The Great King would have spent the cold months here at Babylon, in times before. The Magi speak of a time when the letters of Persia adorned the scrolls; only they now can read the prophecies of old recorded by their long-dead brothers' observant eyes, forever turned to the stars. Only the Magi can read their sacred Zend Avesta, written by the prophet Zoroaster. Little more than idolaters they may be, but the prophecies of the Persian Magi are known throughout the empire of Rome for their truth. That their words are both spoken and written in Greek since the times of Alexander seems to have made little difference. The coarse tongue of the Roman legions – that has spread so far across the known world – has yet to take hold in Babylon, but it will. The Magi have divined thus.
I have heard it whispered, in the months that I have been here, that the Magi have foreseen in the stars the end of Babylon. The legions lie embanked still in the west, despite their victory against the Parthians in whose hands the east now lies, yet they cast longing eyes once more towards the ancient empire of Persia. The Holy Whore would not long stand before the might of the Imperial Eagles. To Alexander, Babylon opened her sleek thighs and begged him to do as he would. To the Cćsars, Babylon will be as one of their Vestals, and die rather than submit her pride, if not her chastity, to ravishment.
As a Greek by birth, and a Roman by Cćsar Augustus' grace, if Babylon were razed to the ground it should not move me. Yet in my heart I am first a physician, and bear a great love for humans alike: Greek, Roman or Mede, do we not all bleed when cut and sicken when ill? Do we not all cast shadows over the dusty roads of Syria?
I have much respect for the teachings of Zoroaster, yet each time I am called to their temple – young as I am – to ease the sufferings of one more teacher of wisdom, I see fewer and fewer coming to offer libations or to consult their Persian brethren, who have devoted their lives to studying the stars and supporting Ahuramazd, their Wise Lord of all that is good, against the darkness of Anghra Mainyu, the Destructive Spirit, and his fallen daevas. Each has said to me in his own voice that Zoroaster is slowly being forgotten, that a New Way is coming, with its own prophet, and in time it shall conquer the Eagles of Rome, as their coming broke the power of the Magi.
The power of Rome lies in the strength of her sword, Not even the great Alexander could have checked the advance of the legion, his awkward sarissas no match for Roman stabbing swords and the iron discipline of her soldiers. It has always been that the strong will be lords of the weak, and small poor Judaea has perhaps suffered the worst.
Thus I believe it was my healer's conscience that guided me back to the house of the sacred fire, where the wise men of Persia would tell me once again all they knew of the New Way, and of the lands of Judaea where they believed its first stirrings would be felt.
*
"Zarathustra, come forward and observe," the High Magi stood beside the boy in the temple courtyard, quietly observing the stars, quietly passing on the knowledge of the Heavens that would be his legacy to the navjote by his side, straining to see the patterns in the sky that would one day be as familiar to him as the streets of Babylon where he had grown up.
Nervous, Zarathustra stepped forward. This was his moment of truth – he'd promised himself, in sight of both his namesake, the Blessed Zoroaster, and the temple cat, that if he didn't recognise among the stars the patterns that he'd been studying for more than half of his fifteen years, he'd return to the streets he knew best of all and take up his father's lucrative craft of jewel-smithing. A jewel-smith needed sharp eyes to see each minute detail of the stones he worked; Zarathustra's father could see clearly no further than three hands in front of his face. The eyes of a Magi must reach far into the skies, make out the tiniest shift of a glowing speck among the darkness of the night. The ginger and white cat – adept at catching mice, but smart enough to know the easiest catch was to be found in the leftovers Zarathustra sneaked out for her – had simply stared at him with her pale green eyes, then yawned, wondering what kind of nonsense her pet boy was muttering now. Humans were such absurd creatures.
"What do you see?" what did he see? A lot of stars, all in the proper constellations that he'd been taught. But divination patterns? Not one could he recognise.
No.
He wasn't going to give in that easily. He hadn't spent the last ten years of his life working and studying just to fail now when it really mattered. The divination was there, waiting to be read. It only remained for him to decipher it.
The High Magi heard the boy's unconscious moans of frustration with carefully controlled neutrality. Disassociating the stars from their standard constellations to view the patterns which to him read like a Roman map took many years of practise and study. The courtyard wall hid them from the light of the sacred fire, their constant offering to the Wise Lord; the night's dark was bitterly cold, yet it was this darkness that opened one's eyes to the slivers of scattered light. He didn't need the stars however, to tell him that tonight would not be the night Zarathustra read his first augury. Still he would not injure the boy's progress by telling him so – a navjote must learn to accept that on some nights, the skies were indecipherable.
In his hand, Zarathustra held a gold chalice, filled with the elixir that would guide his sights through the struggles of Ahuramazd and Anghra Mainyu, the forces of creation and destruction, whose endless battles changed each night the patterns of the stars. Much to his own disgust, he found the cup was shaking. He couldn't give in to the growing panic racing through his veins, not here. A long swallow of the potent brew steadied his nerves, but not the grains of light dancing before his tired brown eyes . . . swirling and congealing into a single star, so bright it almost blinded him, yet drawing his stunned sights further and further to the west . . . calling him onward. . . .
"What do you see?" he barely heard the High Magi's reedy voice, strained by the years, his senses utterly absorbed in the light before him.
"A guiding star. . . ."
"Guiding you where?"
"West . . . to Judaea. . . ." pause.
The High Magi gazed above the navjote's head, at the pattern that had become a close friend over the years, foretelling the emergence of the New Way, exactly as his own teacher had foreseen so long ago. Only now that it was upon him did the High Magi begin to understand some of his long-departed teacher's great sadness.
"It has come," the words were muttered to no-one, quickly stolen by the belying gentleness of the wind. But the stars heard.
Sparing only a few seconds to indulge the growing anguish in his heart, the High Magi returned his attention to the boy beside him.
"Zarathustra," it was a command all navjotes knew well, conditioned since their first days in the temple to obey. But his eyes would not, could not stray from the all encompassing light, his pupils dilated so wide one could have gazed into his very soul.
"Zarathustra," the High Magi was not used to being ignored, yet from the look of awe struck upon his acolyte's face it was plain, the boy's ears were not tuned to this world. Drifting among the stars was common in those who had not learned to focus wholly upon the patterns, yet Zarathustra did not stumble and trip heedlessly as they did. His entire body followed the light that only he and the Blessed Zoroaster could see, even as his feet remained firmly planted to the ground. The High Magi had seen the boy's potential for farsight long ago, but these many years in the temple had proven it was latent, and Zarathustra had no control over it when it did decide to manifest. Potential alone was enough to justify his position in the temple; if he ever did rise to the office of a Magi however, it would be by his own skill.
If he was not lost in his own vision.
"Zarathustra!" a few shakes of the shoulders were enough to pull the young navjote back from his wanderings.
"Wha–?" a wide, blank expression attested to his confused disorientation. Where. . . ? He forced his eyes to focus, dry and sore as they were. Was that . . . aye, that was the temple's inner wall, the dampness under his feet was the dewy grass, the beads on his forehead his own sweat. The sky –? He looked up.
Empty.
*
The temple's camels were fawning creatures, most had been hand-raised. More used to preening and walking with their noses in the air, they were hardly strong enough to endure the rigours of such a journey, let alone in the dead of winter.
Zarathustra didn't think the two Magi chosen to accompany the High Magi and himself measured up any better. The peace of the temple since the times of Alexander had been little disturbed; Dârayavauš and Kambujiya had taken their quiet lives for granted, this journey would not be easy on them – their idea of travelling extended no further than a stroll through the royal gardens, or perhaps a trip to Seleucia or Ctesiphon, no more than a few days' ride away. Once he'd been of the same opinion.
His father's jewel-smithing had given his family moderate wealth. Whilst they would never rise to compete with the landed families whose ancestors had served the Persian Kings right back to the time of Kurush the Great, Zarathustra would never lack for comforts. His older brother would inherit their father's trade, he had been the one chosen to enter the temple of Zoroaster and train to join the ranks of the Magi.
It seemed almost an age since the summer when he'd found a shady step in one of Babylon's busiest streets to hide from the sweltering high sun. As was his wont, he'd let his mind wander through the back alleys and the deserted houses and the way through an old forgotten gate into the royal gardens – the natural haunts of a five-year-old in a jungle of stone and irrigated water. He hadn't realised that the words he spoke to his daydreams had also formed on his tongue and had slipped out into the quiet hum of midday. He'd found out later, Marduniya specifically chose to travel the streets when the sun was high, to avoid the excessive crowds of sweaty half-washed bodies. The man hadn't been High Magi at the time, but his eyes had been respected the length and breadth of the Euphrates. They still were.
The camels – and drivers – had had to be paid from the temple's dwindling coffers. Only the High Magi could authorise the funds necessary to equip such a journey, and he'd spared little expense. They were healthy, and looked to be sturdy beasts, well used to the extremes of the Syrian deserts. As did their drivers. About them, Zarathustra had his doubts. The High Magi had insisted that the lead camel driver be of the Hebrew faith, and whilst there were enough of the Diaspora in Babylon, finding a driver with camels enough to take them to Judaea at such short notice had proved difficult. The one Marduniya had hired was as wiry as his animals, young, but weathered and creased as a savage Scythian's boot – a legacy of trudging through sand and snow alike. Still, he had the look of an honest man, if not a particularly good one, which was more than could be said for his companions; a seedier lot of thieves and villains would have been hard to find, even in Babylon. Their slothful ways looked infectious, Kambujiya's personal servant – a bought slave, judging from the welts, both past and fresh – sat watching a game of dice. It would later become a half-amusing past-time to bet how many times the insipid Numidian would earn a beating before they reached Judaea. Zarathustra had never really believed in the slave trade, most were bitter and resentful or utterly broken, and neither worked particularly well in any case. The best servants were those such as the Magi Dârayavauš's, freeborn peasants who were employed for a small wage. This one was only a few years older than Zarathustra himself; the men did their duties efficiently enough, but it was the youths who took pride in the work they did, and cherished praise even more than the few drachmas they earned. Dârayavauš's was diligent, constantly checking that their bags were secure, that the water gourds were full, did Dârayavauš care for more wine before they set out?
"No Jordan, thank-you,"
Jordan simply lowered his eyes in acknowledgment and returned to the bags. There was no trusting anyone, not even the Blessed Zoroaster, when it came to the sanctity of luggage. He had followed Dârayavauš for four years now, and in all their travels – they'd once gone as far as Seleucia – not a single bag had been lost or violated; if Jordan had his way, nothing, not even drunken knife-wielding camel drivers, would change that. His master trusted him implicitly, knew that he could be left to see all that needed doing was done, and done well. Not like Kambujiya's brat, Hamilcar. If that whining little wretch ever did a decent job of his work, Jordan himself would be the one running to fetch the doctor. Dârayavauš's minor talent with medicines had served the temple well enough over the years, but trekking overland through deserts and the like needed a true physician. Of course with the prices 'true physicians' were asking these days, not even the temple of Zoroaster could afford to pay one. Instead he'd been sent through Babylon's crowded streets to the small house of Lucanus, the young Grecian who modestly refused to take the title of physician until he knew all the Greek healer Hippocrates' treatises by heart. Jordan knew from personal experience (and perhaps a little bias) that Lucanus was better than any of the quacks walking around Babylon, charging a man's livelihood for a few chants and a vial of some foul-smelling concoction that usually did more harm than good. When a 'physician's potion to soothe a vicious headache of his had instead sent him clambering outside every few fingers of time to empty his stomach, his master had wisely sent for Lucanus. What galled him most was that he'd wasted three days' wages.
Dârayavauš paid him two obols a day, and six obols made up one Attic drachma. Half he kept for himself, the rest went into his family's coffers when he visited them on his infrequent days off. Their small farming village wasn't far from Babylon, the walk only took around a hand of time from the northern gate. Very soon he'd be walking out the northern gate for good; taking on work as a paid servant in the temple had only ever been temporary. His family expected him to take over the farm now that his father was ailing, but he'd never taken to life in the fields, tending the flocks and garden crops. Let his brothers drive the cattle home and his cousins keep the insects from the emmer, he'd gladly give it all up to stay in the city. Working in the temple paid well enough, his bed was free (even though he had to put up with Hamilcar's pathetic whining come darkness), and he'd see more than the same plot of unchanging land every day. None of his family had walked further than the Roman milestones that the whole village was monotonously proud of, his going to Babylon had been almost awe-inspiring. The daevas knew, his mother never ceased asking about the place.
He'd inherited her curiosity, however much he might despise it at times. After all, he'd have gladly listened to Lucanus for hours when he spoke of the past glories of Athens, or the bustling nature of life in Rome. Whilst he knew he'd probably never get to see the splendours of the great cities, at least he could regale his mother next visit with stories of the Syrian desert and the cities of Judaea. If they saw any. Dârayavauš had said the navjote who'd seen the guiding star knew only that it had called him to the west, and if it was enough for the High Magi, it was enough for him. If Jordan had any doubts, he was smart enough to keep them to himself. A journey was a journey, no matter where it took them.
"We all set?" Isaac, the lead driver, shouted to his men. The dice and wineskins were hastily tucked inside cloaks and nearby sacks which were then tied clumsily to pack animals' loads, wherever they would fit. Zarathustra couldn't help a small frown of disgust.
'Ahuramazd, Wise Lord, let not these brigands be the death of us'
Various assents reached the Isaac's sharp ears. Of course he waited till the wise men were safely settled on their beasts before giving the order to move out. This journey would be hard enough on all of them, a few minutes more respite wouldn't make much difference, either to the camels or the men guiding them.
*
The camel groaned even as the two approached her.
"I'm pretty sure it's her feet. If it were colic, she'd be bellowing like the demons of Satan were after her,"
"Probably," Lucanus managed a small smile as he knelt beside the afflicted animal, gently running a soothing hand along her neck. Isaac held the physician's medicine chest. The camel lay on her side, breathing deeply, her long eyelashes tangled. "We'll know in time," taking a few deep breaths himself, the physician steeled his nerves and as delicately as all his skill allowed, he lifted the animal's front foot.
A piteous groan followed, but she did not kick at him as a horse would. It was a good sign in itself.
"What do you think? Is she going to pull through?"
There had never been any threat to this creature's life, despite the underling camel driver's desperate pleas that the animal would die without the assistance of a learned doctor. The problem was fairly plain to Lucanus' discerning, he could see the dead weight – no less than fourteen talents – of bags and packs that this poor beast had been forced to carry until she could do so no longer.
"This animal has been burdened too heavily. See how her feet swell? She flinches at the lightest touch," the physician chanced a glance upward, in the direction of the now nervous camel driver, whose duty it was to care for this particular creature. Dim firelight revealed the sweat beading on his upper lip.
Isaac ignored his employee, his eyes were fixed solely on Lucanus, waiting.
"There is little I can do except ease her pain slightly; she must rest and allow the swelling to go down. Time is the best medicine for her now," a small nod and the man was on his feet, making for the driver beginning to quake before him. Whilst he spoke in Hebrew, his stride left little doubt in Lucanus' mind what was being said.
The physician had noticed the lead camel driver's reluctance in using his left arm. It was only as they together gradually coaxed the injured camel closer toward the central fire that Lucanus saw what looked like a bloodied bandage strapped around the man's forearm. For the moment, he held his tongue.
"See if you can't lie her on her side," he summarily searched his medicine chest, sorting through the herbs and linen bandages he'd need for both the camel's swollen feet, and the lead camel driver's damaged arm.
Leaving Isaac with his attempts to calm the fretting animal, Lucanus went in pursuit of a small paunch in which to make a poultice. If memory served him rightly, he'd packed one in amongst his books.
The horn spoon he'd bought from a herbalist in Antioch had proved its worth over and over. Most horn spoons were brittle, and snapped too easily to be practical. This was the first one to last longer than a month or so. Antioch had been Lucanus' first port of call on his voyage from Rome to a post in the Eastern Empire as a legion doctor. He'd spent more time travelling through the lands of Persia, now in the hands of the Parthians. The Roman province of Judaea he believed was a simmering pot of thinly veiled antagonism between the polytheistic Greeks and Romans in cities such as Cćsarea, and the monotheistic Hebrews in their holy city of Jerusalem. Used to the peace contained within the mountainous Grecian countryside of his youth, he'd found the tension too much for his nerves to endure, and had set out with a caravan across the Syrian desert to Babylon. The caravan itself had moved on to the more prosperous Seleucia – it and the Egyptian port of Alexandria essentially all that was left of Alexander's great empire – but Lucanus had stayed on. He'd never quite been able to figure out just what it was that had endeared the city to him so, but not once had he regretted. Why then had he agreed to return to the land he'd given almost his entire small fortune to get away from?
Muttering to the camel in a conversational tone, Isaac sort to distract her with water (laced with crushed sleeping herbs), whilst with controlled flicks of the stalwart spoon, the physician spread the warm poultice onto four clean squares of white linen. The beast groaned deeply as he gently pressed one onto the pad of her sore, swollen foot and wrapped it around with bandages to keep it in place, then continued to do the same for her other three feet. Lucanus could see the lead camel driver's lean shoulders tense each time the creature gave what came close to a pained sob.
"That should ease some of her suffering, the best we can do for her now is to let her sleep,"
"I know," still Isaac's hand absently ran a hand down the animal's neck, urging her to let the drowsiness lower her eyelids and lull her into a quiet slumber. The driver looked as exhausted as his camel.
"And if you'll allow me, I'll see if there might be something I can do to speed the healing of your arm,"
It was a scratch, nothing more. He'd had worse in his life. Employing camel-drivers went hand in hand with employing rogues, thieves and brigands, which meant more or less every night he was breaking up drunken arguments over liquor or women or the fall of the dice, but it was all just part of the job. He hadn't reckoned on Utâna being stupid enough to draw his dagger, but no matter. It was just a scratch.
The physician's wide eyes spoke otherwise.
"By Zeus, how are you still conscious?!" the words were muttered by the physician more to himself than the Thunderer he had ceased to worship summers ago. The stains on the bandage evidenced the amount of blood that had seeped from the deep slash, enough to floor a lesser man. No wonder he appeared exhausted!
"I don't know about Zeus, but I'm willing to guess Yahweh had a hand in it somewhere," his genial smile was forced, Lucanus had not missed the muscles tensing as his fingers probed the lesion as gently as he could.
"Zeus, Yahweh, Ammon-Re . . . in what little I've seen, God is still God, by whatever name He is called," his eyes didn't sway from the bloody gash, "The wound has yet to fester, but it needs suturing to heal as it should,"
At the thought of being stitched as a tailor darns cloth, most patients writhed with dread, yet the lead driver took little more than a deep breath.
"Suturing?"
"Aye," at least this physician was decent enough to wait for a nod before he reached for his needle and thread. The badly-hidden eagerness Isaac had expected to see never appeared. Concern, both professional and humane, did not lift from Lucanus' softly angular face as he cleaned and packed away the hide paunch, then drew on the gourd at his belt for water enough to fill the small fired bowl taken from his medicine chest, along with more squares of linen and several leather pouches of herbs, dried and crushed. Two pinches of some, three of another, were sprinkled into the water and heated just beyond the reach of flames greedy to burn as sacrifice all they could. As the water simmered mildly and the herbs steeped, Lucanus soaked first the needle, the silk thread, and the linen in the solution. His medicine chest had more than once served as a substitute operating table.
"Here," a youth spent within the slums of Babylon had given Isaac a well-advised wariness of men who called themselves physicians, yet it came as something of a surprise to find himself trusting Lucanus with the needle that he knew could just as easily hasten death via mortification as speed the healing of open wounds. Maybe because the man never called himself a physician to begin with?
Still, it wasn't without some apprehension that he surrendered his arm to Lucanus' deft hand.
He had sufficiently braced himself against the sting of soaked linen washing dirt and clotted blood from the ugly slash, but the piercing bite of the needle through tender skin tore a choked gasp from his throat.
Lucanus heard – indeed there were few in the close camp who did not – and sort to distract him.
"I must admit, I've wondered about this journey and the boy's vision. In Babylon –" flinch, "– I was called many times to the temple of Zoroaster to heal their ill, and they told me much of what they see in the stars. The High Magi himself once spoke to me of what he called a New Way,"
Flinch.
"He often likened its emergence to a birth, and believed it would begin in Judaea. And I did count it strange that the High Magi insisted –" flinch, bitten off grunt, "– I accompany the caravan; lesser ailments can be dangerous in the heat of this desert, but the Magi Dârayavauš has skill enough to treat such sickness if need be, what with Judaea being no more than eight days away," the lead camel-driver appeared to be taking in as much as his pain would allow. The gash was already for the most part sutured, what little remained was no more in length than the first joint of his thumb. "I've come to suspect that perhaps the emergence of this New Way has little to do with the rise of its prophet, as I know Kambujiya believes, but more perhaps with his birth," Lucanus could hear the man grinding his teeth as the last stitch was swiftly tightened and knotted, heard also the tired exhaling of breath held too long as the needle and remaining thread were hidden in their small pouch and packed away with their companions in his medicine chest.
"It's written in our scriptures that the prophet Isaiah told King Ahaz, 'the Lord himself will give you a sign; Behold a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel'.
Some believe this child is the Messiah,"
"Messiah?"
Isaac and Lucanus talked well into the night, the lead driver speaking of the god of his forefathers, the physician speaking of the gods he had abandoned. Neither noticed their fixated audience.
The desert heat was by nature dry and sucking. Even for one in whose blood lay the steaming summers of Babylonia, it was near-unbearable. Whilst Dârayavauš had somehow managed to find sleep wandering among the empty dunes, Jordan had nearly suffocated on the heavy air inside the tent. His once good, now nearly threadbare blanket didn't keep the sand from his person for long. Yet once the hot, floating wind carried the words to his ear, he didn't seem to notice.
"The Greeks have envious gods because they are envious themselves, it is simply their nature. We have a long history, one need only look atop the Acropolis to see such. Athens once ruled supreme among the islands of the Aegean, yet she could not keep her 'empire'. The Romans have an empire, Athens had a tyranny. The orators there still speak of how Rome is little more than an Attic colony for all the similarities between the two states, that the Romans submitted even to be ruled by Grecian gods,"
"Doesn't that come close to treason?"
"Rome would have crushed Athens long ago but for the fact that she has many orators and no soldiers,"
"All talk?"
"Aye. They are simply envious of Rome for achieving what they could not, and find their superiority in the adoption of their gods,"
"I read that Alexander was taken by the gods in Babylon, that they were envious of everything he did,"
"Alexander was a Macedonian, and rather fond of wine. From what I've read of his illness, it was likely the wine he drank whilst in high fever that killed him, rather than any interference from the Grecian Pantheon. . . ."
So intent was the boy on their words, so focused were his ears to every stress and syllable, that he did not notice the sand working its way through the folds of his clothes, nor the sound of deliberately muffled footsteps, not far from where he lay beside his deadened fire.
Angered, perhaps more at himself than any other, the lead camel driver approached the High Magi's tent the next morning to report missing two of his camels and two of his men.
*
The desertion of two drivers – Isaac had said they had only recently come to him, begging for employment – meant the load placed on servants more than doubled, and Jordan hardly needed more work, what with his already doing his own and most of the lazy Hamilcar's as well.
Yet he surprised himself, not once did feelings of hatred for this seemingly endless journey creep in amongst his contempt for the Numidian whelp and his somewhat ironic sense of pride in the ability to shoulder the tasks of three.
Lack of shelter in the Syrian desert had necessitated the carriage of three tents, for each Magi and whoever might fit in what little space was left. The underling drivers gave as much token assistance as they felt was essential, then retreated to the comfort of their dicing, since the liquor had run dry by the second night. In some small portion of his being that valued self-preservation, even if he was left with all three tents to pitch and prepare, Jordan was relieved that they left him as quickly as they did. They disgusted him, and he baffled them. It was by silent mutual agreement that they avoided one another as much as was conceivable.
Amongst the hired drivers, men who'd proved their worth, being no better than bandits, Hamilcar had been accepted, one could even say adopted. The Blessed Zoroaster knew, he did as little work as possible. The underlings laughed at his welts, gotten from almost daily beatings – well-earned in Jordan's opinion, despite Kambujiya's being too soft with him. That the brat walked away from the tent he was supposed to erect each night was an indication in itself that he got off lightly. His father had likely whipped him bloody before selling him into slavery to pay off the family debts; some scars were too old to be marks of servitude.
The one good thing to emerge from the mess Jordan liked to think only his hand kept from disintegrating into chaos, was the obols Kambujiya silently slipped into his hand come morning, as he pulled the Magi's tent down around the near-comatose body of its slave. Watching the sloe-eyed boy scramble from the cured leather floating down as if to bury him alive was payment enough in itself. Jordan hadn't the patience or the inclination to endear himself to Hamilcar, simply for the sake of smoothing the course of the journey. Contempt such as he held for the wretch was better labelled scorn.
"Jordan?" when the High Magi called, paid servants came.
"Aye, Revered One?" the High Magi appeared unconcerned that merely three days into their trek across the sands of the Syrian desert, there was already cause for worry. But no, worry was felt only by servants – familiar with the heavy hand of a shortened temper – and, judging from his expression, the High Magi's navjote, whose ale-coloured eyes focused among the coals and ash at the very heart of their fire.
"Would you ensure the fires are kept burning this night?" in times gone by, the Zoroastrian Magi would offer sacrifice to Ahuramazd for every morning of a journey seen, burned in the sacred fire carried at the head of every procession. They had not sacrificed to the Wise Lord since leaving Babylon, perhaps the neglect lay heavily on the visionary acolyte's thoughts?
"Yes, Revered One,"
The High Magi had declined to bring a servant to attend him – the absence was filled by the navjote, who, though younger than Jordan himself, seemed heavy with concerns suited to more seasoned shoulders. The fire's light reflected upon a face that spoke of ages he could not possibly have lived. Those that populated the far east, along the furthest borders of Kurush's Persia, believed that souls after death returned to the womb, and were born again into the world. Dârayavauš had spoken of them once at some length, had also been quick to return to the Avesta and the teachings he knew best, recalling to his servant's mind the words Ahuramazd had spoken to the Blessed Zoroaster of the evanescent hell where the souls of the wicked would be held until the time of the Reckoning of Spirits and the ultimate victory of Ahuramazd over Anghra Mainyu, and Truth over the Lie; then would evil be purged from the world in an ordeal of fire and molten metal. The words of Zoroaster had sounded in Jordan's ear throughout the beginning of his life, had revived on his coming to the temple. Yet studying the troubled face before him did give one cause for wonder. . . .
The glare from fires made brighter by the consummate darkness near-blinded Jordan's eyes: a translucent blue, sensitive to the extremities of light. It was not unknown in Babylon for a servant within the temple to show promise enough to warrant him a place among the navjotes. His eyes alone rendered such a place for him impossible, too delicate to penetrate the darkness and reach the outlying novae. The dark eye of Medea was more prized among Persians than the foreign blue, watery and weak. Jordan was the only child to inherit the Grecian features of his mother's family, however muted by his paternal Persian heritage. Thus it was no real surprise to any in the family, or the village, that his mother treasured him as a gift from the Wise Lord she had adopted for the sake of her husband. In Babylon he had not only escaped the tedious labour of the land, but also his mother's suffocating love. Nothing in his soul tempered the dread coiling in his belly at the thought of returning to his village, and a life of dependence and unending toil under the harsh sun.
By the daevas, what was it in the firewood that hampered the flames and coaxed them to disappear inside coals half-burnt?! Hands of time had passed since the last of the underling drivers, quailing under Isaac's oaths and curses, had retired to his tiny tent, since Kambujiya's whip had ceased to sing in his practised hand on the Numidian's worthless hide, since the High Magi's introspecting navjote had retreated from the night's cold still lost in the realm of thought. Back and forth, from one night-fire to the next Jordan had walked, taking a brand from one to light the embers of another. The wind, an almost constant companion in this vast expanse of wasteland, had softened its blasting heat to a breeze slightly warmer than the night air it moved through. The heat of each passing day was becoming insufferable, yet with darkness all were reaching for wool blankets.
Threadbare his might have been, but it was better than nothing. A bare act of will kept his shoulders from shivering; not even Seleucia had been this cold.
A rustle from a close tent – Dârayavauš's – pulled his attention. His pride had yet to heal from the wound two deserting camel drivers had inflicted as they'd passed mutely by him; his ears jumped at every sound, his dreams carried him to a sentry post where still he kept careful watch. No alarm, it was simply Dârayavauš emerging, likely only to empty his night water.
No?
"Lord, is anything amiss?" Dârayavauš had a kind face, with none of Kambujiya's suspicion or the High Magi's reserve.
"Be at ease lad. I cannot sleep is all," in his hand, the Magi held a few figs, leisurely gnawing one. Fragile and weak as they might be, his servant's eyes were ravenous.
Without a word, Dârayavauš spilled the fruit into the boy's work-hardened hands.
"Lord?"
"Eat," Jordan needed no further command, figs were his favourite fruit. The deserting camel-drivers had taken with them much food – a servant's worry, for servants' rations were the first to be cut, yet he had noticed the High Magi's somewhat frugal meal this evening. No doubt as Dârayavauš had noticed his. "I know you fret Jordan over the food we have left, perhaps not only for yourself. Rest assured we have enough to see us through to the first villages on the edge of Judaea,"
"What if they have nothing?" the boy hadn't noticed the hunger pangs twinging in his stomach, nor realised they had kept his eyes wide. Quieted for a time on the flesh of the fig, now his eyelids drooped.
"For the coin Marduniya can offer, they'll have something,"
"An old cow I'll have to bleed and butcher," a note of drowsy languor found its way into his peasant's strong voice.
"If supper persists similar to this night, your hunger will do the work for you. Fear not, you will eat from my plate as well as your own if need requires,"
"Thank you, Lord," perhaps if he rested his eyes a few fingers of time. . . .
"Come Jordan, your mind sleeps even as your body sits upright," his master's gentle but insistent hands aided him to his feet before his cloudy mind could think to voice protest.
"But the fires –?"
"Take no heed of them. I am more accustomed to a wakeful night, I shall see they do not go out,"
"The High . . ." yawn, ". . . Magi said I must watch–"
"And I am telling you, you must sleep. Do not forget whose servant you are,"
The tent held some of the temperate day, welcome in such cold. Aided by gentle hands that were no more than if they had belonged to his father, Jordan was removed of his heavy travelling clothes, guided down upon a soft pallet – not his own, but Dârayavauš's, who would not be in need of it this night – and covered closely with warm wool blankets.
"Will we ever get there, Dârayavauš?" his pillow – the Magi's coat – was soft against his cheek, his heavy eyes unconsciously drifting closed; he hardly knew what his tongue spoke.
"Aye lad, the Wise Lord allowing. We will."
*
The Roman border between Judaea and the Syrian desert was not worth patrolling. Indeed, Judaea itself had hardly been worth the conquest, but for securing control of its ports and roads to the more vital lands of Ćgypt and Arabia; it warranted not even a prefect, was ruled by an instrument of Rome, the powerful, but aging king, Herod.
The villages along the main trade route through to Babylonia survived purely on the patronage of passing caravans. It was not often the opportunity arose to extort. Some villagers spoke a rudimentary Greek – those most often in contact with drivers from the shores of both the Euphrates and the Jordan. Isaac, whose face even in the falling darkness of twilight was familiar along these roads, had negotiated food and shelter for "as good a price as they'll give" at two previous villages the party had come for to rest in beds rather than on pallets. Currently he was in the midst of a heated argument with two thickset young men for supplies, to see them through to Jerusalem.
Zarathustra held his tongue whilst the High Magi attempted to make himself understood to an increasingly impatient innkeeper. The navjote was as a child, to be seen and not heard; his sole purpose at Marduniya's side was to listen and learn.
It was not the burdens of the navjote that weighed at his soul.
Hot winds and scorching sand they had left behind with the Syrian desert – the last days, keeping in their hearts Dârayavauš's pleas for the sake of his industrious but exhausted servant, they had travelled during the cold but bearable night, and slept in snatches whilst the sun was high. The wisp of camels breathing deep mingled with the voices in his ear murmuring, incessantly, that this was all folly.
Perhaps it was in his nature to doubt, even that which he had seen with his own eyes. The great conglomerate star, beckoning with a song of sirens to the west, dimmed in his mind with each day of monotony, endless miles of dull sand stretching to meet a discordantly bright sky. Judaea may have been a third-rate addition to the Empire of the Eagles, yet it was not a city state of times long past, but a vast expanse of mountains, gorges, dust and tension, watered by rivers and lakes and cheap Roman wine. The star had shown him nothing beyond the province of Judaea; hundreds of towns, both Hebrew and Roman, had pitched their foundations in its diverse soils. He knew not which set of city-gates would yield the balm to his doubts, nor what form such a balm, if it indeed existed, would take.
Eyes shifted every so often to the set of his shoulders, in askance, wondering – just as he did – why the High Magi put such trust in a vision of little more than being guided toward Judaea. Only in some well-hidden portion of his soul did Zarathustra feel the perfect longing that had so completely engulfed him, that pulled him onward yet.
"We wish for one night, friend, would ask no more than that,"
"Have trade?" the unkept man stumbled over the sounds, his rank only slightly higher than those around him, staring from windows and cracks at the fair strangers. His Greek consisted more of gesture than spoken word. Pompey may have taken this land for Rome, and impressed upon it the Roman coin and the Roman language, but the rule of tradition reigned true along the outskirts of civilisation. Hard-pressed between the Syrian desert and the desert of the Pax Romana, these people kept as well as they could to the life they had always lived, finding in stagnation a promise of longevity, no matter how true or false.
Fumbling through his sleeves with a grace only years of solemn practise and respect could teach, the High Magi slipped from his wrist a chain of fillet gold, worth more certainly than a single night's bed in a villager's hovel.
"I believe this should be adequate," muddy eyes lit up with awe and the slightest hint of avarice; this man in his tanned sheepskin cloak had likely never before seen gold worked with such skill. Babylon had once been known for such works, catering to the whim of the Great Kings; Alexander had intended to crown Babylon capital of the empire he had hoped to expand, before Ahuramazd in his wisdom (or perhaps Alexander in his ignorance, who really knew the truth of such things?) had seen fit to grant the Macedonian King his promised immortality, if only in the form of his still-revered name, and take him from this world into the next.
"Yes, yes, ad-e-quate," the words the villager mimicked, not however their dry irony.
Zarathustra had thought himself glad to leave the Syrian desert behind, convinced that any form of humanity was a blessing in lieu of unbounded sands. Two nights of soiled beds and threadbare blankets had sown in him glances of longing toward the neatly packed tents and pallets which at least were clean. He had never truly valued the luxuries of Babylon; pure water, a temperate sun, and comfortable quarters.
How many more nights before they would find sufficient shelter?
"By Yahweh!" the oath – Isaac's – was followed by a long exclamation of Hebrew that sent their host scrambling heedless for his door, and out into the night that blazed like day.
"Marduniya!" the Magi Kambujiya's urgent hail rose above the loudening tumult of voices and words smattering of Hebrew, Persian and Greek. The High Magi did not clamber through the press of bodies filtering into the village square; sensing his authority, bodies shifted to allow him passage. Zarathustra was left to battle his own way through a crowd milling like sheep. And would have – his place was with his teacher – had he been able to move his feet from their stance before the threshold, or his eyes from the recurrence of his vision.
" 'O Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! Who hast set thy glory above the heavens',"
Beside him, Lucanus could hear the lead driver whispering. He needed no knowledge of Hebrew to understand a prayer when one was voiced. They were whispered often enough in his presence, holding a sufferer's hand as they made their peace with God, by whatever name He was called; even if all he could do was sit with a patient and watch them die, that was what he would do. He had seen many slip away, both friends and strangers, with their hands clasping his own. If quiet drops fell on their entwined fingers, most did not notice, nor would have cared; he had yet to harden himself to death.
" 'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger',"
Such a star however could not be such a herald. The Persian Magi had seen the harbinger of doom written in the stars for untold generations, each meticulously recorded. The bewildered awe evident in their stirring faces was reassurance enough.
" 'When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that thou visitest him?' "
It was from a short distance that Jordan watched, steadily building the courage within his heart, enough that his feet would willingly take him to where the two men stood; Isaac enraptured in his prayers, Lucanus simply gazing upon the colossal star, his smooth features unreadable.
" 'For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour',"
Over, or perhaps under, the combined murmur of open wonder and prayer, the physician heard the light steps approaching, recognised them from their continuous wandering back and fore over the passing of frigid desert nights.
"Jordan?"
"Lucanus," the boy's Greek was accented, but still intelligible, his greeting easily found within the syllables.
"You are a member of the temple, have you any idea what this could mean?"
"A servant isn't privy to the Magis' wisdom. I have no more idea than you,"
"Aye," Lucanus' wide eyes, honest and compassionate, turned from the servant, returned to the soft brightness of the star.
" 'Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet: all sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas',"
Already seeing his chance slipping through his hesitant fingers, Jordan latched on with what tenuous strength he had.
"I've heard you . . . and Isaac. . . ." the eyes turned once more to him, a thin cloud passing over their hazel hue, evocative of the Grecian mountains of his youth.
"Aye?" a note of guarded wariness found its way into the mildly spoken word.
"I . . . would you . . . I would like to know more, I, uh. . . ."
The cloud passed as swiftly as it had descended. A heartening smile spread easily across the physician's sculpted mouth.
"Of course,"
" 'O Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!' "
"I have seen nothing such as this in all my years in the temple,"
"Nor have I ever heard it mentioned,"
"It is as the navjote described then?"
"Aye,"
"But there has not been an undiscovered pattern recorded since the time of Alexander!"
"There has been dwindling need for us since the time of Alexander,"
"Could it be that the Wise Lord has sent one to be a teacher to us, as the Blessed Zoroaster was?"
"Your knowledge of the Avesta is lacking. 'The creator Ahuramazd spoke to Zoroaster thus:
O Zoroaster! I have created no-one better than you in the world, and I shall likewise not create one better after you are gone. You are my chosen one, and I have made this world apparent on account of you. And all these people and monarchs whom I have created have always maintained the hope that I should create you in their days, so that they should accept the religion, and their souls should attain to the supreme heaven'. The Wise Lord knows you even as you do not know yourself Kambujiya,"
"As he too knows you Dârayavauš,"
"As he knows us all brothers, peace," Neither Magi truly understood as Marduniya did the consequence of this which his navjote had foreseen, "Zarathustra?" Zarathustra was not by his side, as was a navjote's duty. The boy stood outlined by their host's lintel, once more entirely possessed within the star of his vision. Unwilling to disturb him, the High Magi approached with caution.
"What do you see Zarathustra?"
"A guiding star. . . ."
"Guiding you where?"
"West . . . to Judaea. . . ."
"Where in Judaea?"
". . . the city of David. . . ."
*
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them,
'Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger'
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of heavenly host praising God and saying,
'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men'
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another,
'Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us'
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them . . .
*
*
Even Herod's palace could not compare with the grandeur of Jerusalem's Temple, which none would argue dominated the city both religiously and architecturally. Yet the presence of Rome was felt here as much as anywhere else in the Empire; the Antonia Fortress lay opposite the Temple, openly keeping watch. Augustus may have declared the Pax Romana with the best of intentions (or perhaps not), but any threat, perceived or otherwise, was dealt with in brutal swiftness. Rome ruled the world, and made certain it was never forgotten.
Growing up on tales of the Holy City and its godly grandeur, Isaac had long ago distinguished the wistfully imaginative from the truthful likelihood. His parents would have him believe that Yahweh truly did live in the Temple of Jerusalem, and would refuse to believe what he'd seen with his own eyes, gazing through doors thrown wide at money-changers in the forecourt, plying their trade without a thought for the thousands who had died to protect and rebuild the One Temple of the One God.
He had travelled the streets of Jerusalem many times in the years he'd driven his camels from Babylon to Judaea, yet the sight of the Temple in all its worldly sacrilegious splendour weighed heavily on his heart.
The Holy City was no Cćsarea, the bustling sea-side cosmopolis, and the heart of Graeco-Roman influence in Judaea, even so, the streets still reverberated with cries of traders and merchants, both high and low. Many fine craftsmen worked in Jerusalem, and the best weren't too far from the palace steps. This might be the holiest city in the known world – (those idolaters that worshiped the personification of Rome!) – but Isaac was still more concerned for the welfare of the animals and the expedition that came under his responsibility. He had no wish to pray in a Temple defiled by traders' hands, and diplomatic exchanges with King Herod were best left to those better skilled.
It was a risk, every time Isaac left the caravan, even for supplies. He was under no illusions, camel drivers were not to be trusted with anything. On previous trips, his second, being both a skilled debater and his nephew, had been sent to argue for whatever goods were needed. Reuben however had taken sick a month past, was not yet strong enough to travel, and the only man even slightly trustworthy remaining outside the palace was not a man at all, but a stripling boy. The physician had told him of Jordan's keen ears with an indulgent grin, but they both knew curiosity was endemic in the youth of Babylon, like as much anywhere else. Dârayavauš looked out for the lad, a hard worker if nothing else; the increased ferocity of beatings the Magi Kambujiya's slave had received of late had not gone unnoticed. Even the drivers who'd taken the Numidian under their wing – and likely encouraged his impudence – ceased to laugh at the bleeding gashes left by a singing whip, all more than deserved. This morn the boy could hardly walk, leaving yet more tasks for the resolute Jordan to attend to. Whilst all the drivers stood about and tried to hide the wineskins they'd managed to fill within a finger of time of passing through the city's eastern gate, Jordan discreetly wandered from camel to camel, investigating the food stores and his master's luggage. A look of focused concentration slipped over his face momentarily, quickly calculating rations and how long they would last.
Despite himself, Isaac was impressed; the boy was more adroit than he looked. Likely he wouldn't drive as hard a bargain as Reuben was able, but he'd do.
"Jordan?" disrupted, but quite used to it, Jordan let none of his face show how startled he was; it was a servant's art to become as the table or the wine jug, insignificant, indistinguishable. It allowed people to comfortably forget servants had ears and eyes, and intellect enough to trust them.
"Aye?" and lowered his eyes briefly in respect.
"You know how we are for food and water?"
"Aye," well-trained this one, not a flicker of nervousness, even as the coins – specifically minted without the head of Cćsar Augustus, in concordance with Mosaic law – were indiscriminately poured into his roughened hands.
"There're markets down this road and to the left, near the theatre,"
"Aye," once more the boy lowered his eyes, and then effortlessly disappeared into the crowds.
Dârayavauš valued his servant high above even the hardest worker, and Isaac was beginning to understand why.
The king and the High Magi each spoke with diplomatic words and deferent gestures. Even to Zarathustra's eyes, unfamiliar with the customs of court audience, it was a thin veil. Lucanus acted the role of translator, courteously, knowing as well as both the king and the High Magi that Marduniya's Greek was flawless, and Herod's grasp of Persian would have served in this instance. Form had to be observed.
"Revered Ones, you are most welcome. I would be honoured if you would enjoy my hospitality," formal welcome.
"Thank-you Majesty, we are honoured by your kindly gesture; it is unfortunate we cannot stay overlong," formal reply.
"Then might I ask what it is that has you so eager to continue your journey without rest?" the warm smile was too rehearsed, came too easily to lips that had spouted the will of Rome for over three tens of summers. From where he stood, irrelevant and unnoticed, Zarathustra could see the calculating sparkle in the king's sharp grey eyes.
"We come Majesty, in search of a child," a child? The boy's own surprise he saw mirrored in the Magis' carefully doctored expressions; he, familiar with the masks, saw through them, as did Lucanus, with a miniature smirk of . . . satisfaction?
"A child, Revered One?" Herod's eyes betrayed his surprise, poorly hidden; their grey shallows spoke multitudes. Had this man been born Great King of Persia, into a court whose very lifeblood was intrigue, he would likely not have survived a single year.
"Aye Majesty, a child born king. His star we did see in the east, and we come to pay honours to him," with calm, immoveable words and a placid, firm expression, Marduniya succeeded in driving the king near to the point of apoplexy.
For one who allowed himself to be pushed to such an extent, Zarathustra thought he handled his anger rather well. At least he had kept some control over his tongue, custom dictated the treatment of guests to be with all decorum and hospitality. To insult a guest, physically or verbally, was an unforgivable breach of propriety.
Though not trusting himself to speak – all could see the royal tongue being bitten – Herod summoned forward a priest, obviously highly placed, from his position behind the lavishly decorated throne. Fragments of Hebrew drifted down the dais steps.
"Ah yes. . . ." the king muttered to himself in lightly-accented Greek, which Lucanus did not trouble himself to translate. "Revered One, this star you speak of, when did it appear?"
"The star manifested itself some three days past Majesty, however to my navjote it was revealed in a vision whilst in Persia," Lucanus translated slowly, for the benefit of the Jewish priest, whose understanding of Greek appeared to be imperfect, and would have missed the king's poignant glance had it not been indiscreetly returned.
"My priest and I believe that which you seek may lie to the south some six miles, in the town of Bethlehem. Go forth and search diligently, for if this young child you do find, I bid you come and bring me word, that I might worship him also,"
Zarathustra doubted any standing before the king could not see the glint that hardened his eyes to brittleness. There could be no question in his mind what Herod, faced with a threat to himself and his heirs, would do. They would not be returning.
Hearing from the physician that their final destination could be but six miles away, Jordan felt a slight foolish, having bought enough food at the Jerusalem markets to last several days' hard travelling. Still, one never knew, the terrain of Judaea changed so rapidly, from lush green valleys to arid mountains of rock, the Magi would likely be glad for the extra gourds of water. The road was Roman, although old. If nothing, they would at least make good time in getting to this Bethlehem.
The camels were sluggish with their full bellies, but that mattered little. These animals had carried them once over a hundred Roman miles in a single day – six miles along a good road was as nothing.
Emerging from the palace gates and descending the white marble stairs, the High Magi had said little bar conspiratorial whispers to Dârayavauš and Kambujiya. They, the navjote, and Lucanus had simply mounted their camels and started for the western gate, hugging the outer wall of Herod's palace, oblivious of unsteady camel drivers scurrying for their beasts. One look at Dârayavauš's rigid bearing, perched tensely in the saddle, had silenced any and all of a curious servant's questions.
Perhaps even more curious was the heavy look that had settled fleetingly on the lead driver's shoulders, upon hearing the words of Herod repeated.
"It was nothing, maybe the shock," Isaac had been telling his two now almost constant fireside companions the story of Joseph, however the question burning the young servant's tongue was not to be denied. What had prompted such a face?
"Is it about the child?" reticent or no, word had spread like fire through the small caravan of the kingly child.
"I . . . in a way. . . ."
"What is it Isaac?" the physician's temperate voice invited confidences.
"A . . . prophecy. I think it was what struck the king and his priest," four candid eyes stared, questioning. "It's in the book of Micah; 'but thou, Bethlehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is . . . that is to be ruler in Israel',"
"By Zeus. . . ." Lucanus appeared stricken, Jordan couldn't see why.
"I . . . uh –"
"Don't you know, Herod is Rome's puppet? Micah wrote that this child would be the ruler of Israel, not simply Judah. And even if he did unite Judah and Israel once more, he'd –"
"Have to pit his tiny country against the power of Rome herself," the physician finished for him.
"Judaea can call on but a handful of fighting men, however patriotic. Most of her sons trained to arms are scattered around the Empire. Judaea can rely on none but herself, Rome has but to summon and every legion in the known world may come and slaughter all in their path!"
"But surely, 'ruler' does not have to mean king?" grasping his companions' anxiety, Jordan still found it hard within himself to believe such cold-blooded terror possible.
"No, some say the man will be not a king, but a teacher. Yahweh willing, I pray it so,"
"I too," both the lead driver and the physician made their heartfelt prayer with such sincerity, the servant bowed his head also, sending a prayer of feeling to the Wise Lord that no more blood be shed for the cause of Rome. Had she not claimed enough?
*
Six miles were six miles, but it was not long past twilight as the tired party on tired camels trudged into the town, too trifling to warrant enclosing walls. Zarathustra had trouble willing his eyes to remain open, and from what he could force himself to make out, so did most others around him.
Only the High Magi seemed unweary, patiently surveying what could be seen of the town. Without a word, he led the caravan, following the main street until his camel led them to an inn – hard to miss in such quiet parts.
A Roman inn it was, judging if not from the adornments on the walls, then from the chiselled patrician noses of its exclusively Graeco-Roman patrons. A bronze Greek statue of the god Dionysus, a poor forgery, occupied a niche by the entrance to the kitchens, the theme furthered by inebriated customers and vine leaves carved over the door lintel.
Marduniya gestured Lucanus to accompany him, not to translate – here it would be best to speak with his own tongue the Greek he had long ago perfected – but for his Grecian features. A Persian alone, no matter how high his rank, would be turned away at first glance.
Deliberate steps carried him inside the low door, followed closely by the physician. Both ignored the gradual silence of voices, and the suspicion of seventy eyes blatantly staring. Priority stood for little within the walls of a small Latin tavern.
The innkeeper, distinguished only by the avaricious set of his lips, strolled forward leisurely. Not to greet them, but to prevent them coming any further into his life and livelihood. A healthy distrust of all foreigners kept the man's head on his shoulders, or so he believed. Any good citizen of Rome knew the lengths of atrocity such barbarians as those in Persia would commit.
"Greetings gentle innkeeper. May the Wise Lord smile upon your house," even in the face of courtly manners, the rotund hosteller did not cease in his rudeness, a distrusting stare all the welcome he would give.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" the man's Greek was corrupted, the rough Roman lingua pervading through his hostility.
"We come in search of a child, good sir, a newborn. Have you any suckling mothers under your fine roof?"
"I certainly do not, nor have I seen any such woman in Bethlehem,"
"Indeed," a sedate smile moderated the High Magi's otherwise dry expression. "My friend, my companions and I have travelled far this day. Have you a drop of wine to spare, to ease our parched throats?"
"Unfortunate though it is, these men –" all Lucanus saw were six hands dicing for pieces of silver, "– have purchased my last barrel. On the morrow, I will send my servants to Jerusalem to fetch more,"
And tomorrow, if they returned, there would have been no wine to buy in Jerusalem, or it would have been every barrel rotten. Any measure to keep foreign hands, even if they carried Roman gold, from touching the fruits of his trade.
"I sympathise, good innkeeper," but this man did not care for Persian sympathies, "We shall be of no further trouble to you, we must be on our way," the High Magi lowered his eyes momentarily, a show of respect to hide the irony dancing across the lines of his forehead.
"Safe journey traveller," seventy eyes followed their backs as they calmly walked into the gradually icing night, leaving behind the legacy of the Empire.
Questions not dared voiced were answered brusquely as Marduniya climbed once more onto the back of his camel. A rare occurrence indeed, that he allowed his frustration such free reign. Still, Dârayavauš chose the risk.
"Do you wish to continue on, Revered One?"
The High Magi did not snap in his anger, nor had Dârayavauš expected him to – both knew the rigours of self-possession, a skill in which they had both been instructed. Yet he mulled over his reply, in the face of years of schooling against indecision. On his lips rested an answer he neither liked nor agreed with. A small boy tugging gently on his rein was a welcomed delay.
"Beg pardon, good lord?"
"Yes lad?"
"I overheard you lord, saying you looked for a newborn?"
"Aye,"
"Lord, my master the innkeeper, he did turn away a man and his wife a few days past,"
"Why?"
"Because they were Hebrew lord," no surprise.
"And the woman? Was she –"
"Full almost to bursting lord, and she was in much pain," from the corner of his eye, Marduniya could see the physician pale, "I gave her a cup o' wine whilst the master wasn't looking. And lord, the strangest feeling came to me – that's why I remember it so well, you see; it were as if . . . as if all had been made right. Lord, I never felt such peace in all my life, and that I'll swear to by anything,"
"Have you any idea lad where the man took his wife? Have they shelter elsewhere in this town?"
"I know lord only that I saw them on my way to the markets next day. They were bedded down in a stable, not far from the old well,"
"A stable? By Zeus, a stable?! High Magi, we must hurry!" the ever-composed Lucanus near succeeded in working himself to panic well justified; more women perished in childbirth than soldiers furthering the ambitions of Augustus.
"Pray Lucanus, calm yourself," their camel's standing abreast, Isaac reached to rest a comforting hand on the physician's shoulder, "I believe this child is the one told by the prophets, who will bring peace to the Jews. I know not how he'll do so, but I trust in Yahweh. This child is from the One God, he is in the best hands,"
Light protruded from the low windows of a small stone stable not twenty paces away, throwing distorted shadows of oxen and cattle horns against the dusty ground, broken only by spare tufts of withered grass and thorn bush. A harsh background for such delicate candlelight.
Dismounting all, camels were left in the charge of drivers – a risk Isaac felt would strangely not be a risk this night. Yahweh watched over this lowly stable, he felt it in his blood. Whilst the Magi calmly awaited an anxious Lucanus, rustling for his medicine chest amongst the other packs on his animal, Jordan prudently extracted from the wraps of leather and coarse cloth three humble boxes, decorated with but a single Persian letter each. These he gave over silently to the Magi, forbearing to meet eyes he knew would see straight through to the heart in his chest, beating too strong against his ribs.
Each holding in his hands his offering, Kambujiya, Dârayavauš and Marduniya led the procession to the stable, in which Zarathustra could barely make out the form of a woman sitting by a manger of straw. A navjote's place was by his teacher's side, but not this time. This time his usual place was taken by the lead driver, to translate; the navjote was to walk in the shadow of the Magi, with the physician and the servant. Even such a small crowd would give him cover enough to hide the inexplicable dread slowly curling around his throat.
"Joseph?" caught by the hint of worry in his wife's mellow voice, Joseph rose from his place by the foot of the manger.
"What is it Mary?"
"Who comes?" from the silhouettes it appeared long-bearded strangers, although not Hebrew. The man felt no alarm: he, his wife and her child would be protected. Even so, callused fingers tightened around his sturdy wooden staff.
" 'Yahweh is my refuge and strength. . . .' "
Man and woman stared openly at the three Persian Magi, as they with carefully measured steps approached the stable, holding before them each a wooden box. Coming in their footsteps was a wiry Hebrew man, a camel-driver by trade judging from his weathered face.
"Welcome, friends,"
For several instants upon stepping over the wide threshold, just as the young boy had voiced, Isaac felt an all-consuming sense of inner-peace take possession of his heart. The formal greetings he'd intended to speak left him, plucked from his mind by Yahweh's hand. There could be no purer welcome than the words of the One God's own.
" 'He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth...
Yea, all kings shall fall down before him: all nations shall serve him... His name shall endure for ever: his name shall be continued as long as the sun: and men shall be blessed in him: all nations shall call him blessed –' "
" 'Blessed be the Lord God, the God of Israel'," the voices of Mary and Joseph joined the psalm all three knew in their hearts, " 'Who only doeth wondrous things',"
The woman smiled, her pale blue eyes gentle.
"In the name of Yahweh, you are welcome. I am Mary, and my husband is Joseph of Nazareth,"
"I am Isaac of Babylon. Twelve days I have guided these men, wise men of Persia, across the Syrian desert. They come to honour the child who is to be king of Israel," whilst Mary appeared somewhat surprised, she held her peace and smiled greeting at the wise men before her.
"I am the one called Kambujiya, blessed Mary," gracefully, the Magi knelt by the manger, in awe of the sleeping child, "Does the boy yet have a name?"
"Yes, we have called him Jeshua," serene, the woman turned a mother's eyes on her child, lightly napping, cherishing his every perfect feature. The Magi too brought his eyes to bear on the child's small face.
"Jeshua, I bring to you a gift of gold. May the Wise Lord ever smile on you," the box, opened to reveal the treasure within, he lay beside the wooden manger, before gracefully rising, his duty done.
Mary had no need to force warmth to her smile greeting the Magi standing before her.
"I honour you Mary and Joseph of Nazareth, my name is Dârayavauš," the man possessed a kind face, "I would present the boy Jeshua with the gift I bear, however there is one more anxious than I that would see to yourself and your child," he turned, beckoning, "Lucanus?"
"Aye, I come,"
Seeing for himself the state of the mother and her child had not been difficult, the manger in which the boy slept was low to the ground, as was the woman who sat beside it, keeping watch much as a ewe upon her lamb. Simply ducking had allowed him sight enough. His medicine chest he passed to whoever stood on his left, and started for the woman, sending a grateful glance toward the Magi Dârayavauš.
"Greetings lady Mary, I am Lucanus,"
"Welcome Lucanus," a slight of confusion rested on the woman's face, until she looked over the Grecian's shoulder at the medicine chest, and the servant holding it.
"And my friend Jordan,"
"Greetings lady,"
"Greetings Jordan. Do you bear gifts also?" Jordan only smiled, hardly able to meet her eyes, near the same shade as his own, too intent on the child.
"No lady, I am only a humble servant. It is Lucanus who is the physician," were it not for Mary's grateful thanks, the physician would have interrupted, claiming that he was not yet a physician, still having to refer back to Hippocrates.
"How many days past did you birth Jeshua, lady Mary?"
"Two. He was born with the sun," Lucanus had assisted many mothers with their lying-ins, and well knew the heartfelt smile gracing the woman's face; no matter how many more children she brought to birth, her golden child would always reign true in her heart. After all, he was a child of God.
Lowering his eyes in deference to both the child, and the New Way he would bring, in his heart Marduniya thanked the Wise Lord for guiding him to this small stable. He felt privileged to have seen all his aging eyes had. His teacher had lived his life in a reverent sadness, burdened with knowledge he had not wished to possess, that this age was approaching its end. The High Magi however had come to accept that it was simply Ahuramazd's way. A new beginning must first be preceded by an end.
The pungent scent of myrrh drifted on the night's breeze, cold, but not biting as winter chills could be.
"Lady Mary, it was a sign from the Wise Lord that led us to Jeshua, a great star, guiding us toward the city of David. It was not however revealed to myself, or Dârayavauš or Kambujiya to begin our journey. The Wise Lord, the one you call Yahweh, sent a vision to my young pupil, Zarathustra,"
Could it be possible, that whilst not being in the least surprised, Zarathustra still felt a thrill of shock pass down his spine. Apprehension had left off his neck and settled for the warmer pit of his stomach. What was it he so feared to see?
"Come lad," words informal and tone immoveable brought the boy against his instincts, conditioning to obey his teacher far stronger than his will to resist. His feet shuffled, yet something pulled him forward, he never knew quite what.
"May the Wise Lord smile on you lady Mary,"
"Yahweh bless you, Zarathustra," her open look wandered downwards, to gaze once more upon the child born of her flesh.
"And may he smile on you Jeshua," his soft voice had considered the sleeping boy, so small and fragile, yet so perfect. . . .
Jeshua's eyes opened.
For a few moments the two simply watched.
Tired brown eyes focused entirely on the delicate, perfectly formed face. Something moved within him, a fullness where he had never realised there pulsed an empty heart.
Small eyes, a soft crystal blue, stared back at him, with perfect innocence . . . and love.
Kneeling by the manger, Zarathustra's tears quietly fell.
*
And Simeon came by the Spirit into the temple: and when the parents brought in the child, to do for him after the custom of the law, then took he up in his arms and blessed God, and said,
'Lord now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people: a light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel'
And Joseph and Mary marvelled at those things which were spoken of him. And Simeon blessed them, and said unto Mary,
'Behold, this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (yea, a sword shall pierce through my own soul also), that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed' . . .
*
*
Life had not much changed in Babylon.
So many years, and still crowds of sweating, half-washed bodies walked the streets until the power of the sun drove them indoors. The crowds had thinned as the years had passed, yet still little changed. Homes once proudly boasting the finest of all now lay cracked and empty, waiting only for the architects from Seleucia and Ctesiphon to come for more stone.
The only wealth left in Babylon lay in its dressed building stones, and its memories.
Babylonians lived as they always had, as if their city were the best and most vital in all Persia. They lived now as did those on the edge of Judaea, before the Romans began their massacres: in stagnation, desperate for its promise of longevity. But it was false. All false.
There remained only one place of importance in Babylon. The temple of Zoroaster, the flame still kept burning in continuous worship to the Wise Lord.
Why Zarathustra hadn't left when the chance had arisen he had yet to understand.
In his heart, even then, he had known what he truly was. Had duty kept him bound to the temple? Fear? His very name?
There could be no excuse. If a reason ever did make itself known to him, it would be of no consequence. He had taken the oath freely, as a Magi must.
'
I pledge myself to the Mazdayasnian religion, which causes the attack to be put off and weapons put down; which upholds khvaetvadatha, Asha-endowed; which of all religions that exist or shall be, is the greatest, the best, and the most beautiful: Ahuric, Zoroastrian. I ascribe all good to Ahuramazd. This is the creed of the Mazdayasnian religion'
Some twelve hundred summers, Zoroaster's elevating of Truth over the Lie had been upheld. The Blessed Prophet had himself asked the Wise Lord what was the best virtue for mankind; Ahuramazd had to him simply replied, 'truthful speech'.
To reconcile himself in deed was of no trouble, it was that within his heart that posed more threat. Zarathustra had been taught since his first days in the temple to abhor the Lie, yet for more than half his life, he had found himself living one. He had taken the oath willingly, and he would not foreswear his word of honour, what would he be left with if not his honour? His acceptance among the ranks of the Magi had only ever been through his occasional lapses of farsight and his being shown the star. A mundane skill with numbers had proved to be his somewhat dubious saviour; whilst the few Magi left studied the heavens, that grew gradually harder and harder to interpret, he sat by an oil lamp and studied their accounts. Still, a talent of reading the stars had not been necessary to know what the darkness, thirty-three summers past returning to Babylon, had signified – he'd felt in his veins the death of the child who had altered him so profoundly, had altered the lives of so many if what he had been told was true. The very skies had mourned the child of God. Some summers later he'd questioned Lucanus, on one of his rare visits, and had vindicated his instincts, which he had trusted implicitly ever since.
Lucanus had not long remained in Babylon. His ambition to travel once more to Athens and his home amongst the hills of Boeotia had enticed an eager Jordan, having now enough drachmas to afford such a trip, to accompany him. As far as his limited knowledge went, Zarathustra believed they were in Rome.
Isaac had decided against a long sojourn in the city of his birth. To his nephew Reuben, he had given all, the camels and money enough to continue the business. Once satisfied, he had taken two beasts, one to carry him and one to carry food, along the road he knew so well, across the Syrian desert to Judaea.
Zarathustra tried to believe his companions were still living, still thought occasionally of him and the journey, but they could just as easily be with their God, as were the Magi; Kambujiya, the kind Dârayavauš who had cared so much for his servant. And Marduniya. He tried not to think of Marduniya. The memory hurt still.
Slamming closed the book of accounts in frustration, Zarathustra found impulse pushing him determinedly to his feet. He was in need of fresh air.
The courtyard should be deserted at this time. Ariyâramna would be returning within –
"Searching for sleep Zarathustra?"
"Aye,"
Ariyâramna chuckled, "The stars are as obscure this night as they were yestereve, if not worse still. Perhaps they might bring you sleep?"
"Who but the Blessed Zoroaster can know?"
"Indeed," nodding a somewhat too-cheerful farewell, the Magi returned to the quest of locating his room in pitch black corridors; the man never thought to light a torch.
Never had Zarathustra been able to divine from the stars. The entire temple had despaired of him for it. Why he felt tonight would be as good as any to try one last time was beyond his comprehension, but his instincts were insistent.
The elixir did not spill in his older, steadier hand. A tentative sip brought back many memories of standing in this very spot as a navjote.
Of course he would see nothing, he knew and accepted it as fact. Yet the impulsion to try again was so strong, as if it were the last time he would have the chance.
Enduring a long swallow, Zarathustra let his eyes drift, and tried to focus on the patterns he remembered, as everything became hazy . . .
"Revered One?"
The voice of a servant reached him as if from a far distance, easily ignored.
"Revered One?"
Clearer. Hesitant, but determined. Inwardly sighing, Zarathustra surrendered his first – and last – divination, meant only for his eyes, and returned gradually to his body's weight, so much heavier now he knew how the soul could fly.
"Aye?"
"A man is here, by the name of Saul. He waits for you by the gate,"
At this hour?
"I . . . uh, what should I tell him, Revered One?"
Silence. Sigh.
"Tell him I come,"
The servant turned away, with the particular eagerness of the sleepy to attend to a task – the sooner completed, the sooner they might return to their pallets. Almost hesitant, Zarathustra remained a few moments, gazing at the familiar stars.
"Father if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done,"
The sacred elixir he watched with sage eyes as it flowed from the gilded cup to join the earth at his feet, a last sacrifice to the Wise Lord whom he had followed in deed and doctrine all his life.
He could pretend no longer.
*
The burden of Babylon, which Isaiah the son of Amoz did see...
Therefore shall all hands be faint, and every man's heart shall melt: and they shall be afraid: pangs and sorrows shall take hold of them; they shall be in pain as a woman that travailleth: they shall be amazed one at another; their faces shall be as flames...
Everyone that is found shall be thrust through; and every one that is joined unto them shall fall by the sword. Their children also be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled; their wives ravished...
And Babylon, the glory of the kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldees' excellency, shall be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah. It shall never be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation: neither shall the Arabian pitch tent there; neither shall the shepherds make their fold there. But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there; and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there...
Her time is near to come, and her days shall not be prolonged...
Thou shalt take up this proverb against the king of Babylon, and say,
'How hath the oppressor ceased! The golden city ceased!' . . .
*
Outside the worn gate he'd known of since childhood, overgrown with weeds and bushes but still useful for this, its last purpose, a man not unknown to the rigours of a traveller's path carefully pulled closed the mass of twisted metal and picked his way out through the pocket of small but dense vegetation.
A horse waited for him not far ahead, by the northern road. To Ephesos.
Wet beads trickled down the slope of his forehead. Water from the Euphrates.
The man, Saul, had not spoken a word, Zarathustra had known him on sight. They had never met, yet Lucanus had always spoken well of each. Thus perhaps their meeting was inevitable.
Unlike further upstream, the shore of the Euphrates sloped gently in Babylon. Without a thought, robes and all, the Magi had continued down into the water, and Saul had followed.
Zarathustra had said but one thing.
" 'No man can walk in the same river twice, for the second time it's not the same river, and he is not the same man',"
Firm hands had ducked his head under the water.
"Arise Zechariah. In the eyes of God, your sins are forgiven,"
On clear ground, free of choking plants, the man allowed himself one final look. Already he could see the rubble, what was once a gatehouse, broken away from the wall. In time Babylon would be nothing but rubble, and time waits not even for the greatest of men.
Turning away from Zarathustra's home, Zechariah took the first steps of his own journey. Above him the eternal stars burned on.
*
And let him that heareth say, 'Come'. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely... He which testifieth these things saith,
'Surely I come'...
The grace of our Lord be with you all. Amen.
*
* * * *
notes
theme
