloth worked with silver and precious stones. Each wore a crown worked with a number of palms. The king’s crown held nine, the queen’s eight. Moshe reached up to adjust his own circlet, which held six, one less than Adurnarseh’s, but enough to be numbered among the magi.
Another ripple passed through the crowd, carrying shock and trepidation with it. Adurnarseh elbowed him in the ribs. “It appears as though there will be one less Hebrew in court in a few moments. Look there.”
Adurnarseh pointed to the king’s cup-bearer with a chuckle. There on Artaxerxes’s left stood one of his eunuchs. Moshe knew him, had known him for years and in that instant he despised the man to his right. Adurnarseh was correct, the king’s cup bearer was in mortal danger. “Lord have mercy,” he whispered. “Watch over your servant.”
But his prayers went unanswered. Nehemiah stood with the king’s cup, filled and waiting for the king’s pleasure in his hand, as yet unasked for. But his face, instead of displaying the joy that all were expected to show in the king’s presence, wore such suffering as to make Moshe’s pain diminish to insignificance.
Moshe watched in horrified fascination and hope. While most of court had taken notice of Nehemiah’s distress, the king, facing away from his servant had yet to see it. As inconspicuously as he could, while the king’s attention was diverted, Moshe waved his hands, praying to get Nehemiah’s attention before the king saw him.
Soft laughter came from his right and Adurnarseh grabbed his right wrist and forced his arm down to his side. “Come, honored magi,” he whispered. “You’ll spoil our entertainment.”
He raised his left hand, terror and panic working so that he made exaggerated gestures toward Nehemiah and the king.
“It’s too late,” Mihrab said on his left. “The king’s asked for his wine He’ll see him now.” If Mihrab’s expression did not hold the savage glee of Adurnarseh’s, neither did it contain anything approaching sympathy. Instead, the ancient magi leaned forward in expectation, curiosity writ on his features.
Moshe watched as his countryman and friend approached the king holding the rhyton, the golden drinking horn with the figure of a lion, filled to the brim. The king’s voice interrupted Moshe’s prayer, a death knell.
“Why does your face look so sad when you are not ill?” Artaxerxes demanded. Panic cut the sinews that held Moshe’s heart in its place to send it plummeting toward his feet.
“This can be nothing but sadness of heart.”
“The sword or the pike?” Adurnarseh whispered on my left. “What do you think?”
For a long moment in which Nehemiah didn’t answer, Moshe prayed for God’s mercy and the king’s, but when Nehemiah spoke, it seemed neither prayer had been answered. Tears streamed down the cupbearer’s face and now the queen had taken note of it as well, leaning toward the two men, her expression intent.
“May the king live forever,” Nehemiah said at last. “Why should my face not look sad when the city where my ancestors are buried lies in ruins, and its gates have been destroyed by fire?”
Adurharseh’s mirth continued like a drumbeat from Moshe’s right, but Mihrab leaned in on his left to whisper his surprise. “Your countryman is an interesting combination of wise man and fool,” he said. “Only a fool tempts the wrath of the king by showing grief in his presence, but Nehemiah’s answer was deftly crafted. The Persians set great importance upon the graves of their ancestors. Punishment is inevitable, but perhaps the Hebrew will live.”
Mihrab’s assessment tempted Moshe to hope, but the king’s expression remained unreadable.
“What is it you want?” Artaxerxes asked.
Moshe couldn’t comment on the stunned silence of his fellow magi. He was too stunned himself. Time stretched as the king waited for Nehemiah’s answer.
“What’s he doing?” Mihrab asked.
“He’s praying,” Moshe said.
“He needs to make it quick, only a fool keeps the king waiting.”
“If it please the king,” Nehemiah said, “and if your servant has found favor in his sight, let him send me to the city in Judah where my ancestors are buried so that I can rebuild it.”
Moshe caught Mihrab’s approving nod. “Well spoken,” the magi whispered.
Artaxerxes exchanged a long look with the queen after which, she nodded. “How long will your journey take, and when will you get back?”
Moshe hardly heard Nehemiah’s response. The pounding of his heart precluded it and he scrubbed away tears.
“If it please the king,” Nehemiah went on, “may I have letters to the governors of Trans-Euphrates, so that they will provide me safe-conduct until I arrive in Judah? And may I have a letter to Asaph, keeper of the royal park, so he will give me timber to make beams for the gates of the citadel by the temple and for the city wall and for the residence I will occupy?”
Moshe sat in amazement, watching the king smile and give his agreement. “And more,” Artaxerxes said, “I will send army officers and cavalry with you. Not all the areas of the empire are as peaceful as Shushan.”
Joy illuminated Nehemiah’s face and fresh tears coursed their way down his cheeks, but they presented no danger to him now.
“Poison,” Adurnarshe hissed. “There is no other explanation for the king’s behavior.”
For the first and only time that day, Moshe let himself respond to the magi’s venom. “Have you not heard that the Lord God can turn the heart of the king however he wishes.”
“I care nothing for your God, Hebrew,” Adurnarseh spat.
“Then have a care for your head,” Mihrab said. “The king will take it ill if he hears you’ve attributed his mercy to poison.”
Candles burned within Moshe’s spacious quarters and the soft scent of beeswax filled the air. No summons had been necessary for those who had witnessed the king’s unexpected mercy, but not all magi had been in attendance at court and runners had been dispatched to every corner of the city to bring his fellows together.
They arrived in ones and twos, with soft knocks on his door that Miriam answered. His wife’s face beamed, unable to restrain the joy of the news that Jerusalem would be rebuilt. Moshe’s joy ran deeper still.
When they were all assembled, twenty-four in all, a mix of Hebrews and proselytes according to Daniel’s tradition, they crowded into the main room of the house. Miriam brought the wine.
“Is it true?” Orasmyn asked. “Has it begun? I wish I had been there,” he rushed on without waiting for an answer to his question. “The entire city is talking about it.”
From his seat, Moshe raised his goblet, uncaring of the wine that sloshed over the edge. “It’s true. Jerusalem will be rebuilt.”
Laughter and cries of joy filled the room, and everyone drank.
Except for Moshe. He waited until the others, by ones and twos, noticed his reticence and then he spoke into the silence. “The decree went out this morning. Here on this second day of the month of Nisan, in the twentieth year of King Artaxerxes, we celebrate the first day.” They looked at him, in expectation. Here he was no longer the least of the king’s magi, he was the leader, the man responsible for the count.
He lifted his goblet. “Four hundred, eighty-two years, and three hundred, fifty-nine days from now, messiah the king will appear. Now, we know he will have a city to reappear in.”
He drank in the wine and joy from his fellow magi, those whom his forbears had gathered to watch and wait for the command.
“Moshe,” Amariel called. “Do we all keep count?”
The room quieted, waiting for his answer. “Yes. The task is too important to keep to one man. My friends, we must take steps to safeguard the calendar.”
“What do you mean?” Orasmyn asked. “What place could be safer then Shushan?”
He shook his head. “Empires are fragile things. The reign of Nebuchadnezzar’s son and grandson fell in a single night. Would we wish to miss the day of the messiah’s arrival because we thought ourselves safe here within Shushan’s walls where an earthquake or an army could kill us all in a moment?”
“What do we do?” Miriam asked.
“We must divide,” Moshe said. “At least one of us must go to Jerusalem with Nehemiah. They have Daniel’s prophecy there. Let the leaders in the synagogues know that the count has begun.”
“I will go,” Orasmyn said.
“You?” Moshe asked the Persian. “You were born and raised in Shushan.”
Orasmyn smiled, his teeth white against the thick black beard. “Your God is my God, and your people are my people.” He laughed. “And now your city is my city as well.”
To one side Zekiah fluttered his hand, seeking Moshe’s attention. A diminutive man who took a long time to answer questions, he nevertheless owned a talent for seeing the greatest difficulties in a task, a talent that made him a prized resource among the kingmakers, the magi.
“Yes, my friend?” Moshe asked.
“Five centuries is a long, long time,” he said. “If our people could not keep their Sabbath years in that time, how are we to keep track of the days? The tide of history sweeps all before it like a flood and the lives of empires are as nothing.”
For the first time since the king’s pronouncement, fear found a home in Moshe’s heart, but he pulled his shoulders back and made what answer he could.
“We are servants of the Most High God. And we are magi, advisors to the king. We will use our hereditary office. We must ensure that our descendants serve the kings of the future as ably as Daniel served Nebuchadnezzar and Darius. Our value will be our safeguard. As much as our office allows, we will separate to the satraps under our jurisdiction. On the first of each month, we shall send letters, each to the other, with a count of the days. If there is any discrepancy among us, we will meet to resolve it.”
He surveyed the room, seeing the determination and resolve he had hoped for, but there was no denying the doubt he saw there as well. To a man, they had all read Daniel’s prophecy. They knew what Moshe had not talked about. They couldn’t help but know.
Chapter 3 – Octavian’s Gift
She came into his presence still wearing the look of surprise of those not familiar with Rome. Or it’s ruler, Octavian.
“It surprises you?” he asked. She nodded and he took the opportunity to study the lines of her neck and the tone of her skin. She’d elected to wear her hair up for the meeting, but had allowed a curl on each side of her face to escape so that they provided a frame for her wide, green eyes. It was a calculated effect and well done. Her robe, similarly, had been designed to hint at the pleasures beneath rather than display them openly.
“I rule the Roman Empire, yet I choose to live in a relatively modest house. Why?”
She bit her lower lip and gazed around the modest reception room at the arches with their frescoes. “Because any empire is built on the support of the people and if the people see you as one of them, they’ll fight for you all the harder against your enemies.”
He approved. Men of power, men like himself, wanted the illusion of discovery. Of conquest.
“Excellent. Do you know why you’re here?”
She shook her head. “No, Imperator,” she said, her gaze on the floor for a moment, but finding his a moment later from beneath her long lashes.
Oh yes. She might do well.
“You are reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in the empire.”
“You’re too kind, Imperator,” she said. Again the tone was demure, but the smile, quick and without showing teeth, hinted at confidence.
“Moreover,” he continued, “Marcus Agrippa tells me you are without peer in the art of love despite your tender years.”
She blushed, but the return of the confidant smile told him more. Yes. She could be the one, but there were yet other tests. “Come, child,” he said, for she was hardly more than a child. “Let me show you something.”
He guided her from the reception room to his offices where a waist-high table showed a map of the entire known world. Her eyes went wide and for a moment all the artifice that she had mastered so quickly to capture Agrippa’s heart fell away as she studied it.
“Everything you see in red is the Roman Empire,” he said. “The entire Mediterranean is ours, though it wasn’t always that way. We control parts of Gaul and someday we will hold all of Britannia as well.”
“What is this?” she asked, leaning forward to trace a line that began with the Qian Empire to the far east and snaked its route all the way to Syria and the great sea.
“That is why you’re here,” Octavian smiled. “That is the great trade route from Qian where we get our silk. It runs through the Empires of Khushan and Parthia before it ends in our territory.”
“Parthia,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Good,” he said. “What have you heard?”
For the first time in the conversation, her hesitancy seemed genuine, as if she feared to offend a man who held the power of life and death over her. “Come, child. I prize honesty above all else. You are the slave of my most trusted general. Show me what you’ve learned in his household.”
With a nod she began, halting at first. “Crassus engaged them and their general, Sura, in the desert east of Syria. He, and the legions with him, were slaughtered almost to a man and the standards were lost. A dozen years later they took advantage of,” her gaze darted to his, “Rome’s distraction. They swept through Syria and Judea and even put their puppets on the thrones in Armenia and Israel. We countered and were able to take what was ours back again, but Israel sits uneasily and Armenia plays us against the Parthians.”
“And why do you believe we have failed to conquer them?”
Musa blinked, her eyes wide. The question held traps for the unwary. To admit that there existed an adversary that Rome could not conquer was tantamount to blasphemy. “The plains and deserts of Parthia favor their horsemen. They know this. By stocking an inexhaustible supply of arrows they’ve pulled the teeth of our legions. Until we can match the skill and size of their cavalry with our own, conquering the land of the Persians will be difficult.”
He smiled in approval. While she had been incorrect in a few minor details, she had grasped the central problem. More, she had shown discretion in not mentioning the name of Marcus Antonius, the general and his personal enemy who had engineered the Parthian’s defeat in Syria and Israel. “Tell me, Musa, do you love Rome?”
She smiled. “Who could not love it, Imperator? It is the greatest city in the world.”
“I don’t mean the city,” he said with a small wave. “I mean the empire.”
A hint of cunning stirred in the depths behind her eyes. “What does the empire have to do with a concubine, no matter how favored?”
He nodded in approval. She could be bold as well. “If we cannot conquer by war, then perhaps we can conquer by peace. If you agree, I would like to make a gift of you to the Parthian king.”
“To what end, Imperator?”
“So that you may capture his heart with your beauty, your intellect, and your skills,” Octavian said. “Turn his heart toward Rome, but gently. Slowly. Bear him a son and raise that son on the glory of Rome.” He waited until the import of what he was offering flared with comprehension in her eyes. “And,” he continued, “become queen of Parthia. If you can manage it. Then you and I will combine our empires. With the the legions of Rome and the cavalry of Parthia we will conquer the world. Even the vastness of Qian and their silk will be ours.”
She turned away from him, either to hide her emotions from him or to gain time to speculate. Either served him. When she face him again, all pretense at meekness had disappeared. “A woman, no matter her beauty and skills, will find more favor with her master if she brings power to him as well.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Gold,” she said.
“The Parthians set little store in gold or silver,” he said. “Their pride is in their horses and the Nisean mounts are the best in the world. We cannot match them.”
She cocked her head at him and laughed softly, caressing his ears with sultry tones. Yes, he could see why Agrippa prized her so much. “Phraates may not care much for it himself, but when I explain that it will pay for the loyalty of many men, he will appreciate it all the same.”
He inclined his head, as if to a trusted adviser, perhaps even an equal. “Then we will make a gift of you and the gold in exchange for the eagle standards of our legions.”
“No,” she disagreed. “If it please you, Imperator, make a gift of me and allow me to say that I persuaded the ruler of Rome to send the gold as well. In that way, I appear meek to Phraates, hesitant to believe that I alone am a worthy gift. He will prize me all the more for my apparent humility.”
Oh, yes. She would do very well, but he had one last question. “What will you do if an opportunity to take power presents itself?”
Her eyes hardened and her beauty became as cold and hard as deepest winter. “Seize it without hesitancy or remorse.”
“Then ready yourself, Musa.” He smiled. Someday, he might have to kill her himself, but his ends would be achieved.