by Glenn Beck
Shops lined two other sides of the square, and an inn took up the remaining side, opposite the Roman temples. The star beamed down from directly above the inn.
The sprawling building stood revealed in the radiance. Everything else lay in the shadows and the reflected glow. As they approached, with a suddenness that Agios could not at first comprehend, the star went out.
One moment its light poured down; the next it had vanished, with no sound, with no whisper of a breeze. Overhead the other stars shone in a clear sky. The star, though, for the first time in nearly a year, according to Melchior, had disappeared. He could hear no night sounds, no animals murmuring as they settled to sleep, no twitter of bats or swallows, no human footfall or voice.
“What does this mean?” Agios asked, and even in his own ears his voice seemed unusually loud.
Melchior said, “It means the star’s task is finished,” he said. “Look there.”
Someone stood in the arched doorway of the inn yard. It was difficult to see in the sudden darkness, and Agios, remembering Matthias’s story of the angels, felt his heart speed up.
However, the figure lifted a lamp, and it was only a man, somewhere between thirty and forty, with gray just beginning to streak his hair and his beard. He stepped toward the approaching strangers and waited. When they came near, he said, “I have been expecting you.”
“Expecting us?” Melchior asked, sounding puzzled. “How could that be?”
“A messenger said you would come,” the man said, using the same word, malakh, that the shepherd had.
Agios whispered to Melchior, “Angelos. The messenger he speaks of is an angel.”
“Is—is the child—?” Melchior’s voice choked in his throat.
The man smiled. “Come with me and see. My name is Joseph.”
Chapter 8
They were not rich folk. The room they had been given was small and cramped, barely large enough for husband, wife, and child. The three scholar-kings crowded it, and Agios stood outside the doorway. Though he knew seeing the infant king would remind him of Philos—and though he dreaded it—he found himself drawn to the light that spilled from the small room. He had to restrain Krampus, who would have followed the scholars in. The misshapen man drew as close to the door as he could—and suddenly fell to his knees, staring.
Agios watched in puzzlement, feeling strangely disturbed. He got only occasional glimpses of the mother and her child, because the three men kept bending to gaze at them, blocking Agios’s line of sight. To him the baby looked exactly like a baby, healthy enough, not much more than a month old, swaddled in plain linen and cradled asleep in his mother’s arms. The small head was crowned with curly brown hair, the cheeks were pink, the features delicate.
Agios saw only a baby, not a king. And yes, he thought of Philos as he had been on the day of his birth, cradled in Weala’s arms as she crooned to him. Agios’s throat tightened.
Krampus rocked from side to side and made an inarticulate sound, a sound of yearning and of awe. Agios softly called him, but Melchior glanced back with a smile—and with tears shining on his face—and shook his head gently. Agios let Krampus stay where he knelt.
He stood near the doorway with his back to the room and listened as Caspar and Balthasar haltingly complimented the child, begged that their unworthy gifts be accepted by the parents, and knelt to honor the baby.
The child’s mother spoke to them with great gentleness in her voice. They might have been her children, too —she had that air of motherhood about her, the kind of loving concern that Agios remembered seeing so often in Weala’s eyes. In plain and homely language, Joseph thanked them for their kind words.
Then Melchior offered his praise and his adoration. When he rose to his feet, the kings presented their gifts, one after the other, and the mother wept and thanked them humbly.
Joseph had said her name was Mary, and the infant’s name was Yeshua—Jesus, in the common tongue. Caspar and Balthasar murmured together of ancient prophecies. Agios caught the word “Immanuel,” an old Hebrew word meaning “God is with us.”
Melchior asked the couple if he and his friends might hear the account of the child’s birth. Joseph said, “You tell them, Mary.” In a soft and rather shy voice, she told a strange story—a story of being visited by, yes, an angel, who had told her she would give birth to a son, whom she must name Jesus. She was a virgin then, she told them, though betrothed to Joseph. The angel had said that the son she was to bear would be the son of God Himself.
Joseph took up the story: He, too, had been visited by the angel, who told him the truth of Mary’s pregnancy, not a disgrace but an honor to her. He did not break their engagement, but married her, knowing she carried a child like no other in the world.
“I’m a carpenter in Nazareth,” he finished. “But I’m of the house of David, and when we were ordered to register for the census, we had to come here to Bethlehem, the home of my ancestors. It was a difficult journey. Mary’s time was close, and once here we could find nowhere to stay—the town was so crowded. No one had room.”
Mary said, “Until the keeper of this inn, out of kindness and pity, said we might stay in the stable. It was a roof over our heads, and it was warm.”
Joseph resumed: “And so our child was born in the manger of this inn. We saw signs and wonders at the time of his birth, and we know the story the angel told us is true.”
They would have talked on, far into the night, but Melchior rose and urged his friends out. “They need their rest. Time enough tomorrow,” he said. As he left, he turned back and said to Joseph, who stood in the doorway, “We have been commanded by King Herod to let him know of the child. The king himself!”
Joseph smiled. “We are going to Jerusalem in two days. The time has come for Mary’s purification and for the child to be presented in the Temple there. If King Herod wishes, he can see Jesus then.”
Melchior bowed and said, “We would consider it an honor to make the journey with you.”
Joseph thanked him and then looked past Melchior and said, “Do you wish to see the baby?”
Krampus rose, turned, and shambled over to crouch behind Agios. He put his hand to his face and shook his head, weeping. Standing in the darkness, Agios felt his face grow hot. “He thinks he’s too ugly,” he explained. “He thinks he might frighten the child.” He turned away quickly.
The kings were able to rent two rooms in the inn, one for the three of them and one for Agios and Krampus.
“Krampus won’t sleep in a room,” Agios said.
Krampus murmured, “Manger.” He pointed in the direction of the stables. “I sleep there?”
Caspar said, “He heard the story. Now he wants to sleep where the baby was born. I think he feels close to the child.”
Agios smiled. “A manger is something too small for you, Krampus. But we’ll find you a bed of straw in the barn if you want.” To Melchior, Agios said, “He’s like a child himself.”
“And he has the faith of a child,” Melchior said softly. “I saw him kneeling. Of all the presents we came to offer, I think maybe Krampus offered the best.”
“He gave nothing,” Agios said.
“He gave his belief,” Melchior corrected. “Let Krampus go rest. You stay with us for a while, please. I’m sure we want to discuss what we have seen and heard. Sometimes when Caspar and Balthasar are enthusiastic, I can’t understand one word out of five.”
And so Agios found himself on a bench in their room—again a small room, hardly fit for men of their stature. The others were excited and talked far into the night, so rapidly that they were often hard to follow, and they spoke of ancient writings and signs and omens that Agios could not begin to understand. He did his best, though, and they shared enough knowledge for them, at least, to make sense of it all.
When the three kings had talked themselves out, they fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Agios went into the room next to Melchior’s and was the last to doze, and for some little time h
e lay on his back, listening to the steady breathing—and the snores—of the others, coming clearly through the wall. He smiled to himself in the dark. He had learned one thing, at least: even kings were men like other men. Balthasar’s snoring was as loud as a lion’s warning rumble.
Then it seemed to Agios that he had hardly closed his eyes when he heard Melchior’s urgent voice in the darkness: “Brothers!”
At the same instant Caspar began in his own language, “I dreamed—”
And in his, Balthasar gasped, “I’ve had a vision—”
Agios rose and went to the scholars’ room, where they had lit a lamp. A moment later a troubled Joseph came, too, and asked to speak with them. Agios stood in a dark corner, the half-open door accidentally shielding him from Joseph’s line of sight, and translated as best he could, though Joseph and the others had a hard time keeping patience, each wanting to tell the story first.
At last it began to sort itself out as Agios worked hard to keep up. All four men had dreamed the same thing, at the same instant: Melchior said, “I saw before me an angel, as Agios spoke of when he told us the shepherd’s story—”
Balthasar broke in, overwhelmed with excitement: “I could have reached out and touched him! He shone, as the shepherd said, and he warned me—”
And Caspar: “He said we can’t trust Herod. We have to make sure he doesn’t hear about Jesus.”
Joseph added in a grief-stricken tone, “Herod will kill children to find our son! There is no safety in Bethlehem for us, or anywhere in Palestine.”
In the sudden silence that followed, as Joseph and the three wise men stared at each other, Agios murmured softly, “I had no dream.” He tried to say it as a simple matter of fact, but his voice trembled. The truth was that he felt left out, deprived. If he could only see an angel, maybe he could find belief, comfort, whatever had left him when Philos died. The thing that soothed Melchior’s spirits and gave him a calm and peaceful serenity.
Melchior said finally but warmly, “Agios, my friend, I ask you to leave us.”
“To leave you?” Now Agios felt as if he were being turned away from—from something wonderful. “Have I offended you, sir?”
With a smile, Melchior patted his shoulder. “Not at all. And it isn’t that I don’t trust you, Agios, for I look on you as I would a brother. I feel in my heart that with Joseph’s help the three of us must make a difficult decision now. I promise we won’t leave you out, but those of us who had the same dream must take the burden on our own shoulders. We’ll make ourselves be calm as we discuss it and we’ll understand each other well enough.”
Agios went back to his room and dressed and then stepped out into the inn yard. The night was beginning to wane. Soon dawn would come in like a slow tide, paling the stars. Standing in the open yard, looking straight up beyond the dark fronds of the date palms, Agios saw only ordinary stars there, and a pale sliver of waning moon. Only fading, distant, indifferent stars—not the star.
“Why did the dream not visit me?” he asked the darkness, startled by the sorrow he heard in his own voice.
He sat on a bench and slumped against the wall of the inn, cool in the earliest morning hours. When my agreement with Caspar ends, I will go back into the mountains, he promised himself. I will build a hut, nothing like my old one, but a different one where I won’t look up and expect to see my wife and child . . . and I’ll live there alone by trapping and hunting, live there far from people, alone, alone.
Alone. Agios thirsted for solitude.
No. He couldn’t have that. There was Krampus. Maybe he could find some place where the big man could stay without becoming an object of torture and scorn. Or Krampus could come with him—he was loyal, and he seldom spoke. Being with Krampus was almost like being alone, Agios thought.
He had known traders and kings, beggars and scholars, a tortured and twisted slave whose mind had been cracked by ill-treatment, and a shepherd boy who all seemed to have been given a great gift . . . and now a carpenter and his infant son. A carpenter who believed his child was actually the son of God.
All babies are children of God.
The thought had come into Agios’s head from nowhere. In an anguished voice, he asked aloud, “Then why did Philos have to die so young? Why did God not take care of him for me?”
No answer came from the empty sky.
Then Agios heard the murmur of voices and stood up. Melchior, Caspar, Balthasar, and Joseph came out into the courtyard, mere silhouettes in the darkness. In the dim predawn light of the sky, Melchior beckoned to Agios as they walked to a far corner, where no one was likely to overhear them. “This is important,” he said to Agios in a voice little louder than a whisper. “You must find the true words in the kind of Aramaic that Joseph speaks. There can be no mistake.”
Agios nodded. “I understand.”
Melchior was the spokesman. Through Agios’s halting translation, he told Joseph, “We have all had the same kind of vision. It had to be a sign. As you saw your angel, we saw ours, and his warning is plain. Your dream makes it certain: Herod intends evil for the child. You must keep him safe.”
“How?” Joseph asked.
Melchior paused and then asked, “Are you determined to take the boy to Jerusalem?”
Sounding troubled, Joseph replied, “We must. Our religion tells us that it’s the will of God. Yes, we must go to the Temple for Mary’s purification and to present Jesus to God.”
“If you must go, you must. However, travel secretly,” Melchior said. “Tell no one of the . . . special circumstances of the boy’s birth. Perform your rituals in the Temple as quickly and quietly as you can. Afterward, don’t linger in the town, not even for a single night. You have to leave Jerusalem. Leave Judea.”
“Where shall we go?” Joseph asked.
Melchior turned to Balthasar, who spoke, again through Agios’s translation: “Take the child to Egypt. I know people there who will give your family shelter and protection. We will give you money for the trip. We will send messages to families we know who will take you in along the way and let you rest. I’ll tell you how to find the first house, and the couple there will send you to the next along the way. In Egypt you can find work and begin to raise the boy.”
Then Melchior again: “I have the feeling you and your family must stay hidden away for a long time—for a year or maybe even longer. You will know when it’s time to return to your home, to Nazareth.”
Joseph asked, “You are certain this is the only way?”
Melchior replied, “It seems best to us. We will help all that we can. The three of us plan to leave this morning and not return to Jerusalem at all, nor tell Herod of what we have learned and seen. His heart is dark, and we must keep Jesus safe from him.”
Joseph’s voice held worry: “The road to Egypt is a long journey, and it is a strange land. We will surely need more help.”
“You will have help,” Melchior said. “As I said, I’ll send messages. You’ll find friends along the way. They will be watching for you.”
“I thank you,” Joseph said.
“Go in to Mary. Prepare her for what must happen,” Melchior said.
Joseph, still seeming uneasy, nodded and turned away. When he had gone, Caspar took him aside and said quietly, “Agios, I have a task for you as well.”
No, Agios thought.
He said nothing but waited.
Caspar said, “Agios, you must keep the child safe, above all else. I charge you to go with Mary, Joseph, and Jesus out of Judea and into Egypt. Take care that they do not know you are watching over them—that will be safer for them. I will give you money. Arm yourself so you and Krampus can protect them. Krampus may want to go near the child, but don’t let him do that. His awe is too obvious, and his size might attract notice from people who would harm the child. You understand? Stay reasonably near Mary and Joseph, but don’t seem to be a friend of theirs— don’t even speak to them, but watch over them. Their safety depends on their being just a
small family on a journey, and if word got out that they went with a guard, they would draw attention and be in great danger. Take care and guard them, but from some distance away until they have settled in Egypt.”
The boy reminds me of my lost son. To see him, day after day, but not to approach him—Agios tried to keep the sorrow out of his voice when he asked, “Then what?”
“Then they will be safe and you will be free. You will be well compensated.”
With a stirring of pride, Agios said, “I demand no money to help you, Caspar. You know that.”
“It’s a reward. Not a salary, nor yet a bribe,” Caspar said. He looked keenly at Agios—the dawn was fast coming, and they could see each other’s faces. Suddenly, he gripped Agios by both shoulders. “I owe you an apology, my friend. For how I threatened you that first day we met. For the fact that I allowed my men to take the frankincense from your cloak. Like Krampus, my excitement at the coming birth of the king made me heedless. Forgive me.”
Agios shook his head. “You don’t need my forgiveness. I would have done the same thing had I been in your position.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Caspar shook his head.
It was hard for Agios to remember those days full of longing, pain, and wine that didn’t drown any of it. Gruffly, he said, “If you must hear it, I forgive you, then.” He dropped his gaze. “If I failed you, forgive me, too. I am not the same man I was then.”
Caspar inclined his head, a bow of sorts. “Neither am I. And you have not failed me, my friend.”
Agios found no reply to that.
“I know what I am asking you,” Caspar continued, meeting Agios’s eyes again. “I know this is a mission like none you have ever had before. You are a troubled man, Agios. The best remedy for a restless spirit is having much to do. And keeping the child safe is the most important task you may ever perform.”
Agios winced. He had already failed the most important task he had ever been given.
I buried my own son. How can I keep another man’s son safe?
