Unholy Night

I

Herod was feeling much better.

Though it was nearly midday, he was still in his bedchamber, his head propped up on silk cushions, his chest shining with scented oils. He was awake, but his eyes remained peacefully closed as he breathed deeply of the healing vapors, just as his physicians had instructed him to do. Herod was usually loath to follow their advice. They’d proven useless in ridding him of his cursed disease, after all. Despite all of their so-called remedies and potions and rituals, his skin remained covered in oozing lesions, and his ribs stuck out of his emaciated chest like dunes in the desert sand. Even so, Herod had to admit that his physicians had done well in ridding him of the raw throat he’d given himself while screaming. He was feeling so good, in fact, that he’d decided to stay in bed on the “pleasure” side of his twin palace today. His “business” palace, with all its duplicitous courtesans, unsettled disputes, and ceaseless bad news, would wait. Today would be a day of rest. Of pleasure. He deserved it. He deserved something new.

And here she was.

Sitting on the bed beside him. A girl he’d never seen before. A girl of twelve, thirteen at the most, her body not yet a womanly shape. Here she was, sitting beside her sickly king, dropping dried figs into his mouth, one at a time. Herod savored each sweet specimen, chewing them slowly, loudly between his blackened teeth — his eyes closed all the while. He’d stolen a glance at this nameless little beauty when she’d entered, carrying her basket of foods and ointments. She’d been fully clothed then. Now her robes sat in a heap around her waist, her bare breasts red from where Herod had playfully pinched them between his fingers. He continued to feel his way around her body, his eyes closed. Chewing his figs with a faint smile on his lips. But it wasn’t the feel of her young, warm secrets that made him smile. It was knowing that he had Augustus Caesar, the world’s most powerful man, right where he wanted him.

Herod’s instincts had proven themselves once again. Only days after his messenger had left for Rome, letter in hand, no fewer than 10,000 Roman soldiers had landed on Judea’s shores. This in itself was something of a miracle. Even Herod couldn’t have imagined such a quick response. But that was Rome. Decisive. Overwhelming. You had to hand it to them — right or wrong, they were never perfunctory.

Herod wasn’t stupid. He’d known that the emperor didn’t like or trust him. Just as he’d known that Augustus wouldn’t be able to resist his letter and the chance it gave him to make a show of his might. He’ll want to frighten me, Herod had thought before sending the letter. Remind me that I’m nothing more than a sniveling little puppet king who’s lucky to have his throne. But far from feeling frightened or inferior, Herod now found himself filled with a deep sense of accomplishment and pride.

He’d killed two birds with one stone: He’d flattered Augustus, and at the same time, he’d turned the Ghost and the infant into Rome’s problem. Let the emperor think what he wanted to think. What mattered were facts. And the fact was, Herod was sitting here in bed, being hand-fed by a naked girl while the Romans were dragging themselves through the desert looking for his fugitives. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought. A legion of the emperor’s best troops, running Judea’s errands.

Your little “puppet” has outsmarted you, Augustus.

There was, however, one little piece of the puzzle that Herod hadn’t anticipated: this “dark priest.” There were rumors of a soothsayer traveling with the Romans, a magician of some kind. Rumors of a ritual in the desert. A bloody sacrifice, a brass snake. Herod’s advisors had come to him with these rumors. They’d warned him that the Romans had brought something strange across the sea. Something that had frightened many of the men who’d witnessed it. And while Herod had been surprised to hear of Romans appealing to the gods for anything, he hadn’t allowed himself to share in their concern. So what? The Jews had their prophets. The Greeks had their oracles. Let the Romans have their priests.

She wants me… I can feel it.…

Herod opened his yellowed eyes and took her in. The fear on her face. The tears. Why do they cry, even when their bodies are joyous at my touch?

In some kingdoms, it was customary for young girls to lie with their king. In some kingdoms — and Herod had heard these stories firsthand, so he had no doubts as to their veracity — all girls were sent to live in the royal harem when they came of childbearing age. They were forbidden from returning home or taking husbands until they’d first given themselves to their king. The Romans called it ius primae noctis — “law of the first night.”

Herod knew the Jews would never stand for such a custom. Even if they did, Judea was a big kingdom. There were too many girls, and he was only one king. So he’d been selective instead, sending his men into the city streets, into the villages to find the most fetching creatures, to bestow upon them the honor of serving their king. And here was one of the honored now, feeding him on his silken bed.

He ran his spindly fingers through her brown hair, then pulled her close. Closer, until he could feel her hurried breath against his face. He could feel her trembling. They usually did. But that fear was good. It was normal for a common girl to fear her king. To be excited by his touch. Honored by his attention. She held a fig to Herod’s lips, but he pushed it away.

“Enough of that,” he said.

He drew her in. Kissed her deeply. He could feel her pulling away as his tongue felt its way around her mouth. Felt her struggling against his grasp. This was the part he enjoyed most. The resistance. They all resisted. They all tried to run.

But in the end, they were all his.

II

An ibex looked up, mindlessly gnashing the dry grass in its teeth — the flavorless blades it was somehow compelled to seek out and pull from the hot earth, from morning until night. Something was wrong. It’d caught another glint in the corner of its eye, felt another tiny, almost imperceptible vibration beneath it. And now it watched — its eyes unblinking, its body tense and ready — as three camels passed the herd, a hundred yards distant. Close enough to raise concern but not close enough to send them scattering. Not yet.

The ibex had no memory of ever seeing a camel before, although it had, on countless occasions. It watched as the larger beasts moved from left to right across its field of view — five humans on their backs, one of them carrying something small in its arms. They moved slowly, purposefully in the direction of what the ibex, for lack of knowing the proper term, called “the thing over there.” The big, smooth thing that all the humans hid behind. The one it and its herd mates dare not approach.

Confident there was no danger from the camels or their passengers, the ibex lowered its head and resumed the hunt for dry blades. The hunt that it had been compelled to begin the moment it had emerged on wet, rickety legs and would continue until its dying breath. By the time it pulled another flavorless patch of grass from the desert floor, it had forgotten the camels were ever there.

Just as it’d forgotten the thousands of Romans who’d marched past an hour before.

Joseph stared back at the ibex. A large herd had taken note of them, watching closely as they passed, their curled horns held high, their mouths mindlessly chewing cud. They were stupid little creatures, to be sure. But they were a welcome sign of life in a desert that had enveloped them for hours, empty and eternal.

Hebron was finally in their sights, though there were a few miserable miles to go before they reached its smooth outer walls. They would be silent miles, for Joseph, Mary, and the others had hardly passed a word for hours. They were all stiff from a night spent tossing and turning on the floor of a cave, all weak for lack of food and water and sick from the unrelenting heat. And the baby — the baby had grown eerily quiet again. Too dehydrated to cry for his mother’s milk.

God knows how long they’d ridden. Eight hours straight? Ten? They’d set out before dawn, and while the sun finally seemed to be falling toward its western cradle, its rays were still murderous as they beat down from the heavens, baking their faces and the tops of their feet, turning their skin a painful pink.

Patience, Joseph… God will provide.…

It’d become his desert mantra. The only thing keeping doubt outside the walls of his mind, where it had laid siege months ago, waiting oh so patiently to starve him out and slaughter his sanity. Joseph felt the presence of doubt all around him, just as he had when Mary first told him about her dream. Its sabers rattling outside his city walls, ready to accept his offer of surrender. Admit it, Joseph, she’s a liar. Admit it, Joseph, this was a mistake. Admit it, Joseph, he’s not the Messiah. And yes, in times of weakness and fatigue — times like now — these voices had a way of growing louder. But then they’d crested the hill and spotted the walls of Hebron in the distance, and Joseph had breathed fully of the desert air. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. His desert mantra had never rung truer.

God will provide.…

Hebron had suddenly and completely revealed itself before them — a walled oasis in the desert. Not quite big enough to be called a city, but too substantial to be called a village. It was surrounded by almost perfectly square walls of beige brick. Behind those walls, there would be markets where they could resupply. Baths where they could wash the dust from their faces. Beds where they could spend the night, restful and replenished. God, as always, had provided.

A few silent miles later, as they neared Hebron’s north gate, the fellowship passed a small hill on their left. On its peak, a dozen wooden posts had been driven deeply, permanently into the earth at even intervals. To the unknowing eye, they looked like the naked anchors of some unfinished structure. But to Balthazar and his fellow thieves, they seemed like claws reaching out of the earth, ready to grab them if they strayed too close.

Crucifixion was among the bloodier innovations the Romans had brought from the West, and it had quickly become a favorite method of execution throughout this part of the empire. The condemned were attached to beams by having spikes driven through their palms and into the wood. After those beams were hoisted up, men simply hung in agony for hours, sometimes days, humiliated by their nakedness, covered in the remnants of their own filth. As hunger and thirst set in, they were taunted with unkept promises of food and water. Pelted with stones and poked at with spears.

Some had their legs shattered by the clubs of earthbound soldiers. Sometimes this was done to hasten death. More often, it was done to make their final hours even more wretched. When at last they did die — usually from blood loss, exposure, shock, starvation, or infection — their stinking, discolored bodies were left to wither in the heat for weeks… a warning to men thinking of committing similar crimes. A warning to men like Balthazar.

Thankfully, there were no men affixed to those posts today. Balthazar had witnessed the suffering of crucifixion before, and he never wished to see it again. Still, as he left the hill behind and led the others through the north gate, he couldn’t help but feel a chill swim through his blood. There was something about those posts. Something about how they’d looked. Naked, and eager for company. Hungry.

Almost like they were looking at us.

Something was wrong. Balthazar suddenly had that feeling. The feeling of eyes on him. It was undefined and instinctual, but it was real. Maybe he’d caught a glint of something in the corner of his eye; maybe he’d felt some tiny, almost imperceptible change in his surroundings. Whatever it was, Balthazar decided, silently, that they wouldn’t be spending the night in Hebron.

Through the gate and into the bustle they went. Directly in front of them, a wide, central street ran straight and clear to the other side of the village, packed with people and lined with tall palm trees on either side. To their left, a bazaar rang with the blended noise of merchants, customers, and animals. To their right, dozens of Jewish pilgrims swarmed toward a massive square monument in the distance — a clean, windowless cube of white stone blocks, with walls eighty feet high and six feet thick. Joseph had never seen it before, but he knew at once what it was.

“The Cave of the Patriarchs,” he whispered.

It was one of the holiest sites in all of Judea. Second only to the Great Temple to some. For as plain as its white stone walls were, those walls protected something extraordinary beneath: the final resting place of Abraham. The father of Judaism.

Legend held that Abraham and his wife, Sarah, had asked to be entombed in a cave beneath Hebron. For thousands of years, the faithful had come to the cave’s sealed mouth to offer their prayers to the man who’d communed with God, the woman who’d borne Isaac and Ishmael.

Herod had ordered a monument built over the site — another selfless gift to his Jewish subjects. And while many felt the monument defaced Abraham’s grave, men still traveled days to offer their prayers at its walls. To pray over the bones of the man from whom all Jews were descended, from Isaac to Moses to David. Joseph had often thought of making the pilgrimage himself, but the opportunity had never arisen, until now.

Here he was, cave in sight. And in spite of the troubles that had led him here, Joseph couldn’t resist the urge to join those pilgrims he watched streaming toward its wall, off to commune with the Lord. He said as much to the others.

“Are you crazy?” asked Balthazar. “We don’t have time to stop and pray. We have to resupply and get out of Hebron as quickly as we can.”

“If ever we needed God’s ear,” said Joseph, “it’s now. Besides, to be so close and not pay my respects… it would be a sin.”

“Sin or no sin, I’m not going to watch you pray in front of a wall. End of discussion.”

“Then don’t go,” said Mary. “My husband and I will go by ourselves while you get supplies.”

“We’re not splitting up,” said Balthazar. “Not when we’ve got the whole world looking for us.”

“And who are they looking for?” asked Mary. “Four men, a woman, and a baby. If we stick together, we’ll only draw more attention to ourselves.”

Balthazar felt his jaw clench. He hated this woman. The way she looked, the way she talked, as if she knew everything. But what he really hated was the fact that — in this case, anyway — she was right. They would attract less attention if they split up. But I’ll sit here and glare at you a moment longer, just so we’re clear on how much I despise you.

“Fine,” he said at last. “We meet at the south gate in an hour. You’re not there, we leave without you.”

Mary glared back at Balthazar. Just so we’re clear that I’m not afraid of you.

“South gate,” she said. “One hour.”

After tying their camels up along the Street of Palms, the fellowship went their separate ways.

The wise men headed left toward the bazaar, where Gaspar and Melchyor would trade the last of their stolen gold for whatever it would buy, and Balthazar would work on stealing more gold. Joseph, Mary, and the baby went right, toward the Cave of the Patriarchs, braving a sea of faithful pilgrims to pay their respects to the ancient founder of their faith.

Joseph held on to Mary for dear life, fearful that she and the baby would be swept away in the current of bodies if he let go. The area around the monument was even worse than it’d looked — packed with bodies and filled with unrelenting noise. Musicians clanging their cymbals and plucking their harps. Merchants enticing the faithful to buy all manner of souvenirs. There were sacrificial goats and oxen braying and bleating, money changers pouring coins. Above it all, the din of a thousand voices muttering a thousand prayers.

And then there were the prophets. The screaming prophets, who could be found holding court on all sides of the monument, issuing dire warnings of God’s wrath, of Herod’s — even Rome’s overthrow from atop their makeshift platforms. Proclaiming the day of the Messiah was at hand — the day that would see the children of Israel freed from bondage. The same thing they’d been proclaiming for thousands of years.

“He will strike the earth with the rod of his mouth! With the breath of his lips he will slay the wicked! Righteousness will be his belt, and faithfulness the sash around his waist!”

One of these prophets, who called himself Simeon, was ranting to an anemic — and by the looks of it, bored — group of nine or ten followers as Joseph and Mary tried to push their way past. It was the same fiery sermon he’d been barking for weeks:

“Herod executes those who dare speak against him! He rules through brutality, and he remains in power because we fear him! Well I say he has reason to fear! For it is written that the arrival of the Messiah is at hand! A king of the Jews, who will topple not only the rulers of Judea and Galilee, but also the rulers of all the world! And when our Savior comes, it will be with… with a… ”

Simeon’s eyes had landed on a young girl on the other side of the crowded street. A girl being led along with a child in her arms. He stepped down from his platform, not quite sure of why he was doing so, and pushed his way through the mob.

Joseph turned his head just in time to see this strange, wild-eyed man grab Mary’s hand.

“You!” Joseph cried. “Let go of her!”

But Simeon the prophet didn’t move. He just stared at Mary, as if reunited with a long-lost friend… his face a mix of reverence and terror.

“A sword,” he said. “A sword shall pierce your heart.… ”

As the words fell from his mouth, they seemed to come from a far-off place — as if spoken by someone else. Someone behind his eyes. Years later, Simeon wouldn’t even remember saying them. And when told by his future followers what he’d said, he would claim to have no idea what the words had meant.

Joseph shoved him aside and pulled Mary along, eager to be rid of this madman. Simeon held on to Mary’s hand firmly for a moment, then let it slip from his fingers. He watched her go, his eyes suddenly, inexplicably filled with tears. Filled with joy. Something had stirred within him. Something he couldn’t possibly explain.

Balthazar hovered above the earth — watching, waiting. He stood atop Hebron’s north wall, near the leaning ladder he’d used to scale it. Looking down on the bazaar that ran along it below. He needed money to buy their much-needed supplies. And to get it, he needed a pocket to pick.

“C’mon,” he muttered to himself. “I know you’re out there.… ”

There weren’t as many targets as there would’ve been in the markets of Jerusalem or Antioch. Hebron’s bazaar was a decidedly smaller affair, with fewer goods to buy and fewer overstuffed coin purses to steal. He scanned the earth from his perch, a mere sixteen feet from the ground, yet above it all: above the people shoving past each other, moving up and down the dirt street that ran through the market’s center. Above the men haggling with merchants, the women dragging uncooperative children behind. He could see Gaspar arguing with a man over the price of dried fruits, as Melchyor stood fatly and faithfully behind him. An old woman with a clubfoot limping blindly along. A dog pushing its nose through the dirt, sniffing around for anything that might’ve —

“There you are.”

Balthazar locked onto a heavyset man in sweat-soaked robes. From the quality of his clothing and the size of his belly, he was well-to-do. And from the unevenness of his gait, he was carrying something heavy on his belt. Balthazar guessed it wasn’t a weapon. No, you’re not a fighter. You’re not a fighter or a farmer or a slave trader.… You’re a money changer. One of the larger specimens I’ve seen too.

Large was good. The bigger they were, the less aware of their bodies they tended to be.

Balthazar reached for the ladder, ready to climb down and follow his target through the crowd. Following, waiting for the right time to make his move, setting up for a bump. A bump. Bumps are always good with bigger targets. When the time was right, he would “accidentally” knock into the money changer. It would have to be a good jolt — enough to startle him but not enough to hurt. You never want to hurt them, no. Never want to make them angry. As he had a thousand times, Balthazar would apologize profusely for his clumsiness and be gone before the money changer realized exactly what he’d lost at the moment of impact. His plan in place, Balthazar put one foot on the ladder, ready to climb down and —

There’s that feeling again.

The feeling of eyes on him. The feeling that something was wrong. But where the first instance had been vague, unattached to any particular evidence, this one was validated almost at once. In stepping onto the ladder, Balthazar had turned his body away from the bazaar, ready to climb down. Now he lifted his eyes and looked out over the top of the wall and into the desert that lay beyond. And as he did, Balthazar felt his heart sink, for he knew that there was a very slim chance they would make it out of Hebron alive.

Romans.

Thousands of them, massed in the desert, less than a mile north of Hebron. They were lined up in ranks. But they weren’t charging toward the north gate, sabers held high. Nor were they limping along, as if they’d been tracking Balthazar and the others through the desert all day. They were simply standing still. In fact, these didn’t look like soldiers who were in pursuit at all. They looked like soldiers who’d been…

Waiting. They were waiting for us.

Balthazar and his companions had been lured into a trap. Made to feel safe and alone as they rode into Hebron, only to be surrounded on their arrival. Imprisoned by its almost perfectly square, smooth walls. The “how” of it all would come later, if ever. Right now, Balthazar had to find the others.

Pilate was a patient man.

Though he still wasn’t entirely sure how, the magus — or rather, his snake — had tracked their prey to a cave south of Emmaus. And though he wasn’t entirely sure why, he’d decided to take the magus at his word when he reported having a vision of six fugitives walking down a street lined with tall, uniform palm trees on either side. If this vision was accurate, then the Antioch Ghost was headed to Hebron. It made sense. Hebron was on the way to Egypt. A perfect place to rest and resupply. The question was, what to do with this information.

Pilate knew he couldn’t storm Hebron and slay a seemingly innocent couple in cold blood.

What, run their baby through with a sword in the light of day? Only a madman like Herod would do such a thing. Besides, the Jews would start a riot.

Nor could he challenge the Antioch Ghost in the open desert. Not with 10,000 of his men lumbering along, kicking up dust. They’d be spotted miles off, and the fugitives would have too much time to escape.

A trap. That was the smart move. The patient move.

Pilate would race to Hebron, but he wouldn’t enter it. He would hold the bulk of his men outside the city walls, keeping the emperor’s treasured magus safe and keeping a respectful distance from the pilgrims who’d come to see the Cave of the Patriarchs. At the same time, he would dispatch horsemen to cover all possible exits — every gate on every side of the city. A small detachment of foot soldiers would take position on the streets adjacent to the Street of Palms, closing in and attacking only if something went wrong. He would let his targets ride into Hebron, thinking they were days ahead of their pursuers.

Thinking they’re safe.

Pilate had watched, his spies scattered among the masses, his men perched on rooftops. He’d watched all those who rode into Hebron from the north, until at last he’d spotted three exhausted camels making their way through the north gate, three swordsmen, a couple, and their child on their backs. He’d watched as the Antioch Ghost and his companions had split up, the Ghost and his fellow thieves to the bazaar and the couple and child to the Cave of the Patriarchs. And while this split had been unexpected, it was manageable. Pilate dealt in the unexpected. He watched from a second-floor window overlooking the Street of Palms… knowing that he and fate would soon find each other, one way or another.

Joseph had paid his respects, braving the throngs to lay a hand on the monument that covered the Cave of the Patriarchs. He’d stopped only long enough to say a quiet prayer for the dead, while Mary waited with the baby nearby. His prayer finished, he’d taken her hand and led her back the way they’d come.

All in all, it hadn’t been the experience he’d hoped for. The site had been too crowded. The monument too plain. And when he’d finally worked his way close enough to feel the stone against his palm and send his thoughts to God, Joseph had felt rushed. Unable to concentrate. Not because of the noise of his fellow pilgrims or the worries of recent days. It was something else. Even now, as they pushed their way through the crowds, Joseph felt the presence of something sinister outside the walls of his mind, and he didn’t know why.

He and Mary fought the current of bodies until they reached the Street of Palms, walking south down its center, toward where they’d tied up their camels. They would reach the south gate in plenty of time to meet the others.

And then Joseph beheld a miracle… his heart full to bursting.

The palm trees that lined the street were bowing their heads. Bowing in reverence as they passed. Could it be? Do they bow for us? Joseph turned to Mary, wondering if she saw it too — but her eyes were fixed squarely on the child below. The child, thought Joseph. They bow for the child! Before he could fully grasp what he was seeing, a passage suddenly unveiled itself in his mind. A passage from the Scriptures. A prophecy of the coming of the Messiah:

The trumpeting of angels shall herald his coming. His name shall be praised from the mountaintops, and the heavens and the earth shall bow before him…

And here it was. The prophecy realized. Here was nature, bowing before an infant. Here was a vindication of everything he believed, and a total destruction of the armies of doubt that had laid siege outside his mind. The visions, the rescue from Herod’s men, the stream in the desert, and now this? Now trees bowing their heads? No, there could be no doubt! His son was indeed the Messiah! God be praised!

And then the arrows came.

They came from the tops of the bowing palms. Descending from the heavens — so numerous, so dense that their black bodies looked like a swarm of insects flying in formation. Insects that had caught sight of them, of he and Mary and the baby, and begun their attack. And in the seconds that those arrows hung in the air, Joseph’s eyes drifted back to their source. Only then did he see why the palm trees really bowed. Not in reverence to their newborn king, but because they were laden with archers. Assassins, who’d climbed to the tops of the trees and lain in wait.

An ambush.

Joseph stood in awe of the sight. A sight Mary was still blissfully unaware of.

This can’t be. Why would God take us this far, only to strike us down?

Joseph was frozen, waiting for God to tell him what to do. Waiting for him to provide, as he always had. But doubt was rattling its sabers once again, louder than it ever had. He and his young wife would die where they stood. Their child — their ordinary, insignificant child — would die beside them. Right here on this street, only yards from where Abraham and Sarah had been laid to rest. Only, their bodies would have no shrines built above them. No pilgrims would come to pay tribute to their legacy, because they would have none. They would be filled with arrows, and forgotten.

“GET DOWN!”

Joseph suddenly felt his body bolt sideways as it was struck by some unseen force. Only later would he piece together what had happened in those next few seconds: how Balthazar had tackled the three of them just before the arrows arrived. How Melchyor had come running behind him, how he’d swung his sword and cut several arrows out of the air before they could reach their targets.

The baby was screaming, but Mary couldn’t find breath to comfort it. She and Joseph lay on their sides, face to frightened face, still unsure of who or what had brought them to the ground. Unaware that Roman soldiers had begun to pour in from the side streets where they’d been hiding, swords drawn. They heard screams go up along the street as the veil of confusion lifted, and the people of Hebron began to understand. As mothers grabbed their children and hurried them away from the path of the arrows, and as fathers met the advancing Roman soldiers with their fists.

Balthazar and Melchyor were quick to their feet and pulled the others up with them. Balthazar kept one hand clenched around a piece of Mary’s robes, determined not to lose hold of her in the panic, for there was a good chance she and the baby would be trampled if he did. With the other, he held his sword and readied himself for whatever came his way in front, while Melchyor did the same and covered their backs.

Gaspar watched his fellow fugitives from a distance, reluctant to join them. He could easily slip away in this commotion. He could run away and no one would care. But what about Melchyor? Poor, helpless Melchyor would be lost without him. No, Gaspar wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened. Besides, there was no honor in betraying a loyal friend. But there’s no honor in throwing your life away either. Look, Gaspar — look at how many soldiers come from the side streets…

Nearby in the bazaar, commerce ground to a halt as word spread that something big was happening on the Street of Palms. Curious customers began to walk, then run in the direction of the screams coming from just beyond the market. Merchants gathered their wares and closed their stands, wary of the looting that often followed this sort of excitement.

They’d seen it before. Arguments among the religious pilgrims had spilled into the streets; animals had thrown off their riders and trampled unlucky bystanders. In a small city, chaos was the order of the day. Most of the few dozen men making their way from the bazaar expected to find a familiar disturbance waiting for them on the Street of Palms. Instead, they were greeted by a sight they never could’ve fathomed:

The Roman Army had declared war on Hebron.

At least, that’s the way it looked. There were Roman archers shooting at unarmed citizens from treetops, Roman soldiers bludgeoning the fathers who fought to protect their women, and women using their bodies to shield their children. A mighty army, attacking the good and gentle people of Hebron. Specifically, it looked like they were after a few helpless souls at the center of the fray, including a young woman and an infant. The men of the bazaar took this all in for a moment. There was an unwritten rule in occupied Judea: “Fighting the Romans only brings more Romans.” It was best to let them go about their business and move on. But this wouldn’t stand. The men rushed into the chaos of the street, determined to help their brothers and sisters drive back the aggressors. They picked up stones and flung them at the treetop archers, pelted and punched the soldiers as they advanced deeper into the riot.

Balthazar was fighting his way forward, dragging Mary along, when a lone soldier broke through the riot and came at them, sword held high. Balthazar swung and hit the side of the soldier’s helmet with a clang, stunning him just long enough to swing again. The second strike found the soldier’s jaw, leaving a deep, bloody gash clean through his right cheek, deep enough to take a piece of tongue with it. The resulting spray struck Mary’s face. She gasped but resisted the urge to bring her hands up and wipe it away. She simply held on to the baby as the red droplets ran down her cheeks. Balthazar turned and caught a glimpse of her shocked face, just long enough for a thought to flash in and out of his mind:

Tears of blood.

No sooner had the first soldier fallen than two more came on his heels, side by side. Balthazar couldn’t fight both of them off, not with one hand behind his back, pulling Mary along. He wouldn’t be able to block both of their blades. Balthazar saw exactly how this would play out: He would raise his sword to meet the attack, blocking the first soldier’s blade. Then, as he held it there in the air, the second soldier would run him through his belly. Unless, by some miracle, they both swung their swords at the same time.

But there would be no miracle. The first soldier raised his sword and brought it down on Balthazar’s head. Balthazar, naturally, raised his own sword to block it, even though he knew this would leave him exposed. Their blades met in the air with a clang, and Balthazar held it there with all of his strength, fully expecting that the other soldier would run him through at any moment. But the second attack never came. Only when Balthazar looked down did he realize why: the second soldier was too busy grabbing at his own belly, trying in vain to catch the blood pouring out of it.

Gaspar had attacked him from the side.

Now, with one soldier bleeding and the other disoriented, Gaspar attacked again, running Balthazar’s soldier through his middle and joining his fellow fugitives in pressing forward. Balthazar wondered what had taken Gaspar so long, why he hadn’t run with them when the arrows had started flying. But those questions could wait. For now, they fought through the chaos around them: the Street of Palms a mess of soldiers, angry men, and panicked women. Balthazar and Melchyor took the front; Joseph and Gaspar took the rear, all of them protecting Mary and the baby in the middle.

The camels.

“The camels!” he yelled to the others.

Balthazar knew it was their only chance: to fight their way to where the camels were tied up and ride off into the desert. But even if they could reach the animals, he knew the plan was almost certainly doomed to fail. He had seen how many Romans there were waiting beyond those walls. He’d seen their horses. Still, a long shot was better than no shot.

Mary glanced to the side as Balthazar pulled her along. She caught a glimpse of a young father — Joseph’s age — fighting with a Roman soldier, grabbing on to the sides of his helmet with both hands and trying to bring him to the ground. She saw the young mother — my age — cowering behind him, protecting two small children with her body. Mary watched in horror as the soldier brought his sword down on the man’s forearm, splaying it open and exposing the bone beneath. He cried out and grabbed the wound with his other hand, freeing the soldier, who struck him again, this time in the skull. The blade burrowed deep into his brain, and a spout of dark blood shot into the air above his head, pumped out by the racing heart that would soon beat its last. His young wife screamed twice — first at the sight of her husband’s body hitting the ground, and then as the soldier raised his sword a third time. The young mother held a defensive hand out in front of her body, only to have it split in half as the sword came down between her outstretched fingers. Mary turned away. She couldn’t bear any more.

But the horrors were everywhere. As Mary looked forward, she saw Melchyor drenched from head to toe, his face shimmering with blood. He led his fellow fugitives through the melee, his gifted blade catching glints of sunlight as he twirled it faster than the eye could see, cutting down the unfortunate Romans who powered their way through the panic, only to find themselves face-to-face with the most skilled swordsman in the empire.

Mary saw two soldiers break through the crowd and charge at them from the front. She watched Melchyor swing his blade through the air, taking the first soldier’s head clean off and catching it by the hair with his free hand before it hit the ground. At first, she thought this was merely showing off, until Melchyor lifted the severed head and used it as a shield, blocking the second soldier’s blade before running him through with his own. It was such an impressive feat that Mary almost forgot how gruesome it was.

Yet for all Melchyor’s talent, even he was having trouble keeping up with this onslaught. These soldiers were better trained than the Judeans they’d faced in Bethlehem, and there were more of them. Many more, pouring in from the surrounding streets on foot and horseback. Hacking their way through an innocent mob to get to a child and a thief. The Romans were even landing a few blows, leaving gashes on Melchyor’s stout little arms.

And he wasn’t the only fugitive spilling his blood on the Street of Palms. A cry went out as a passing horseman drove a spear into Gaspar’s shoulder blade. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but it was enough to make him drop his sword and double over. The Roman was about to take another stab at Gaspar’s back when his horse suddenly whinnied and reared. Balthazar withdrew his sword from the horse’s hindquarters and yanked the Roman off his saddle. The horseman fell to the street, and Balthazar drove a blade into his back. The wounded horse took off on its own, cutting a path through the mob. As fate would have it, that path was in the general direction of their camels.

“This way!” yelled Balthazar, grabbing Mary’s hand and pulling her again.

Melchyor threw his arm around Gaspar and helped his injured friend along, both men dripping blood as they followed Balthazar down the horse’s path. The fugitives stepped over a mess of dead and dying bodies as they went. Most belonged to the men who’d come from the bazaar to join the fight. They’d made a fearless charge, but they were paying the price for that bravery with their lives. The citizens of Hebron were outnumbered and underequipped, and they were being slaughtered all along the Street of Palms, their bodies trampled against the cobblestones.

The fugitives were fifty yards from their goal when Balthazar spotted a strangely familiar face in the crowd. An officer, headed straight for them, cutting through the mess of citizens and soldiers with patience and precision. He was young for an imperator — younger than me, if I had to guess, thought Balthazar — but this wasn’t what made him remarkable. Balthazar had never seen him before, but he felt a strange connection with the man coming straight toward him, his eyes unwavering. You, he thought. You’re the smart one. Smart enough to lure us into a trap instead of coming at us head-on in the open desert.

He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Balthazar was suddenly and completely sure that this was the man who’d kept his troops back, hidden — knowing that the sight of Roman patrols would’ve scared his targets away before he had a chance to strike. The man who’d anticipated their path through the city and set up the ambush. Somehow, Balthazar knew he was looking at the architect of their troubles. And somehow, he knew that this officer still had a very important role to play in his life, though he had no idea what it was or why he was so absolutely certain of it.

“Keep going,” Balthazar told his fellow fugitives, and handed Mary to her husband.

“But where are you — ” Joseph asked.

“GO!”

Joseph led her toward the camels, Melchyor and Gaspar hobbling along behind them. Balthazar readied his sword as the officer drew closer… almost on him now. Strange, he thought. It’s like we’re both supposed to be here. Like we’re supposed to face each other here on this street, at this moment.

Before Balthazar could think any further, the officer was upon him, and the two were fighting away — each knowing, somehow, that they’d been moving toward this moment their entire lives, two boats on two rivers, winding their way toward the same sea. There was no outward acknowledgment of this feeling. They simply met in the middle of the panicked street, raised their swords, and tried to kill each other. And while the great painters would likely commemorate the occasion in grand fashion, with both men striking impressive poses in impressive outfits, the reality was far less attractive. Balthazar and Pilate were both covered in dirt and sweat and flecks of blood, both doing their best to beat the others’ brains out, punching and grabbing and pulling at each other.

While Balthazar was the better swordsman, Pilate was the better fed and rested, and before long, the Antioch Ghost was on his heels, holding his sword out in front of his face, blocking Pilate’s repeated strikes. Just a few more and I’ll have you on your back, thought Pilate. And then I’ll go after the infan —

A roar went up behind them. The roar of furious men charging into battle, their cries echoing down the length of the street. Pilate and Balthazar ceased fighting and turned toward the source of the noise.

Hundreds of screaming, devout Jews were pouring into the north end of the street, as if a dam holding a sea of bodies had suddenly broken. Word of the Roman attack had finally reached the Cave of the Patriarchs, and pilgrim and prophet alike had thrown off their shawls and rushed to help, ready to give their lives to defend the sanctity of Abraham’s final resting place.

How dare the godless Romans defile such a sacred city! How dare they slaughter the innocent!

The faithful began attacking the Romans with anything they could find. Some fought with their bare hands; others used canes and rocks. The bazaar had given dozens of men to the effort. The Cave of Patriarchs had given hundreds — each one believing his cause righteous.

It was exactly what Pilate had feared. Exactly why he hadn’t marched into the city with his banners flying. Now he would have to pull his men back or risk a real catastrophe, risk seeing the riot spreading to the rest of the city. All of this, he thought, looking at the madness before him. All of this for a baby and a thie —

Pilate remembered the Antioch Ghost and spun around with his sword raised, ready to fight again… but the Ghost was gone.

It doesn’t make sense, Balthazar thought as he ran toward the camels. How had the Romans known where they were going to be? Why had he felt such a strange kinship with the officer?

It didn’t matter, he supposed. What mattered was that no city or village was safe from now on. No road passable. No strangers could be trusted to keep their secret. Not with the Romans looking for them in such numbers. They wouldn’t be able to stop again. Not until they reached Egypt. But they wouldn’t make the Egyptian border without supplies. They’d have to take a different route. An unexpected route. They wouldn’t be able to venture out in public anymore, not even in disguise. It was too dangerous.

What they needed was a place to hide for a while. Resupply. Somewhere unexpected. Somewhere safe. And despite every oath he’d ever sworn to himself, Balthazar knew exactly where they needed to go.