Chapter 1
Jerusalem shimmered like a mirage in the desert heat, its limestone walls catching the last rays of the setting sun. Malachi ben Ezra stood on the flat roof of his family’s palatial home, overlooking the city that had been his kingdom for as long as he could remember. At thirty-five, he commanded respect not just for his family’s wealth, but for the power that flowed through his veins—power that had nothing to do with gold or political influence.
The Ezras were known as merchants to the common folk of Jerusalem. To a select few, they were known as something else entirely: Magi, practitioners of arts both ancient and forbidden. Malachi was the most gifted of his line in generations.
“Master Malachi,” came a servant’s voice from the stairwell. “Your father requests your presence.”
Malachi didn’t turn. “Tell him I’ll come when I’m ready.”
The servant hesitated, then retreated. Malachi listened to the fading footsteps with satisfaction. Even his father’s servants feared to press him, and with good reason. The last one who had insisted had found himself unable to speak for a week—nothing permanent, just a reminder of the natural order of things.
He breathed in deeply, savoring the scents of cooking fires, incense, and the distant tang of the sea. Jerusalem was beautiful, yes, but increasingly it felt like a cage. There was nothing new here, nothing he hadn’t mastered or experienced. His teachers had nothing left to teach him. The city’s mysteries had been laid bare before his talents.
The stars began to appear overhead, and Malachi traced the ancient patterns with his eyes, recalling the celestial knowledge imparted to him by his grandfather. Each constellation told a story, revealed a secret, suggested a possibility.
Rome. The thought had been growing in his mind for months now. Rome, with its vast libraries, its convergence of knowledge from a hundred conquered peoples. Rome, where new magics might be discovered, where his talents might find fresh challenges.
“Malachi.” His father’s voice, not the servant’s this time.
He turned to see Ezra ben Judah standing at the top of the stairs, a tall figure wrapped in rich robes despite the lingering heat.
“Father.”
“You ignored my summons.”
“I was contemplating the heavens.”
Ezra’s expression softened slightly. “Always the scholar. That’s good. But you must also remember your responsibilities to this family.”
“What responsibilities remain? I’ve mastered every art you’ve set before me. I’ve doubled the worth of our eastern trade routes with my divinations. What more do you require?”
“A successor.”
Malachi stiffened. “We’ve discussed this.”
“Yes, and you continue to delay. You’re thirty-five, Malachi. It’s time you took a wife, produced an heir to carry on our line, our knowledge.”
“There’s time enough for that.”
“Is there?” Ezra stepped closer, his face grave in the deepening twilight. “Our powers grant us longer lives than most, yes, but not eternity. Not unless...”
“Not unless one is willing to pay prices I’ve yet to find acceptable,” Malachi finished. “I know the stories, Father. I know what’s been done by those desperate to cling to life.”
“Then you know why an heir is important. Our knowledge must continue.”
Malachi turned back to the darkening horizon. “I’m leaving for Rome.”
He felt rather than saw his father’s shock. “Rome? What madness is this?”
“Not madness. Necessity. There’s nothing more for me here. Rome has knowledge we don’t—the secrets of a hundred conquered cultures. I need... challenges. New mysteries.”
“You seek power for its own sake,” Ezra said, his voice hardening. “That path leads to darkness, my son.”
“I seek knowledge,” Malachi corrected. “And yes, the power it brings. What else is there for someone like me?”
“Connection. Love. Family. The things that make power worth having.”
Malachi laughed softly. “Sentimentality doesn’t suit you, Father. You’ve spent your life pursuing the same secrets I chase now.”
“And I found them empty without someone to share them with,” Ezra replied. “Your mother—”
“Is fifteen years dead,” Malachi cut in sharply. “And you’ve neither remarried nor appeared particularly bereft. Don’t use her to manipulate me.”
A long silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below.
“When would you leave?” Ezra finally asked, his tone one of resignation.
“Within the month. I’ve already made arrangements.”
“So you weren’t asking my permission.”
Malachi finally turned to face his father. “No. I wasn’t.”
Ezra studied his son’s face, then nodded slowly. “Then at least let me help you prepare. Rome is not Jerusalem. The powers there are... different. Older, in some ways. More dangerous.”
“I can protect myself.”
“Nevertheless,” Ezra said, “come to my study tomorrow. There are things you should know before you go.” He paused. “And Malachi... be careful what you wish for. Immortality has many faces, few of them kind.”
After his father left, Malachi remained on the roof until the stars fully emerged, bright and cold against the blackness. Rome awaited, with all its promises of new knowledge, new power.
And if Rome didn’t satisfy his hunger... well, there were other lands, other secrets. The world was vast, and his lifetime—however long he could stretch it—was finite.
Unless, of course, he found what others had sought for millennia: the secret to true immortality. Not the extended life of the magi, adding perhaps twenty or thirty years to a natural span, but endless existence. Permanent. Immutable.
The thought both thrilled and disturbed him, like staring into an abyss that stared back. Forever was a long time to be alone.
But that was a concern for another day.
