In the days when Augustus Cæsar was master of many kings and Herod reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among the mountains of Persia, a certain man named Artaban, the Median.  His house stood close to the outermost of the seven walls which encircled the royal treasury.  From his roof he could look over the rising battlements of black and white and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to the hill where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like a jewel in a sevenfold crown.

Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowers and fruit-trees, watered by a score of streams descending from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds.  But all colour was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and half laughing under the shadows.  High above the trees a dim glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where the master of the house was holding council with his friends.

He stood by the doorway to greet his guests ­a tall, dark man of about forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a dreamer and the mouth of a soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but inflexible will ­one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are born for inward conflict and a life of quest.

His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his flowing black hair.  It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the fire-worshippers.

“Welcome!” he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another entered the room ­“welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus.  You are all welcome, and this house grows bright with the joy of your presence.”

There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the richness of their dress of many-coloured silks, and in the massive golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of the followers of Zoroaster.

They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the room, where a tiny flame was burning.  Artaban, standing beside it, and waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils.  Then he began the ancient chant of the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the beautiful hymn to Ahura-Mazda: 

We worship the Spirit Divine,
   all wisdom and goodness possessing,
Surrounded by Holy Immortals,
   the givers of bounty and blessing. 
We joy in the works of His hands,
   His truth and His power confessing.

We praise all the things that are pure,
    for these are His only Creation;
The thoughts that are true, and the words
    and deeds that have won approbation;
These are supported by Him,
    and for these we make adoration.

Hear us, O Mazda!  Thou livest
    in truth and in heavenly gladness;
Cleanse us from falsehood, and keep us
    from evil and bondage to badness;
Pour out the light and the joy of Thy life
    on our darkness and sadness.

Shine on our gardens and fields,
    Shine on our working and weaving;
Shine on the whole race of man,
    Believing and unbelieving;
    Shine on us now through the night,
    Shine on us now in Thy might,
The flame of our holy love
    and the song of our worship receiving.

The fire rose with the chant, throbbing as if it were made of musical flame, until it cast a bright illumination through the whole apartment, revealing its simplicity and splendour.

The floor was laid with tiles of dark blue veined with white; pilasters of twisted silver stood out against the blue walls; the clearstory of round-arched windows above them was hung with azure silk; the vaulted ceiling was a pavement of sapphires, like the body of heaven in its clearness, sown with silver stars.  From the four corners of the roof hung four golden magic-wheels, called the tongues of the gods.  At the eastern end, behind the altar, there were two dark-red pillars of porphyry; above them a lintel of the same stone, on which was carved the figure of a winged archer, with his arrow set to the string and his bow drawn.

The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace of the roof, was covered with a heavy curtain of the colour of a ripe pomegranate, embroidered with innumerable golden rays shooting upward from the floor.  In effect the room was like a quiet, starry night, all azure and silver, flushed in the East with rosy promise of the dawn.  It was, as the house of a man should be, an expression of the character and spirit of the master.

He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and invited them to be seated on the divan at the western end of the room.

“You have come to-night,” said he, looking around the circle, “at my call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster, to renew your worship and rekindle your faith in the God of Purity, even as this fire has been rekindled on the altar.  We worship not the fire, but Him of whom it is the chosen symbol, because it is the purest of all created things.  It speaks to us of one who is Light and Truth.  Is it not so, my father?”

“It is well said, my son,” answered the venerable Abgarus.  “The enlightened are never idolaters.  They lift the veil of the form and go in to the shrine of the reality, and new light and truth are coming to them continually through the old symbols.”  “Hear me, then, my father and my friends,” said Artaban, very quietly, “while I tell you of the new light and truth that have come to me through the most ancient of all signs.  We have searched the secrets of nature together, and studied the healing virtues of water and fire and the plants.  We have read also the books of prophecy in which the future is dimly foretold in words that are hard to understand.  But the highest of all learning is the knowledge of the stars.  To trace their courses is to untangle the threads of the mystery of life from the beginning to the end.  If we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us.  But is not our knowledge of them still incomplete?  Are there not many stars still beyond our horizon ­lights that are known only to the dwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and the gold mines of Ophir?”

There was a murmur of assent among the listeners.

“The stars,” said Tigranes, “are the thoughts of the Eternal.  They are numberless.  But the thoughts of man can be counted, like the years of his life.  The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all wisdoms on earth, because it knows its own ignorance.  And that is the secret of power.  We keep men always looking and waiting for a new sunrise.  But we ourselves know that the darkness is equal to the light, and that the conflict between them will never be ended.”

“That does not satisfy me,” answered Artaban, “for, if the waiting must be endless, if there could be no fulfilment of it, then it would not be wisdom to look and wait.  We should become like those new teachers of the Greeks, who say that there is no truth, and that the only wise men are those who spend their lives in discovering and exposing the lies that have been believed in the world.  But the new sunrise will certainly dawn in the appointed time.  Do not our own books tell us that this will come to pass, and that men will see the brightness of a great light?”

“That is true,” said the voice of Abgarus; “every faithful disciple of Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta and carries the word in his heart.  ’In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the number of the prophets in the east country.  Around him shall shine a mighty brightness, and he shall make life everlasting, incorruptible, and immortal, and the dead shall rise again.’”

“This is a dark saying,” said Tigranes, “and it may be that we shall never understand it.  It is better to consider the things that are near at hand, and to increase the influence of the Magi in their own country, rather than to look for one who may be a stranger, and to whom we must resign our power.”

The others seemed to approve these words.  There was a silent feeling of agreement manifest among them; their looks responded with that indefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has uttered the thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners.  But Artaban turned to Abgarus with a glow on his face, and said: 

“My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my soul.  Religion without a great hope would be like an altar without a living fire.  And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the light of it I have read other words which also have come from the fountain of Truth, and speak yet more clearly of the rising of the Victorious One in his brightness.”

He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine linen, with writing upon them, and unfolded them carefully upon his knee.

“In the years that are lost in the past, long before our fathers came into the land of Babylon, there were wise men in Chaldea, from whom the first of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens.  And of these Balaam the son of Beor was one of the mightiest.  Hear the words of his prophecy:  ’There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall arise out of Israel.’”

The lips of Tigranes drew downward with contempt, as he said: 

“Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the sons of Jacob were in bondage to our kings.  The tribes of Israel are scattered through the mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that dwells in Judea under the yoke of Rome neither star nor sceptre shall arise.”

“And yet,” answered Artaban, “it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mighty searcher of dreams, the counsellor of kings, the wise Belteshazzar, who was most honored and beloved of our great King Cyrus.  A prophet of sure things and a reader of the thoughts of God, Daniel proved himself to our people.  And these are the words that he wrote.” (Artaban read from the second roll:) “’Know, therefore, and understand that from the going forth of the commandment to restore Jerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be seven and threescore and two weeks.’”

“But, my son,” said Abgarus, doubtfully, “these are mystical numbers.  Who can interpret them, or who can find the key that shall unlock their meaning?”

Artaban answered:  “It has been shown to me and to my three companions among the Magi ­Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar.  We have searched the ancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time.  It falls in this year.  We have studied the sky, and in the spring of the year we saw two of the greatest stars draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which is the house of the Hebrews.  We also saw a new star there, which shone for one night and then vanished.  Now again the two great planets are meeting.  This night is their conjunction.  My three brothers are watching at the ancient temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, and I am watching here.  If the star shines again, they will wait ten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out together for Jerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who shall be born King of Israel.  I believe the sign will come.  I have made ready for the journey.  I have sold my house and my possessions, and bought these three jewels ­a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl ­to carry them as tribute to the King.  And I ask you to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together in finding the Prince who is worthy to be served.”

While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his girdle and drew out three great gems ­one blue as a fragment of the night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the peak of a snow mountain at twilight ­and laid them on the outspread linen scrolls before him.

But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes.  A veil of doubt and mistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up from the marshes to hide the hills.  They glanced at each other with looks of wonder and pity, as those who have listened to incredible sayings, the story of a wild vision, or the proposal of an impossible enterprise.

At last Tigranes said:  “Artaban, this is a vain dream.  It comes from too much looking upon the stars and the cherishing of lofty thoughts.  It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for the new fire-temple at Chala.  No king will ever rise from the broken race of Israel, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of light and darkness.  He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows.  Farewell.”

And another said:  “Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and my office as guardian of the royal treasure binds me here.  The quest is not for me.  But if thou must follow it, fare thee well.”

And another said:  “In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannot leave her nor take her with me on this strange journey.  This quest is not for me.  But may thy steps be prospered wherever thou goest.  So, farewell.”

And another said:  “I am ill and unfit for hardship, but there is a man among my servants whom I will send with thee when thou goest, to bring me word how thou farest.”

But Abgarus, the oldest and the one who loved Artaban the best, lingered after the others had gone, and said, gravely:  “My son, it may be that the light of truth is in this sign that has appeared in the skies, and then it will surely lead to the Prince and the mighty brightness.  Or it may be that it is only a shadow of the light, as Tigranes has said, and then he who follows it will have only a long pilgrimage and an empty search.  But it is better to follow even the shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst.  And those who would see wonderful things must often be ready to travel alone.  I am too old for this journey, but my heart shall be a companion of the pilgrimage day and night, and I shall know the end of thy quest.  Go in peace.”

So one by one they went out of the azure chamber with its silver stars, and Artaban was left in solitude.

He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle.  For a long time he stood and watched the flame that flickered and sank upon the altar.  Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain, and passed out between the dull red pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the roof.

The shiver that thrills through the earth ere she rouses from her night sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that heralds the daybreak was drawing downward from the lofty snow-traced ravines of Mount Orontes.  Birds, half awakened, crept and chirped among the rustling leaves, and the smell of ripened grapes came in brief wafts from the arbours.

Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake.  But where the distant peak of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky was clear.  Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flame about to blend in one.

As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendours to a crimson sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a point of white radiance.  Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the Magian’s breast had mingled and been transformed into a living heart of light.  He bowed his head.  He covered his brow with his hands.

“It is the sign,” he said.  “The King is coming, and I will go to meet him.”