Unholy Night

I

They’d all lived through sandstorms, had all felt the stinging of fine grains against their skin, the dry desert blowing over squinting eyes. But this was unlike anything they could’ve imagined.

This storm was alive.

Each grain of sand had been replaced by a locust. Their eyes lifeless and black, their spindly legs and hard shells the color of desert sand. The bugs flew at them like debris in a tornado, their bodies forming a cloud that surrounded the fugitives, blinding in its density, deafening from the fluttering of its millions of wings. And while at a distance it seemed like the locusts were flying under their own power, in the cloud it was clear they were being blown along by something powerful. Something angry.

Balthazar’s hunch had proven right so far. The locusts didn’t seem interested in the five of them. Not directly, anyway. Not in the way they’d been interested in the Romans, choking them with their bodies, biting at their eyes and flesh. But while they weren’t the target of its wrath, the fugitives still had to contend with the millions upon millions of bugs flying past them toward Beersheba, pelting them like living hail and leaving marks on their arms and faces as they marched against its current. This continued until the darkness of the locusts around them began to give way to the darkness of the sky, and the cloud evaporated at last.

As the sun vanished behind the horizon, painting the last of itself in the pale sky, the fugitives stopped to rest and take stock of what they’d seen. Joseph cradled a bundled robe beneath his head, grabbing a few precious minutes of sleep on the ground. Mary, in turn, cradled the baby, feeding him beneath her robes.

Sela sat a stone’s throw from them, drinking from a canteen and looking at her arms and legs in the fading light. Examining the small bruises from the constant beating of tiny bodies against her skin, and examining the thoughts that had been beating against the inside of her skull for days now.

Here I am.

Once again, Balthazar had managed to turn her life upside down. The first time, he’d done it by leaving. This time, he’d done it by showing up.

She’d been perfectly unhappy in Beersheba. Perfectly alone. Now that her misery had company, she was worse off than ever: stuck in the desert without a possession left in the world. Stuck with two strangers, a baby, and an old flame she’d learned to hate in the absent years. Even if she could go back to Beersheba, what was there to go back to? Her home had been burned. Her city abandoned. If they were caught, the Romans would kill her just as quickly as the others. She was one of them now, like it or not. A fugitive. And while there’d been a time when she would’ve found that a romantic, adventurous notion, now it was only deeply annoying and troubling.

Sela took another drink, sifting through her limited options. She would go to Egypt with them, yes. Going south made sense, and besides, there was safety in numbers — even if they weren’t the numbers you would’ve picked if given the chance. But she wouldn’t linger there. She would continue on by herself. Maybe across the north of Africa to Carthage or across the sea to Greece.

You rebuilt your life once before; you can do it again.

She had no interest in playing odd woman out to a Jewish couple. Nor did she have much interest in hanging around with the man formerly known as the love of her life. From the looks of it, Balthazar had no interest in her, either. He was off on his own, watching —

A herd of ibex grazed in the distance. It was a smaller herd, only a dozen or so. Not the hundred or more they’d spotted outside Hebron as they walked into an ambush. Balthazar sat a good distance from the others, watching the ibex mindlessly, stupidly chew their cud. Taking comfort in it.

Blissful, simple little things.

They spent their abbreviated lives flitting around, moving from place to place, taking what they needed to survive. Always searching for the next little patch of green to keep them going, always running away when it got too dangerous, never stopping until they were either hunted down or simply faded into nothing. Forgotten.

Balthazar could think of a million explanations for what they’d seen in Beersheba, none of which made much sense. Just as he could think of a million reasons why a stream might appear out of nowhere in the desert or a riot might break out at exactly the moment they needed it to. But he could no longer outrun the nagging feeling that had been following him through the desert for days:

There’s something about that baby.

There had to be. Why else would all these people want him dead? A tiny, brand-new creature who had never so much as uttered a word. A creature who still bore the half-open eyes and misshapen head of his birth. And why did the child always seem so calm? Like it knew exactly what was going on? Why had the old man in his dream shown him an image of Egypt? Why did nature itself seem to come to their rescue when they were in need? And how?

Balthazar was filled with new questions. New doubts. Doubts of his old doubts. And this swirling pool of questions and doubts made him confused. And being confused made him angry. And here he was, sitting apart from the others, watching the sky slowly darken over the desert. Angry and alone.

Sela had been watching him sit there for some time, when a disembodied voice gave her misery more unwanted company:

“Why don’t you go and talk to him?”

She turned to her left and found Mary walking toward her. The baby still feeding beneath her robes.

“Sorry, what?”

“Why don’t you go over there?” said Mary, sitting beside her. “Sit with him. Talk to him.”

“And why would I do that?”

Mary looked confused. Isn’t it obvious?

“Because… you love him.”

Sela was sure she’d gone cross-eyed. Love him?

“Did you see the way I greeted him when he showed up at my door?”

“Yes. And if you didn’t care, you would’ve turned your back on him. Closed the door in his face. But the very sight of him made you angry. Violent. Those are passionate feelings. You don’t feel those things if you don’t care about someone.”

“It’s a little late for passion.”

“If there was love, real love, between you, who can say if it’s — ”

“You know,” said Sela, cutting her off, “I think we have more urgent things to talk about, like the fact that we’re alone in the middle of the desert. Or that a whole army’s trying to find us and kill us.”

Mary realized she’d gone too far. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine.”

“No, you’re right. It isn’t my place.”

“Really, it’s fine. Let’s just leave it — ”

“I was only trying to help. Give you a little advice,.”

Sela couldn’t help but smile.

“What?” asked Mary.

Just say “nothing,” Sela. Don’t insult her — just leave it alone.

“I just… I think it’s funny, that’s all.”

“Think what’s funny?”

Leave it alone, Sel —

“The fact that I’m getting relationship advice from a fifteen-year-old girl. And one who freely admits that her baby isn’t her husband’s.”

A considerable silence followed.

“It’s different,” said Mary at last. “It’s God’s child.”

Sela smiled again. “I thought we were all God’s children.”

And now another considerable silence, and a tinge of regret from Sela. She could see that she’d really wounded the girl with that one.

“You think I’m a joke,” said Mary at last.

Sela rolled her eyes. Here we go. This was exactly the conversation she didn’t feel like having. Not now. This wasn’t two girls talking about boys anymore. Just move past it.

“I don’t think you’re a joke. I just… ” How to put it?

“You just don’t believe me,” said Mary.

Look at this face — this earnest face… this fifteen-year-old who thinks she knows everything.

“No,” said Sela. “I guess I don’t.”

Mary turned away, toward the ever-darkening visage of her sleeping husband. Her exhausted husband, bruised from shielding her through the storm. Poor Joseph, she thought. Poor, noble Joseph.

“I understand,” Mary said. “Sometimes I ask myself, why, of all the girls in the whole world, did he choose me? Should I not love my baby as a mother is supposed to? Should I not hold him when he weeps? Comfort him when he is frightened? Scold him when he misbehaves? Or should I worship him, even now?”

“I can see how that might get a little complicated, sure.”

“I didn’t ask for this burden. I didn’t appeal to heaven or beg of God for any honor. But this is the path that’s been chosen for me by God, and I have to walk it.” She turned back to Sela. “I can either walk it alone,” said Mary, “or walk it holding the hands of the ones I love. Either way, it’s the same path.”

Sela looked at Mary intently and smiled. She supposed this fifteen-year-old knew more than she let on. Mary turned away from her and stared straight into the desert, toward the fading image of their broad-shouldered protector.

“He doesn’t believe me, either,” she said, looking at Balthazar.

“Yeah, well, don’t take it personally. He doesn’t believe in much of anything.”

“He’s a strange man. He’ll fight to protect my child, but he won’t so much as look at him, hold him. And I wonder how a man can be so angry — so cruel, so violent. And how this same man can risk his life for a child he hardly knows.”

Now it was Sela’s turn to sit in silence for a while, considering. Maybe it was the guilt of having insulted Mary, or the need to show a little girl who thought she knew everything how little she actually knew. Maybe it was the need to sort it all out in her own head, to remind herself of how this had all begun. Whatever the reason, Sela decided right then and there to tell Mary about the day Balthazar died.

“We were still in Antioch,” she said.

II

And we’re fifteen again, and in hopeless, hideous young love. There’s Balthazar and I kissing on the banks of the Orontes, and it’s beautiful and golden and forever, and it always will be. And there’s Balthazar’s little brother, Abdi, following us everywhere we go. Four years old and still wearing that gold pendant around his neck. The one his big brother stole for him but won’t tell me from whom or where. There he is, proudly imitating Balthazar. My God, he loves his big brother. And my God, Balthazar loves him more than any object or idea or feeling in this world. We both do. He’s our constant companion. Our shadow. Our son. A practice son, for the ones we’ll have together when we’re married.

But not marriage — not yet. First, Balthazar teaches me how to live again. How to fend for myself. Teaches me how to fight. How to pick pockets in the forum. And Abdi looks on as he teaches me. Imitates his brother. Idolizes him. He wants nothing more than to be Balthazar.

And there’s Balthazar taking me to the forum when he thinks I’m ready to try my pickpocketing skills on a real target. There he is playing my accomplice. And there’s Abdi, who we’ve told to wait for us across the forum. “Don’t move from this spot,” says Balthazar, “until we come and get you.” But there’s Abdi moving anyway, wanting so desperately to be like his brother. Sneaking off on his own, trying to pick a pocket all by himself. He’s watched us practice so closely, so often. He’s sure he can do it. But he’s not yet five years old, and he doesn’t know it isn’t a game. And there he is, following a man through the forum. A man who looks like he’ll have a great deal of money hidden away. There he is, mimicking the way Balthazar slips his hand into the target’s robes, pulls out his coin purse. And there’s Abdi reaching… and there’s Abdi taking…

And there’s Abdi caught in the act.

His hand seized as it grabbed at an overstuffed coin purse. Seized by a man who towers over him, looking down with a pair of harsh, unforgettable eyes as he squeezes that thieving little hand. Squeezes it until its little bones threaten to break. Squeezes it until Abdi has no choice but to scream out. And the towering man leans over this little thief. This little Syrian rat. The very picture of everything that’s wrong with this wretched city.

And the man is a Roman centurion.

And the centurion’s bodyguards surround him now. And a crowd of locals forms around the centurion and this suddenly very, very frightened little boy — not yet five years old. And a few of the locals, the men, beg the centurion to let him go. “We’ll make sure he’s punished,” they say. “We’ll beat him until he bleeds,” they say. And the little boy is terrified, of course. Screaming out to be let go. Screaming out because his hand hurts so, so much. Screaming out because he suddenly knows this isn’t a game. And the centurion pulls out his sword. And some of those in the surrounding crowd gasp and cry out in protest. And the men redouble their promises to punish the child themselves, even though they know they’re helpless to interfere.

“Let this be a warning!” the centurion shouts. “A warning that crime will not be tolerated in Antioch! By ANYONE!”

And he squeezes Abdi’s hand even tighter, eliciting another anguished cry. But there’s Balthazar to answer it. Here’s the heroic big brother who would never, ever let any harm befall Abdi. There’s Balthazar, drawn by his brother’s anguished cries — running right at the centurion, with me on his heels. We’ve been summoned by that familiar voice. And Balthazar is going to tackle this Roman before he can do what he intends to. He’s going to tackle him and beat him bloody while Abdi and I escape. And chances are he’ll pay for this with his life, but he doesn’t care.

But the centurion’s bodyguards care. They block Balthazar before he reaches his target. They form a barrier in front of their fellow Roman, grabbing Balthazar’s arms and legs and holding him in place, even as he struggles and screams. Even as his eyes meet Abdi’s, and the little brother suddenly realizes that the big one can’t save him after all.

And the centurion pushes his sword into Abdi’s belly. And the boy cries out as his tender flesh gives way but doesn’t break. So the centurion pushes harder, and the skin tears, letting the blade in. Letting it through his little belly and out the back.

And we stop now for a moment. We stop right here in this little piece of time, because our eyes have deceived us. Because, we tell ourselves, this isn’t what happened at all. It can’t be. It can’t be, because men don’t run little children through their little bellies with sharp swords. It can’t be, because Abdi is going to grow old and have a whole life with us. A whole, rich life of his own, filled with all the beauty and discovery, all the love and opportunity a little boy with a warm heart deserves in life.

But it is real.

The centurion withdraws the blade and lets go of the boy’s half-broken hand. Lets him fall into a seated position, where he remains a moment, before falling over on his side and silently clutching at his stomach. Clutching as the blood runs over his fingers. And as Balthazar watches this in some other world where it can’t possibly be true, he imagines Abdi tugging at his leg and crying, “Bal-faza… Bal-faza… you stay right here… ”

And the anguish. The screams of his big brother. His big brother — still too small, too young to fight off the guards who hold him by the arms and neck. Who beat him into submission as he struggles and screams his throat raw. And the crowd is shocked. Silent. Helpless. It’s not their place. They don’t want to end up on the other side of the river, in one of those shallow graves.

I’m watching all of this, right beside Balthazar, but miles away from the agony he feels. He’s all alone in that, and I know it. Even then, in the first seconds of it. I turn away from my screams, toward his. I watch as Balthazar undergoes a transformation right there in the forum. I watch him fall to his knees. I watch him pick up his brother’s lifeless little body, holding it in his shaking arms. Holding our practice son. And I drop to my knees, too, feel the sickness crawling up the back of my throat.

And now the centurion’s eyes meet Balthazar’s, and he knows. He knows this is a relative. A brother. And he smiles at Balthazar, because he can. Because he’s above the reach of the law. A god. And the centurion decides to leave his mark on this Syrian rat, dragging his blade across Balthazar’s right cheek twice, leaving a bloody “X” behind. And like that scar, the centurion’s face will stay with Balthazar forever.

Adding insult to murder, the centurion takes the pendant that hangs around the boy’s neck — rips it off his neck while he gasps for the breath he can’t find — and hangs it around his own.

“Probably stolen anyway,” he says to the assembled.

And with that he’s gone. Whisked off into the busy forum by his bodyguards.

Just in case, I think. Just in case we aren’t as afraid as you make us out to be, and we decide to rise up against you.

But we are. We’re too afraid, and we let him slip away into the safety and anonymity of Antioch’s ruling Roman class. And with the centurion gone, never to be seen again, we turn our attention back to the two brothers he’s left behind. One big, one small. One dead, one wishing he were.

And we witness this together. Gawking at this deeply private moment. Intruding into this mourning with our eyes, unable to offer any comfort. Together, we witness the end of the being who went by the name “Balthazar” and watch the birth of a new being. The one who they’ll call “the Antioch Ghost.” An angry, murderous creature.

It isn’t good enough to rob the Romans anymore. He wants to kill them. No, not wants. “Wants” is too weak. It’s merely a desire. But even “needs” is insufficient to describe what courses through him now. He’ll kill the centurion. He knows this as surely as he knows his own name. Like me, he wants to burn Rome to the ground. But unlike me, he knows he’s actually going to do it. Not today, not in a year’s time — but someday. He knows he’ll stand over Rome as it burns to the ground. He soothes himself with this knowledge. And though he isn’t a praying man, he prays for this. He prays as earnestly as any man ever has. A silent prayer, right there in the forum:

Give me this, O Lord… give me this. Let me see my enemy’s face again. Let me strike him down for what he’s done. Let me do this before my life on this earth is ended. Let me do this, whatever awaits me across the gulf of death. No matter the consequences of time or punishment.

He’s shaking now, sobbing as Abdi’s body bleeds into his lap. Rocking him back and forth as he kneels on the cobblestones of the forum. And for some reason, my eyes are drawn to Abdi’s robes, and I see that he’s wet himself. And this is what brings the tears at last. For it reduces him to the child he is; it speaks to the fear he must have felt and takes the last shred of dignity from him. And the crowd is already thinning, frightened that the Romans will come back and punish all of us for making too big a scene of so little a murder.

Balthazar sobs and screams and rocks his brother — our son — to sleep, just like he used to on the banks of the Orontes, when Abdi would nap in his arms in the shade of their scarred tree. And I’m on my knees beside them, rocking and sobbing myself. But there’s nothing I can do. I’m already useless, and I know it.

Forget me or his mother or anyone else. Balthazar is alone. But worse — so much worse than that — is what he knows in his heart. He knows that this is his fault. All of it. It’s his fault for being so irresponsible. For teaching a little boy how to steal. For being a bad example to a good soul. And he knows that somehow, some unseen power is punishing him for what he’s done with his own life. All of the unforgivable sins he’s committed. He’s knows that God hates him. Here is proof in his arms. What God could do this? Only a God who hates.

And smooth, singular purpose washes over him. He’s dead now. There are no more consequences in life. He’s dead, and the dead have license to kill the living. He’s dead, and God hates him. Here’s the proof — right here, bleeding into his lap. But Balthazar won’t settle for being hated by God. He’ll hate God right ba —

III

Sela stopped in midsentence. The desert had grown almost completely dark, but she could feel Balthazar standing over her. She looked up, and there he was, looming over the two sitting women and their tear-streaked faces, silhouetted against the last of the pale sky and the first stars to welcome the night.

“Go on,” he said. “Don’t stop there.”

Sela tried to tell herself she didn’t care what Balthazar thought. But she couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed at sharing his darkest secret with relative strangers. Mary was right. She still cared enough to feel a twinge of guilt over having betrayed something so deeply personal.

“Go on,” he said again, in a tone that sounded less like a suggestion and more like a threat.

“Balthazar, I — ”

“Tell her,” he said. “Tell her what happened next.”

Sela sighed. There was no point in arguing. The damage was done. The damage was done a long time ago. She turned back to Mary, and continued.

“He spent weeks searching all over Antioch, asking questions. Spying on Roman barracks, hoping to get a glimpse of the man who’d killed his brother, a glimpse of the pendant that hung around his neck. I barely saw him anymore, and when I did, he hardly said a word. And then one day, he found what he’d been looking for. A clue. Someone who’d seen the centurion pack up and leave Antioch, headed to a new post in another part of the empire. He left that night without a word to his mother. Or me.”

“Then what?” asked Mary.

“You’ll have to ask him,” said Sela, looking up at Balthazar. “That was the last time I saw him until three days ago.”

“After that,” said Balthazar, “he spent every waking minute looking for the centurion. Looking for vengeance, or justice, or whatever you want to call it. Following rumors from city to city. Stealing to survive. Killing. Until one day, for no real reason at all, he woke up and realized that it was all pointless. Life isn’t fair. There is no justice — there’s only what’s taken from you and what you take back, and that’s it.”

“If it’s meant to be,” said Mary, “God will deliver the centurion to you.”

“God had nine years to deliver him to me.”

“Maybe this was his plan for you all along.”

“Don’t talk to me about ‘God’s plan,’ okay? What about the plans Abdi had? What about the children who died in Bethlehem? The babies who were hacked to death before their lives even began? What plans did their mothers have for them?”

“What about the plans I had for us?” asked Sela.

Balthazar turned to her, stared at her for a moment. Then another.

“Hurry up and finish feeding that thing,” he said to Mary at last. “We have to get moving.”

With that, he disappeared into the darkness again, determined to soak up a few more minutes of being angry and alone. Sela stood and disappeared, too, determined to do the same.

Mary found herself alone in the last of the dying light. She looked down at the baby in her arms, asleep but nursing. Seeing him there, so helpless and trusting, brought the full horror of Sela’s story rushing back. She imagined the grief that Balthazar’s mother must have felt at losing two sons in one day. She imagined the face of the centurion as he squeezed Abdi’s hand to the breaking point. She didn’t know how a person could do such a thing to a child. Nor did she know how anyone could go on after witnessing something so violent happen to someone you loved.

She only knew that the terrible man didn’t seem quite as terrible anymore.

IV

Herod never expected he would live to see such a thing. A Roman legion, laid to waste. Licking their wounds in the desert of Judea. And not from the work of Gauls or Visigoths, either, but from insects. It was impossible, of course. Yet if you believed the accounts, that’s exactly what had happened.

And why wouldn’t you believe them? Who would lie about such a thing? Who would admit to being vanquished by a swarm of bugs?

Herod watched through the curtains of his lectica, his slaves bearing its burden on their shoulders fore and aft. He’d traveled all day and half the night, trying to catch up with the Romans he’d set loose like dogs in his own kingdom. The Romans who’d proven no more effective than his own troops had. He realized that he’d been a fool to involve Rome. Yes, there was the benefit of flattering Augustus Caesar. Of giving Rome the credit for victory. But Herod hadn’t considered the alternative: that they might fail. And if that happened, the blame would rest squarely on his shoulders.

The fires of the camp burned on either side of him, filtered through the curtains of his traveling chair. Roman camps were usually filled with energy and music and conversation. With the camaraderie of rested, wine-soaked soldiers. But this camp was like a graveyard. The men sat quietly around the flames, frightened. Clearly they were beginning to realize what Herod already had: We’re dealing with more than a thief and a baby here. They were coming to terms with the fact that the Hebrew God had taken sides. That he was mocking them. And even though it was only the Hebrew God, being the enemy of any deity was a tactical disadvantage, to say the least.

Herod, however, was used to this feeling. The Hebrew God had been mocking him for years now. Belittling him with every drop of blood that dripped from his open sores. With the painful, yellow discharge seeping from places he’d rather it didn’t. And this mockery was getting stronger with time, his body growing weaker. Herod knew it, though he preferred to push these thoughts to the shadows. You’ve lived this long, and it hasn’t killed you yet. Nothing will. Sometimes he wondered whether this God had it in him at all.

Can a man be bigger than a god?

Herod’s lectica was gently lowered to the ground and its curtains opened by courtesans. They helped their frail king to his feet and pulled politely at his robes, removing the wrinkles of a day’s travel, then led him toward the unremarkable tent in the center of the camp — its flap guarded by a pair of Roman soldiers in full armor and flanked by torches on tall posts. And though Herod didn’t see them, one particular pair of wounded men went to great lengths to make themselves scarce as he approached.

Gaspar and Melchyor peered around the corner of Pilate’s tent, both of them nursing wounds from the tiny jaws of locusts.

Pilate’s tent was a simple affair. More Spartan than Roman, in Herod’s opinion — a few chairs for holding court with his officers; a bed that looked unused; and a polished helmet and breastplate neatly laid out on a dressing table, with a sword beside them. A few hanging oil lamps cast dancing shadows around the interior. But there were none of the usual comforts Herod demanded during his own travels: no rugs or pillows, no couches to recline on. More importantly, no young girls to recline on them with.

This was no way to go to war.

Pilate stood ready in his formal lavender robes, their seams adorned with patterned leaves in gold thread. He greeted the puppet king of Judea with a deep bow, taking care not to let his eyes linger too long. He’d heard reports of Herod’s sickly appearance, but when confronted with the real thing — with the rotted flesh and blackened teeth, the yellowed eyes and sores — Pilate was quietly shocked. Breaking with protocol, he decided against kissing Herod’s extended hand and instead touched his lowered forehead to it — a rarely used but acceptable alternative.

“I have come to help you,” said Herod.

“I’m honored,” said Pilate, rising to his full height. “And may I ask what it is Your Highness has come to help us with?”

“With the thing you were brought here to do. To capture a common thief and an infant.”

“If I may,” said Pilate, “there’s nothing ‘common’ about him.”

Herod showed a bit of those blackened teeth. “No,” he said. “I suppose there isn’t.”

Pilate motioned for the king to sit, and he did. The wooden chair creaked beneath him, and for a fraction of a second he thought it might break and send him to the dirt floor. His arms shot out to his sides on their own, and he felt the rush of adrenaline that accompanies a near fall, followed almost immediately by relief and the fervent hope that Pilate had missed this brief show of weakness.

“Do you find it strange, Your Highness?” asked Pilate, who’d seen the king’s momentary panic but showed no sign of it.

“Find what strange?”

“Well… the Antioch Ghost or ‘Balthazar’ or whatever you prefer. He’s known to be a heartless murderer, as you say — a man who places no value on life, who prefers to work alone.”

“So?”

“So… do you not find it strange that such a man has cast his lot with a pair of Jews and their baby?”

“A man like that thinks only of himself. He travels with them only because there is some advantage in it — I guarantee you. But I’m not concerned with the Antioch Ghost, Commander. I’m concerned with your inability to catch him.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, we’ve been battling forces beyond our control.”

“With all due respect, your men were just beaten by a creature that I could crush in my fingers.”

Pilate was too political to say the words that sizzled on his tongue. Too professional to give Herod the slightest hint of a telling expression. Herod stood, determined to make his point while looking down at the young officer.

“In thirty years of ruling over Jews, I’ve come to believe in one very simple truth,” said Herod. “That their time on this earth is almost at an end. All they have are old stories. Old traditions. All they have are tales of ancient leaders and kings, ancient magic, and a messiah who keeps promising to arrive but never does. Everything about them is old. Everything about them is the past.

“I’m interested in new traditions. New empires. I build new things, and they protest. I pass new laws, and they protest. But I don’t listen to them, because I’m the future. And I certainly don’t fear them, or their God. Because the time of Moses and David has passed to dust. The world belongs to Caesar now. To men. And I’m here to makes sure it stays that way.”

“All the same, Your Highness, my men are frightened. They fear the wrath of this power. This God.”

“If I were them, I would fear the wrath of Augustus more.”

Vision. It was the most important quality a leader possessed. It’s why Herod had reigned as long and successfully as he had. He’d already summed up this young officer. This “Pilate.” He was a leader, sure. Aggressive and thorough. Cautious enough to avoid kissing a diseased hand but clever enough to find a suitable alternative in a fraction of a second. But he lacked imagination. He lacked vision. And this would keep him from achieving the heights his cleverness made him aspire to. As always, it would be up to Herod to make sure things ran smoothly from here on.

“They’re headed south, yes?” asked Herod.

“Yes. To Egypt.”

“And the fastest way to Egypt is through the Kadesh Valley.… ” Vision, boy. I’ll show you the meaning of it. “I understand you have a shaman traveling with you,” said Herod. “Some kind of… seer.”

“The magus.”

“I’d very much like to talk with him.”

V

“What is it, an earthquake?” asked Joseph.

Balthazar remembered hearing a similar sound as a boy in Antioch. A low rumble. The slow groan of the earth moving beneath your feet. But these rumbles were usually accompanied by violent shaking, followed almost immediately by the screams of a panicked citizenry. Neither followed in this case. Yet that slow, low complaint of rock moving over rock persisted. And the five fugitives found themselves looking for the source of the growing noise, which seemed now to be coming from all around them.

“What is it?” Joseph repeated.

The desert had funneled them into the Kadesh Valley — a long, lifeless passage between two mountains. Long ago, a river had snaked over the dry ground they now walked upon, and the early Egyptians — believers in the power of water to carry souls into the afterlife — had buried their dead on both sides of its banks in tombs of all sizes and lavishness. There were still remnants of those long-forgotten tombs all around them, some chiseled into the rock of the ravine, others made of piled stones, their riches long since taken by grave robbers.

After looking for the source of the rumbling, Balthazar’s eyes at last found the culprit:

The tombs.

The first one he spotted was nearly 200 yards behind them. It was one of the bigger tombs, chiseled into the side of the hill to their left and adorned with carvings that had been worn away by the desert winds. The tomb’s large stone slab was sliding open, revealing the long-suffering darkness within and producing the low groan of rock moving over rock, not unlike the rumbling of an earthquake. And Balthazar now saw the whole, stupid truth of the matter:

They were being ambushed.

Knowing they were headed to Egypt, the Romans had overtaken them — again. They’d lain in wait — again. And here they were, popping out of their hiding places — again — with their swords and arrows, utterly pleased with themselves for pulling off such a clever ruse.

Enough already.

It was exhausting. Balthazar was sick and tired of being surprised, and somewhat surprised that he was surprised at all.

Of course they’re ambushing us. That’s all they’ve done. Why don’t they just attack us head-on and save everyone the trouble?

Sure enough, one of the Romans stuck his head out from behind the open door and began moving quickly but awkwardly toward them, moving over the rocks of the ravine like an oversized insect. But on closer inspection, Balthazar once again found himself awash in doubt. For the being that was crawling toward them — too fast… it’s moving too fast — wasn’t a Roman. It wasn’t a soldier. It wasn’t even a man.

It was a corpse.

More groans joined the first as slabs were pushed open all around them. The dead emerged from the shadowy depths of tomb after tomb. Dozens of them. The mummified remains of men, women, and children stepping into the long-lost sunlight, finally free from the prison of sleep, and moving toward the fugitives with unusual speed, crawling insectlike across the ravine.

Their bodies were in varying states of decay, but they all had the brittle, leathery look that comes with centuries of decomposition, their eyes and brains rotted out of their skulls. Skin stretched tightly over their faces and teeth exposed in sickly grimaces. They moved deliberately, forming ranks and closing in, as if controlled by a single, unseen mind, just as the locusts had been. But unlike the locusts, the fugitives sensed this swarm was very interested in doing them harm, and it was less than 150 yards away.

“Balthazar?” asked Joseph.

“I know.”

“What do we do?”

“Give me a minute… ”

“But they’re getting clo — ”

“I said give me a minute.”

He had to focus himself, had to pull his mind back from the edge of panic and come up with a plan. But all he could do was watch as a wave of resurrected beings crept closer, and fear washed over him. All he could do was watch the horde moving toward them, faster than nature intended most men to move. Too fast for the others to outrun. Their dry sinew cracking with every movement, loud enough to be heard clear across the ravine.

Balthazar had been wandering through his own mind a lot in recent days, trying to sift through his doubts. Trying to reconcile what his beliefs told him with what his eyes and ears had been telling him in recent days. It had been a rambling walk. Aimless. Inconclusive. But now he’d reached a fork in the road.

Either he had to accept that he was dead or dreaming, in which case nothing mattered and there were no consequences, or he had to accept that what he was looking at was real. In which case, everything he believed was wrong, and he was probably cursed to spend eternity in the flames of hell. But eternity would have to wait. It was decision time.

Better to pretend it’s real and be wrong, right? Plus, I’m sure something miraculous will happen when all hope seems lost. I’m sure we’ll make another last-second escape. Isn’t that how it’s been lately? Maybe it’ll be a flood this time. A wall of water from nowhere crashing through the valley, washing these things away but somehow sparing us. In fact, I’m sure that’s what it’ll be. A flood.

Balthazar turned to the others.

“Run,” he said.

But they didn’t. Joseph and Mary were paralyzed with fear, watching the dead stagger ever closer — inside 100 yards now. Sela seemed frozen, too, until she lunged toward Balthazar and pulled a dagger from his belt. She did this so suddenly, so violently, that at first he wasn’t sure what her intentions were. Maybe this is the opportunity she’s been waiting for, he thought. Her chance to kill me for abandoning her. But Sela had no intention of stabbing him. She stepped closer and pointed at the horde.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said. “Help you fight them off.”

Balthazar grabbed her hand. “No.” He pointed to Joseph, Mary, and the baby. “Without you, they’re as good as dead.”

“Without me, you’re dead!”

“You know how to fight, Sela, how to survive. Get them to Egypt.”

“There’s no way you can — ”

“Shut up!”

He grabbed her arm, hard. Seventy yards…

“Run, now, while you still have a head start. Don’t stop; just keep going. I’ll buy you a little time.”

He pushed her away. Sela turned back toward the frightened carpenter. Toward the little girl and the sleeping baby. She knew Balthazar was right. They were as good as dead without her.

“Sela,” he said.

She looked back at him, frightened but still so beautiful it wasn’t fair, and for a moment, they were back in the waters of the Orontes, all golden and forever. Balthazar had a sudden urge to grab her, to kiss her one last time just for the hell of it. What did he have to lose? He was probably moments away from a grisly death, and besides, something about the look on her face told him she was thinking of doing the same thing. But before he could work up the nerve to do it, the wail of the approaching dead shook the past away and summoned Balthazar’s eyes to the urgent now.

“GO!” he yelled. And they did.

With the others making their hasty retreat south behind him, Balthazar turned back to the mass of hideous rotted flesh. There were about forty of them, he guessed, less than fifty yards away. He saw one corpse dragging itself along the ground with long yellowed fingernails, having lost its legs in life or death. Another’s torso had been horribly twisted, forcing it to move backward — which didn’t really matter, since it didn’t have eyes anyway.

They don’t need to see, thought Balthazar. Something else is doing the seeing for them.

Sela was right, of course. He was as good as dead. If for no other reason than he had no idea how to kill what he was about to fight. For all he knew, his blade would bounce off these creatures like they were made of stone. For all he knew, he would burst into flames the moment his skin met theirs. Nothing would surprise him. Nothing could anymore. But it didn’t matter. Even if it meant the most painful, hideous death a human being had ever experienced, they weren’t getting the baby, and they weren’t getting her. Twenty yards…

He gripped the handle of his sword tightly… breathed deep of the desert air.

Okay, Balthazar… let’s die.

He charged. And as he neared them, and their faces came into crystal focus, Balthazar saw just how wretched they were: pockets of embalming fluid trapped under their hardened skin, the black rot of their teeth, the patches of hair clinging to their scalps in grays and blacks and browns.

Upon meeting the leading edge of the swarm, he was greeted with good and bad news: the bad news was, these creatures were faster and stronger than they looked from a distance. The good news was, his sword seemed to work just fine.

He went to work, chopping away at limbs and necks. Hacking away at the leathery skin and hardened sinew that held them together and trying not to focus on the terrible, chemical smell of the long and leathery dead — at the demons grabbing at him with their dry fingers. Their bones cracking, their skin ripping as they moved.

He was suddenly twelve again. Back in the shallow Roman graves, digging up the freshly slain bodies. Looting them. Fighting off the fear, the terrifying, almost real visions of the bodies coming to life. Visions of the dead grabbing at his clothes and hair. Pulling him down into the graves with them. But those had only been visions. The monsters were real now. They moved without blood in their veins, without hearts in their chests. They had no lungs or vocal cords, yet they each emitted a strange sound. A wheezing, guttural moan that sounded to Balthazar like an endless last gasp. Together, they created a chilling chorus.

There’s something about that baby.

Maybe he would find out what it was on the other side of death. Something waiting for him. And what of the dreams he’d had when he lay dying from a stab wound? What of those strange visions of old men in pink and purple rooms? And what of the Man With Wings? The man whose face had made Balthazar weep at the sight of it?

Abdi’s face.

That’s who it’d been, hadn’t it? Abdi, the grown man he never got to be? A man with wings, holding on to his big brother and soaring over the desert of Judea? Guiding him through an ocean of time and space? Balthazar had thought of them as visions. Nothing but the vivid dreams of a dying mind. But now, staring death both literally and figuratively in the face, he accepted that they might have been something more. In fact, he hoped they were.

Balthazar slashed and kicked and pushed at the corpses, but they were massing around him faster than he could fight them off. One terrible face after another. One brittle set of mummified fingers after the next — their ancient fingernails scratching at him. Grabbing at his clothes. If I only had a torch, I could set them alight. They’re so dry that they’d go up like a sun-baked grass roof. But all he had was a sword and a pair of quickly tiring arms to wield it with.

They’re winning.

There was no doubt about it. And as they swarmed over him, Balthazar screamed. Not from any fear but from knowing that this was his moment — his last chance to make his presence known on this earth. He screamed until he could taste blood in the back of this throat as the swarm of dead fully enveloped him.

Peace at last…

And as he screamed, the dead suddenly and uniformly dropped to the ground, as if the strings holding their limbs aloft were cut in one swoop. And with a dull, dusty thud, they were nothing but sinew and bone again. Silent. Balthazar stood there, breathing heavily. In awe of the sight. Somewhat in awe of himself.

He’d won.

By some miracle, he’d been spared. Just as he’d predicted, some unseen force had smiled down on him at the last possible moment. If the Jews called it God, so be it. Whether it was God, or luck, or something else, it didn’t matter. What mattered were the others. He could catch up to them now. Take them the rest of the way to Egypt and be done with this. Thank God. Or whatever.

But just as he was allowing himself one little victory, one little moment of open-mindedness, another sort of rumbling shook the optimism right out of him. Balthazar looked around, sure that he was about to catch sight of a second wave of rotting beings emerging from their tombs. But there was nothing. Nothing except the rumbling. A different kind of rumbling, now that I think about it. A much more… familiar… kind of —

It was the beating of hooves against the desert floor.

Balthazar looked past the lifeless bodies on the ground before him — up, up — until he saw what seemed like a thousand horses riding at him down the center of the narrow valley from the north. He couldn’t see the faces of the men on those horses, but he imagined most of them bore the smug, self-satisfied look of men who’d pulled off another clever ruse.

The Romans were coming.

The small horde of dead had been replaced with a gigantic horde of the living. It wasn’t an improvement — not numerically, anyway. But at least Balthazar knew how to kill the things riding toward him. Once again, he raised his sword and readied himself for a reckless, suicidal charge, all in the name of buying his friends — now there’s a word that just popped in there and I didn’t expect but seems fitting — a little time.

Let’s die…

He was done running. He’d spent so much time moving from place to place — searching for the pendant, stealing to survive, killing to live. It was good to die. If his death could buy his friends a little time, then so be it. You deserve to die, after all the things you’ve done. After all the lives you’ve taken. After all the things you’ve stolen — the objects, the futures.

He would meet them head-on, take as many of them as he could. For the second time in as many minutes, Balthazar charged toward certain death, his sword held high. Screaming. For the second time in as many minutes, he crashed headlong and hopelessly into a tidal wave of bodies. Into the blinding wall of flailing limbs and clanging armor.

The last thing he remembered was a brief struggle, a sharp pain.

Then… peace at last.

And Abdi with his arms around him, telling him it was going to be all right.