Unholy Night

I

Herod smiled, the tips of his blackened teeth showing through thin lips. He’d been right, of course. The one thing people loved more than an outlaw was seeing him punished.

Thousands had turned out to witness the death of the Antioch Ghost. Contrary to the fears of his advisors, there were no protests or demands for his release, no weeping in the streets of Jerusalem over his imminent demise. There was only a sea of people waiting anxiously in the square outside the palace’s north gate, all of them crowded around a small wooden platform that had been erected in its center. A sea of people waiting anxiously for their glimpse of a minor legend. More specifically, for a glimpse of his blood.

Herod stood high above them in the Tower of Mariamne, watching it all through a small widow but taking care to keep his diseased face hidden from view. His soldiers had spent the day canvassing every square inch of Jerusalem, from the poorest suburbs to the porticos of the Great Temple, spreading the word that the famed murderer — the demon known as “the Antioch Ghost” — was going to be executed outside the palace at sundown. Across the city, merchants had closed their shops early. Prophets had canceled their afternoon street sermons. Weary travelers had even given up their places in long census lines and diverted to the square. Herod had expected big crowds, and his expectations had been exceeded.

There’d been some deliberation in the throne room regarding the method of execution. There were so many to choose from, each with their unique advantages and disadvantages. Crucifixion was degrading, but too prolonged. It risked a sympathetic response. Burning alive was dramatic, but too dangerous in the middle of a large, overcrowded city. Hanging was simply beneath the dignity of the occasion.

In the end, it’d been decided that beheading was the best way to go. Quick and easy, yet sufficiently savage and humiliating. In accordance with tradition, the prisoners would be gagged and covered with black hoods, depriving them of any last words or glimpses of the living world. The hoods also hid the fear on the victims’ faces, dehumanized them, therefore lessening the chances that the onlookers would sympathize with their plight.

After being paraded onto the platform, the condemned would be made to kneel over a stone block, and their heads would be promptly hacked off with an iron ax. Although, depending on a number of factors — the size of the neck, the sharpness of the blade, the skill of the executioner — it could take several whacks before the top parted company with the bottom.

As soon as the blades were clean through, the hoods would be removed and the heads lifted for all to see: the jaws hanging slack, the blood draining out of the neck and the color out of the face. If you were lucky, the eyes would still be open. If you were really lucky, they’d be darting around, looking fearfully at the cheering faces of the crowd.

The beating of drums suddenly filled the square as the doors of the north gate were opened, and Herod’s grown son, Antipas, paraded through it accompanied by royal guards. Antipas was everything his father had once been: muscular and tall, his spine straight, his olive skin perfectly healthy, and his face lightly bearded with dark hair. Herod often imagined what he would give to trade places with his son, what atrocities he would commit if it meant having that many years again, that much health and beauty. Would he kill his own beloved Antipas if it meant gaining his own health? There wasn’t the slightest shred of doubt in his mind: Of course I would.

Antipas climbed the four steps to the platform and quieted the crowd with a wave of his hand.

“People of Jerusalem,” he shouted, “children of Israel! Today we come to see three criminals meet justice!”

A cheer went up, not so much for the concept of justice, but for the bloody method in which it was about to be delivered.

“We come to honor the laws of God! And we come to honor my father, the mighty Herod!”

Antipas indicated the tower above the north gate with his arm, and another cheer went up, no less than was required to seem convincing but not so loud that it was patronizing. A cheer of appropriate reverence. Thousands of eyes were treated to a rare glimpse of mighty Herod himself — his beard thick and brown, his cheeks full and his skin unblemished. Herod had never looked better, and he waved a hearty hand to his subjects below.

Away from the window, the real Herod looked on as his double completed the illusion.

He couldn’t go out among his people anymore. Not in his current state. Not until a cure was found. But he didn’t want the Jews getting any ideas, either. Spreading rumors. Perceiving him as anything but the ferocious, robust king he’d been until a few years ago.

Herod’s double waved a few seconds more, then disappeared out of sight as he’d been instructed to do. No need to have them looking up at the “king” the whole time, scrutinizing the illusion and distracting from the main event.

“We come,” Antipas continued, “to witness the death of three thieves — the first two caught trying to steal sacred objects from the Great Temple!”

A chorus of angry shouts went up as the drums began to beat again, and the doors of the north gate swung open. Gaspar and Melchyor were marched out under heavy guard — black hoods over their heads, their wrists bound behind them.

Rather than meet their deaths with the quiet dignity that had become a hallmark of men in their position, both of them struggled against their bonds, trying to free themselves from the grasp of the guards. Naturally, the more they struggled, the more the crowd cheered, working itself into a frenzy. It was all music to Herod’s ears, and it made him wish all the more that he could trade places with Antipas. He wanted to be down there on that platform, to personally lift the head of the so-called Antioch Ghost and present it to the heavens. Grab it by the hair and shake it until the last of the blood ran down his arm. Look into its eyes as they looked helplessly around for a few seconds, then faded into a thousand-yard stare. As he had countless times over the past three years, Herod silently cursed the whore who’d made him this way. The whore whose charms had been his undoing.

She’d been so young… so new and naïve. He’d enjoyed her so many times, in so many ways. And though she’d resisted at first, Herod was sure she’d grown to enjoy him, too. But then he’d found the mark. The lesion on her breast. Within a day, there’d been another on her neck. Within a week, she’d been covered in them. Covered in sores that oozed a foul-smelling milk. Her eyes had gone yellow, her skin a deathly gray.

And then he’d seen it. The first lesion on his own flesh. Herod had ordered his physicians to carve it out, but two more had appeared in its place. Then ten more — each one oozing and foul, each one sucking the pigment from the surrounding skin until his entire body was gray and withered. Until his teeth rotted in his mouth and his appetite vanished. His physicians diagnosed it as leprosy, though they had to admit they’d never seen a form quite like this one.

A king. A builder of great cities… undone by the wretched disease of beggars.

No, Herod couldn’t go out among the people anymore, but he could still lead them. It took a bit of trickery, a bit of illusion. But he could still rule from the shadows, as he did now — standing in the tower named for his dearly departed wife, watching as the hooded Gaspar and Melchyor were led onto the platform, fighting every step of the way. Trying to pull free, as if they’d be able to escape. As if they’d be able to run past dozens of guards and thousands of onlookers with hoods over their heads.

Amazing, thought Herod, the things a man will do to preserve himself.

The shorter of the two prisoners was dragged over to the block and forced to kneel in front of it. The stone had metal rings protruding from either side, through which a rope had been threaded. As soon as Melchyor’s hooded face hit the stone, the rope was laid across his shoulders. Guards on either side of the block then took the ends of the rope in their hands and pulled it taut, holding the prisoner’s body down despite his struggles.

“And now,” said Antipas, “the Greek known as ‘Melchyor’ goes to his death!”

The crowd went absolutely cold quiet. They wanted to hear this. Hear the familiar crack of a breaking neck and metal hitting stone. The executioner lifted his ax and held it aloft for several seconds, making the most of the moment. Then down it came. The crack of shattered vertebrae could be heard clear across the square, but not the clanging of the blade against the block.

It hadn’t gone clean through.

Quickly, as Melchyor’s body began to twitch and dark blood began to pour down the sides of the stone block, the ax was raised again and the job finished. The instant it was, Antipas pulled off Melchyor’s hood and lifted his head for the crowd to see — blood pouring down his forearm and onto the wooden planks.

Herod had never seen this little Greek before. He was just a common criminal, and as such, he’d been taken straight to the dungeon. No audience with the king. Just a death sentence and a cell. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about him, although from this distance it was hard to tell. Besides, Herod had to admit, all Greeks look the same to me.

It didn’t matter. Here he was, his mouth gagged and slack jawed, his eyes moving, taking in the exuberant faces with their fists raised in the air. Taking in the last few seconds they would ever see. Here he was, a reminder of Herod’s absolute authority. And the crowd couldn’t have been happier.

When he sensed they’d had their fill, Antipas handed Melchyor’s head to a guard, who carried it off to be stuck on the end of a pike, where it would shrivel in the sun for the next month or more. It was Gaspar’s turn, and like his smaller companion, he wasn’t going to go quietly. It took four guards to force him to his knees and all the strength of the rope men to hold him down. The executioner was determined to strike a clean blow this time, and he did — straight through to the stone block, with enough force to split the wooden handle of his ax. Once again, Antipas removed the hood and lifted the head for all to see. Once again, the crowd cheered wildly.

And when he felt they’d cheered long enough, Antipas handed the second head off and raised a hand in the air. The crowd fell silent. It was time.

“And now,” said Antipas, “we come to the criminal known as ‘the Antioch Ghost.’ A criminal who’s long stolen from the innocent people of Judea, who’s murdered so many of her brave soldiers in cold blood. A criminal who’s deceived many of you into believing that he’s a giant! Tricked you into thinking he could never be captured! And yet, my father — our mighty king — has done just that!”

A cheer went up, just as Antipas had intended it to.

“Now we shall see that this ‘Ghost’ is nothing more than a man! Now we shall see what happens to the enemies of Judea and her people!”

The cheering reached a fever pitch as the drums resumed, and the north gate swung open. Balthazar was marched out — a black hood over his head, his wrists bound behind him. As the guards led him into the center of the square, men and women stood on their toes and pushed each other aside, all trying to get a look at the legend. Those who did were almost universally disappointed by what they saw. This was no giant. This was just a man. A man who — like the late Gaspar and Melchyor — was struggling against his bonds. Trying to free himself, even now.

Watching from his little window above, Herod could see Balthazar struggling, too, fighting the guards as he was led up the steps of the wooden platform. Nothing could’ve made him happier. Not only was the Antioch Ghost going to die, but also he was going to meet his death like a coward for all of Jerusalem to see!

As if answering Herod’s thoughts, Balthazar did something completely unexpected and undignified as he took the platform. Something completely incongruous with the legend he’d cultivated, and far more embarrassing than struggling against his bonds.

He pissed himself.

Herod wouldn’t have known this had Antipas not noticed the dark circle on the front of the prisoner’s tan robes. Expanding. Working its way down his legs.

“Look at him!” cried Antipas, pointing to the evidence. “Here is your mighty Antioch Ghost! The Scourge of Rome soils himself in the face of death!”

Laughter and cheers erupted throughout the square. Insults came from every corner of the crowd. Herod couldn’t believe it. No… it’s too good to be true. His blackened teeth showed themselves once again. The legend of the Antioch Ghost would soon be as dead as the headless, piss-soaked body of the man himself.

Like Gaspar and Melchyor, Balthazar had to be forced to kneel in front of the stone block. Unlike them, he was kneeling in his own urine. His face was forced down onto the cool stone block and the rope pulled taut across his back. It took all the strength of the men holding it to keep him in place.

“And now,” cried Antipas, “we rid the earth of a demon!”

The crowd fell silent again as the executioner raised his spare ax. After pausing a little longer than usual for dramatic effect, he let out a grunt of effort and brought it down on the squirming prisoner. But as the ax fell, Balthazar gave a final pull against the rope with all of his considerable might, lifting his hooded skull halfway up off the block, making the blade miss his neck.

But there would be no dramatic escape for Balthazar today. For while the blade didn’t hit his neck, it did chop a sizable wedge into his brain.

He was dead.

So was the crowd. The cheering stopped. Exuberant faces turned quizzical — silently watching the spurts of blood that shot through the black hood. Watching the embarrassed executioner pull his ax out of Balthazar’s skull. This wasn’t the beheading they’d come for, the beheading they’d dropped everything to attend. This wasn’t the event they’d waited hours in the heat to witness. Their silence quickly gave way to boos.

Herod was more disappointed than any of them. Even in his last moment, the Antioch Ghost had refused to cooperate. Even in death, he’d managed to embarrass the King of Judea. Managed to mock his power. But… at least he was dead. True, it hadn’t been the execution he’d hoped for, but it had been an execution nonetheless. The goal of ridding the earth of a demon had been achieved. And that, in the end, was all that really mattered.

Antipas hurried onto the platform. Eager to win back some of the momentum, he ordered the executioner to finish the job — chopping the partially collapsed prisoner’s head off anyway. Hell-bent on redeeming himself, the executioner did the job in one blow, and the crowd cheered anew. Even Herod’s spirits were lifted by the sight of the Antioch Ghost’s head being finally and irrevocably separated from his body.

Just as he had with Melchyor and Gaspar, Antipas pulled off the hood and held the head aloft for all to see.

Only it wasn’t the Antioch Ghost’s head.

Just as it hadn’t been Melchyor’s or Gaspar’s.

The crowd kept cheering, and Antipas kept smiling — neither aware of what the Antioch Ghost actually looked like… or that this wasn’t, in fact, him.

But Herod knew.

From high up in his perch, he knew. He knew that the Antioch Ghost had beaten — no, humiliated — him. Humiliated him in front of his people. He felt such a rage crawling up his back, such an urge to scream. But he couldn’t find the voice. He was powerless. A powerless king, trapped in a tower named for the wife who’d humiliated him. Trapped in a body that humiliated him. He could only watch as his stupid, grinning son held the wrong head in the air.

II

Three wise men walked east across Jerusalem as the sun went down. Each with his head wrapped and his face covered. Each wearing the robes of a dead man.

Once again, Balthazar had relied on religion to set him free. It had never occurred to the dungeon guards that anyone, even notorious murderers, would harm a priest. It hadn’t occurred to the guards to remain in the cell, to protect their king’s religious advisors while they offered comfort to the condemned. Nor had it occurred to the guards to get a good look at the three wise men when they knocked on the cell door and announced they were ready to come out — their head coverings reconfigured to hide their faces.

The guards weren’t alone in their assumptions. It hadn’t occurred to Balthazar that three innocent men would pay for his freedom with their lives — struggling, screaming through their hoods and gags, and pissing themselves. His plan had merely called for overpowering the wise men, stealing their robes, binding and gagging them up with strips of fabric ripped from their own garments, and slipping out of the palace before anyone noticed the switch. He’d been sure that an alarm would go up when the guards reentered the cell and found the wise men bound, gagged, and half naked inside. Only it hadn’t occurred to Balthazar that they might not be the same guards.

In fact, the men who returned to the cell, the men who fit the bound and gagged prisoners with their execution hoods and led them to the chopping block, had no idea what Balthazar, Gaspar, and Melchyor looked like, because they’d been on duty for less than an hour. In the end, the real wise men had been doomed by a shift change.

In the excitement of the execution, no one had noticed that the little round Greek was no longer quite as little or round or that the tied hands of the Ethiopian called “Gaspar” were no longer the same color. Just as no one had questioned the three wise men as they’d made their way out of the dungeon in their nobleman’s robes, through the palace, and across the courtyard. The guards had dutifully opened the north gate without a second glance, and the prisoners had simply slipped into the square, where the masses were beginning to gather for the execution of the year.

They walked as slowly as they could, given the fear and excitement beating through their bodies. There was only a street and the desire to keep following it. The desire to get as far away from Herod’s Palace as they could. They continued clear across the city, until they reached the Pool of Bethesda, where the people of the surrounding suburbs bathed, and Balthazar stopped to have the biggest drink of water any human being had ever had.

The pool was adjacent to a market that ran along the north wall of the Great Temple — a collection of merchants and vendors that stretched several blocks. His thirst mercifully quenched, Balthazar finally had the wits to form another plan.

First, he put his old sleight of hand skills to use, walking from one end of the market to the other, stealing coins from the pockets of passersby and trinkets from the merchants who hadn’t yet closed up shop for the execution. He took small pieces of gold jewelry, frankincense. Things they’d be able to trade for food and favors in the coming days.

Next, he’d used some of the stolen coins to buy as much food and water as he and the others could carry. Balthazar also bought a little myrrh to dress his wounds with — a trick he’d learned from the Asian traders in the forum as a boy. A little of that stolen jewelry was used to buy a camel for each of them. Camels they rode south past the temple walls. The men had no idea where they were headed, and they didn’t care, just as long as it was far away from Jerusalem.

If Gaspar and Melchyor had harbored any doubts that their companion was, in fact, the Antioch Ghost, the chatter on the streets of Jerusalem put them to rest. The whole city seemed to be talking about the execution. The Antioch Ghost was on every tongue. Balthazar had saved these thieves’ lives, and they were in his debt. In accordance with tradition, they were his servants until that debt was repaid in kind. It was a code as old as the desert, and it applied to career criminals just as much as any other man. Even Balthazar, who never met a tradition he didn’t despise, had honored this one in the past. It wasn’t a tradition in the religious sense, like eating this animal versus that, or wearing this hat or that hat or no hat at all. It was simply common sense.

Every service had a price. Every object a value. If someone made you a sword, you paid him the appropriate amount or traded something of equal value with him. If a man saved your life, you either paid him the amount you considered that life worth, or you saved his in return. Until either of those things was transacted, you were in his debt. It was business. And if Balthazar believed in anything with religious fervor, it was that.

Everything had a price. And though he didn’t yet know that his freedom had cost the wise men their heads, Balthazar knew he’d just upped the price on his.

III

Screaming echoed through Herod’s throne room. The servants had made themselves scarce, fearful that they’d be condemned to death for some unperceivable transgression. Advisors kept to the corners of the room — away from the warm, flickering glow of the torches, away from the cooler moonlight that streamed in through the windows with unusual intensity. They cowered in the shadows, even hid behind the rows of columns that ran along either wall.

The king paced in front of the steps of his throne, his body hunched forward. Three Judean generals stood before him, their helmets tucked beneath their arms and their tails between their legs.

“I don’t care if you have to burn this entire city to the ground to find him! I won’t be made a fool of by a common thief!”

His already raspy voice had been strained to its limits. He’d spent the last hour cursing anyone who dared to come into his field of view. Demanding the heads of everyone who’d played even the slightest role in his humiliation: the dungeon guards, the north gate guards, even the executioner. All dead.

“I want every legion, every last man, every horse, and every sword hunting him down, and I want him brought to me alive!”

Even his beloved son, Antipas, had disappeared in the wake of this disaster. He knew better than to put himself in the path of his father’s rage.

“And if a word — if one WORD — of this is spoken outside these walls, I’ll have all of you and your families put to death! None of your men are to know who they seek! As far as they and all of Judea are concerned, the Antioch Ghost is dead! Do you understand?”

The three generals all nodded. Even a simple “yes, Your Highness” could be misinterpreted in this situation.

“Good… now go find him.”

The generals bowed to their king, turned on their heels, and marched away as quickly as they could without betraying their fear. As they did, a timid face emerged from the shadows beside Herod’s throne. It belonged to an advisor — a beardless man with short graying hair and a tall, wiry build. He’d been waiting for a lull in the tirade, waiting for the right moment to deliver the news. The worst possible news. The advisor knew there was a very real chance he would be put to death just for being the bearer of what he had to say. But someone had to do it. The king had to know. Tonight, of all nights…

“Mighty Herod,” he said.

The king spun around and found him already in a deep, apologetic bow.

“What?”

“Mighty Herod, I… I must inform you of — ”

The advisor had come out of his bow and met Herod’s eyes. Those horrible, yellowed eyes cutting through him. The advisor suddenly realized that he’d lost all power of speech.

“Of WHAT?”

“I… it is my sad duty to… ”

“Use your tongue or I’ll have it cut out of your mouth!”

The advisor gave up all hope of getting the words out and simply pointed to the east wall. Herod’s yellowed eyes traced the path of his arm.

“What?” he asked. “What would you have me look at? All I see are my columns and the spineless nobles hiding behind them.”

“Perhaps… if Your Highness would condescend to look out one of the windows… ”

Herod was tired. He was tired, and he wanted this wretched day to be over. Whatever this idiot was trying to tell him, it couldn’t be any worse than the humiliation he’d suffered earlier. He dragged his tired feet across the stone floor, toward the eastern wall.

Realizing that the king would see them if they stayed put, the advisors, wise men, and courtiers who’d been hiding behind the columns shuffled toward the rear of the throne room. They retreated as quietly as they could as the king neared — but not quietly enough to escape his attention. Did they think he was deaf? Blind? Did they think a great king held on to his throne for thirty years by being a fool?

Herod was struck by a wonderful vision as he passed the columns and neared the east wall. A vision of a world in which he was the sole inhabitant. A world with no outlaws to chase. No duplicitous courtiers or inept generals, no diseased whores or beautiful, covetous sons. A world with no fools to suffer. Perhaps that’s what heaven would be like when he arrived. A whole world for himself. A world to build in his own image. It was a nice thought.

On reaching one of the windows behind the columns and looking out, Herod understood why it had been so hard for the advisor to tell him. He also knew his long night was only beginning. His breath was taken away by what he saw, even in the instant before he’d fully comprehended what it meant. For there, in the eastern sky beyond the silhouette of the Great Temple, was a star brighter than any star he’d ever seen.

“The prophecies, Your Highness.”

The advisor was cowering behind him. Waiting for the outburst he knew would come. But Herod felt no scream crawling up his throat. No rage climbing up his crooked spine. He was almost… amused by it all. Earlier in the day, he’d had the Antioch Ghost in his dungeon. Now, only a few hours later, the Ghost was a free man, and — if one believed in ancient prophecies — the heavens had just signaled the arrival of the man who would topple all the kingdoms of the world, including Herod’s.

Perhaps it was the soreness in his throat. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was exhausted. But when Herod next spoke, he did so with a soft, almost affectionate voice.

“Call the generals back in, please.”

The Antioch Ghost would have to wait. He had bigger problems.

IV

They’d been arguing about what it was. A comet? A fire burning on a clouded hillside? Was it, as Melchyor feared, the all-seeing eye of Herod himself, looking down on them? Whatever it was, it was bright. A small sun, hanging low in the sky to their left, washing out all the other fires in the heavens as they rode south.

The wise men needed a place to stop and rest for a couple of hours. None of them had slept more than a minute or two the night before, and they had a journey of untold length and hardship ahead. It couldn’t be Jerusalem. Not with Herod’s men kicking down every door in the city looking for them. And it couldn’t be the desert, either. Not with that thing up there — that nighttime sun, taking away the biggest advantage the desert had to offer: vast expanses of total darkness in which to disappear.

Unless they were willing to ride for another two or three hours, that left them with very few options. Namely, one of the villages on the outskirts of the city. Balthazar wasn’t about to go north to Bethel — not after the lack of hospitality they’d shown him during his last visit. Herodium was too far. And it had Herod in its name, which, even to a man of few superstitions, seemed like a bad idea.

That left Bethlehem.

It was a shepherd’s village. That meant there’d be stables to hide in. More importantly, stables to hide their camels in. They couldn’t have them tied up in plain sight — not in a village where the only animals were goats. Three camels would seem out of place to all but the most dim-witted soldier. Especially one looking for three escaped criminals.

On the northernmost edge of Bethlehem, before the village organized itself into a series of cobblestoned streets and evenly divided lots, the wise men came upon a cluster of small, brick homes on their right, each with a wooden stable beside it. The largest of these stables looked just about big enough for three men and their camels to squeeze into for a couple of hours. It was also the farthest from the main road, making it that much more appealing.

“Don’t you think we should keep going awhile?” asked Gaspar. “See if there’s something better in the center of the village?”

Balthazar looked down the road into Bethlehem. Other than a few small fires, the village was sound asleep. The streets all but empty. Every rooftop, every cobblestone was clearly visible in the light of that strange star. It wouldn’t be hard to spot three men on camelback. They could spend another hour looking around for something better with that thing shining down on them, or they could grab a couple of hours of sleep now.

Balthazar regretted his choice almost immediately.

It had begun the moment the wise men had poked their heads into the stable and surprised the breastfeeding girl. With her scream still ringing in their ears, the carpenter had come out of nowhere and tried to stab them with a pitchfork. Balthazar had, naturally, responded by grabbing the carpenter’s throat and punching him in the face — blackening his right eye and bloodying his nose. Seeing this, the girl had screamed some more, the baby had started crying, the camels had reared up, and Balthazar’s head had begun to throb all over again.

Now the carpenter was struggling to stay on his feet, clutching the pitchfork with his right hand and pinching his gushing nose shut with his left. The girl was trying to steady him while keeping her eyes fixed on the intruders and holding on to her crying baby at the same time. Balthazar took a step toward them with his palms held out in a nonthreatening posture, the way one might try to calm a spooked animal, but the carpenter responded by thrusting his pitchfork again, nearly connecting with Balthazar’s face. Under normal circumstances, this would have cost the carpenter his life. But Balthazar didn’t have a sword, and he couldn’t risk extending this racket and drawing unwanted attention. He needed peace, and he needed it now.

“Easy,” said Balthazar. “Everybody just… calm down.”

He backed away, his palms still held out, and motioned to his fellow wise men to do the same. The girl stopped shouting. The baby stopped screaming. Balthazar would’ve thought the latter strange, but he was too tired to notice.

“Good,” he said. “Now, what’s your name?”

The carpenter glared back at him for what seemed an eternity — his chest heaving, blood already beginning to dry on his lips and chin. Just when Balthazar was beginning to think he would never answer, the carpenter said, “Joseph.”

“Joseph, good. Nice to meet you, Joseph. And her?”

“My wife,” he said after another pause. “Mary.”

“Good. Joseph? Mary? My name is Balthazar. This is Gaspar… this is Melchyor. We don’t want to hurt you… we’re just looking for a place to rest. But, Joseph? If you don’t put that pitchfork down, I’m going to take it from you and stab you to death in front of your wife and child. Do you understand?”

Balthazar watched the carpenter think it over for what seemed an eternity. Hard, isn’t it? If you give up the pitchfork, you’ll be defenseless. If you don’t, you might have to kill all three of us. So… what’ll it be? As if answering Balthazar’s thoughts, the carpenter threw the pitchfork to the ground. Gaspar was quick to make a move for it, but Balthazar held his hand out and stopped him. He needed peace.

“Good,” said Balthazar. “Now, let’s all sit and talk for a minute.”

The wise men tied their camels up, sat in the hay, and leaned their weary bodies against the stalls. Joseph and Mary sat, too, keeping to the opposite side of the stable, which was a scant ten feet away. Mary held the baby close to her body, still reeling from the shock of seeing her husband beaten and the embarrassment of being seen in such a private, indecent state. Joseph sat beside her, still pinching his nose shut.

“What business,” asked Mary after an extended silence, “do three men have barging into someone else’s stable in the middle of the night?”

“Your stable?” asked Gaspar.

“Our stable. We were here first,” said Mary.

“We just need a place to rest our heads for a little while,” said Balthazar.

“Well you can rest them somewhere else,” she said.

“Afraid we can’t.”

Mary looked them over. Their robes were among the more expensive she’d seen. They were adorned with gold jewelry, and she could smell the frankincense they were carrying.

“You’re obviously noblemen,” she said. “Go and force one of the shepherds from their homes. Better yet, go to Jerusalem and force one of the other nobles out of theirs.”

“Our situation is… complicated,” said Balthazar.

“He’s the Antioch Ghost,” said Melchyor.

Balthazar had to suppress the urge to break the little Greek’s jaw. How could anyone be so stupid? Here they were, in disguise and running for their lives, and he casually offers up the one piece of information that could get them all killed faster than any other. Now, the moment they fell asleep, the Jews sitting across from them would go running to the nearest soldier and give them up. Sell them out for whatever reward Herod was offering. Now he’d have to tie their wrists. Gag them.

There was no going back now. It was out in the open. Balthazar waited for the familiar wide-eyed reverence to wash over their faces… and waited, until it became clear that Joseph and Mary had no idea who or what the Antioch Ghost was.

This aggravated him even more. Everything aggravated him: his aching head, his weary body, the bleating of goats in the stalls behind them — everything.

“I go here and there,” he said at last, “taking what I can from the Romans and those who serve them, then disappearing. Some people have taken to calling me ‘the Antioch Ghost.’”

“So… you’re a thief,” said Mary.

“Not just a thief,” said Gaspar. “The best thief who ever lived.”

Balthazar allowed himself a private swell of pride. Obviously there was no way to know if he was “the best thief who ever lived.” But at the same time, there was no way to prove he wasn’t. Either way, it was nice to be recognized.

“Whether he’s the best or not doesn’t matter,” said Joseph through a pinched nose. “Stealing is a sin.”

“Really?” asked Balthazar. “And trying to kill three unarmed men with a pitchfork — is that a sin?”

Joseph looked at the weapon in Gaspar’s hand. Before tonight, he’d never so much as raised a fist in anger. It wasn’t in his nature. He looked away, suddenly frightened by how close he’d come to committing the sin of murder.

“I thought you were Herod’s men.”

Balthazar and Gaspar exchanged a look. They could’ve almost laughed at the irony of anyone thinking they were Herod’s men were it not for the chill they both felt down their backs. What did they know?

“Why, would Herod’s men be looking for you?” Gaspar asked.

“Not looking for us,” said Joseph. “Looking for the child born in the city of David… the one the prophets call Messiah.”

Balthazar was suddenly back on the stone bench outside Herod’s throne room, surrounded by the soldiers who’d chased him through the desert. Listening to the raspy king rant through the doors. Something about “prophecies.” Something about the “dead rising,” and “plagues” and a “Messiah.” But as recent as the memory was, it was vague. His mind had been on other things at the time. Namely his impending death and how to avoid it.

“That’s very interesting,” he said at last, “but what’s it have to do with you?”

Now it was Mary’s and Joseph’s turn to exchange a look. Should they tell him? They didn’t know these men. They were criminals by their own admission. Then again… the fact that they were criminals made them unlikely to go running to Herod.

“It began before we were married,” said Joseph.

He explained it all as earnestly and clearly as he could. He told them about the archangel Gabriel visiting Mary in a dream. About Mary getting pregnant, though they hadn’t lain together, and the message that the son of God was growing in her womb. He told them about his own visions, including the most recent one — the one he’d had only last night. The one in which the angel Gabriel warned Joseph that Herod was going to slay all the newborn males of Bethlehem. He and Mary had been preparing to flee on their own when Balthazar and the others barged in.

When Joseph was finished telling the story, the six of them sat in silence. The wise men with their mouths closed, processing what they’d heard. The baby was asleep, its chest rising and falling in Mary’s arms. Only the occasional bleating of goats around them.

“And you believe all that?” asked Balthazar. “You believe that your son is… ”

“The son of God,” said Joseph.

“And that the king of Judea is sending soldiers to kill… a baby?”

“Of course I believe it,” said Joseph.

“You don’t think it’s a little suspicious?”

“Suspicious?”

It was the obvious question. The only question. Balthazar suddenly felt a little tinge of sympathy for the carpenter. Did he really have to point it out?

“She gets pregnant before your wedding, and you think it’s some kind of… miracle?”

Joseph glared at Balthazar, the yellow bruise beneath his eye already turning blue.

“I know what I saw,” he said.

“I think the only ‘miracle’ is that you believed her,” said Gaspar.

Balthazar couldn’t help but laugh. Melchyor joined in, though he didn’t quite understand the joke. But he did understand the way Joseph got to his feet and came at them — and he didn’t like it. He and the other wise men got to their feet and stood chest to chest with Joseph in the middle of the stable. Balthazar saw that look in the carpenter’s eye. The look of a man who’d just had his honor insulted and was thinking about doing something about it. Go on, little carpenter. I’ll give you more than a bloody nose this time.…

Mary rose behind Joseph, still cradling the baby. She took him by the arm. “It’s pointless,” she said.

“I know what I saw,” he said again, looking Balthazar dead in the eye. “I wouldn’t expect a man like you to believe me.”

“Good,” said Gaspar. “Because only a fool could be expected to believe a story that absurd.”

Now it was Mary coming at them, and Joseph holding her back.

“You can insult me,” she cried, “but I won’t hear you insult my husband!”

She kept coming, pointing her free hand in their faces and screaming at them. Joseph did all he could to hold her back without hurting the baby — who, despite the noise and movement, remained quiet.

“I won’t hear you insult what we saw!” she cried. “And I won’t hear you insult the name of God!”

“Fine,” said Balthazar. “Just calm dow — ”

“I won’t calm down! You come in here and attack us! Insult us!”

“Silence your woman!” cried Gaspar to Joseph. “She’ll wake the whole town!”

“I won’t be quiet!’” yelled Mary.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” yelled Joseph to Gaspar, holding her back.

“Hey, hey, hey, HEY!” cried Balthazar.

The force of the last syllable was enough to shut their collective mouths. Silence hung over the stables again. Even the animals seemed to get the message.

“Enough… ”

He ran his fingers through his hair, massaging the scalp beneath. His head was still killing him, and this wasn’t helping. All he wanted to do was close his eyes for a minute.

“Look, I’m sure everything you’re saying is true. I’m sure the angels came down from heaven and told you whatever it was they told you. Whatever you say, we believe it, okay? But the three of us? We have better things to do than listen to a couple of zealots tell stories. Namely, sleep for a few hours.”

There was that look in the carpenter’s eyes again. But in the interest of resolving this thing and getting some rest, Balthazar chose to ignore it.

“Now… I’m afraid we can’t let you leave,” said Balthazar.

Joseph spoke up. “But Herod’s men are — ”

“I don’t care. I can’t risk having you go off and tell some soldier where to find three sleeping escaped criminals.”

“Why would we go to the same soldiers who are looking for our baby?” asked Mary.

“As soon we’re gone, you’re free to go. But if I open my eyes and find you trying to sneak out of here, or if I see him reaching for that pitchfork again, some very bad things are going to happen in here. And that’s how it’s going to be.”

Balthazar didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t care. All he cared about was closing his eyes. He sat down. Gaspar and Melchyor followed suit. Joseph led his wife back to their side of the stable and helped her to the ground.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she said.

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Balthazar, rolling onto his side. “Now stop talking.”

“All of you should be ashamed of yourselves. Any man who would turn his back on — ”

“I said ENOUGH!” Balthazar lifted his head and stared her down, this time with a look that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a warning.

Satisfied she understood, Balthazar rolled over again and shut his eyes. There was nothing to do now but grab a few hours of sleep and hope they didn’t wake up to the pounding of hooves.

For the next three hours, three wise men slept in a cramped stable beside their gold and frankincense, their wounds dressed with myrrh. Joseph, Mary, and the infant across from them. Silent.

All of them beneath the star of Bethlehem.