Unholy Night

by Seth Grahame-Smith

  As the sun baked the last drops of moisture out of his body, Balthazar replayed the day’s events in his aching head—a forensic accounting of every action and reaction. A study of what had gone wrong. Had it been the attempt to calm the bathing women instead of running away and finding another place to hide? Should he have taken on the ten soldiers behind the bathhouse instead of climbing up the side of the building? Stolen a horse instead of a camel? Should he have given Flavia that knock on the head when he’d had the chance?

  I never should’ve gone to Damascus.

  That had been the real error in judgment, hadn’t it. That was the decision that had ultimately led his nose to a horse’s ass. If he’d never gone to Damascus, he never would’ve heard about Tel Arad and its corrupt governor. But he had gone, chasing down his one weakness. That one elusive piece of treasure…the same piece he’d been chasing for years.

  The pendant…

  Balthazar had followed rumors of its existence all over the empire, and those rumors had always—always—proved to be a waste of time. He should’ve known Damascus would be the same. He should’ve stayed put in Crete, which had been good to him in so many ways. But whenever that old rumor found him, no matter how unsubstantiated or far away it was, Balthazar dropped everything and chased after his little flittering gold purpose in life.

  That was the real tragedy here. Not that Balthazar would die. But that he’d die before he found it. Before he finished what he’d set out to do. What he’d sworn to do.

  II

  The eastern approach to Jerusalem was the real jaw-dropper. The one that led you over the Mount of Olives and into the Kidron Valley, the whole city revealing itself at once, rising from the desert, with the Great Temple in the foreground. But even here, from the north, Jerusalem struck an impressive sight.

  Herod the Great may have been famous for his excessive cruelty and lavish lifestyle. He may have been decried for being a puppet of Rome and hated for his heavy taxation. But even his fiercest enemies had to admit—the man was one hell of a builder.

  As a young king, Herod had learned that there was no scandal, no discontent that a few shiny new buildings couldn’t hush away. And over his thirty-year reign, he’d used this philosophy to transform much of Judea—building temples and coliseums, improving roads, and building aqueducts to carry fresh water to his subjects. But while Judea was his kingdom, Jerusalem was his showroom. The place he’d transformed from the little city of Solomon into one of the Marvels of the East.

  Since he’d taken power, there’d seldom been a time when the city had fewer than three massive building projects under way. Many wouldn’t even be completed in his lifetime. It didn’t matter. Placating his Jewish subjects wasn’t Herod’s only priority. It wasn’t even his top priority. What Herod really wanted was Rome’s attention. He wanted to create a city so grand, so indispensable, that even the mighty Augustus would be proud to call it home. A city worthy of being called “the Rome of the East.” And he wanted his sons, his grandsons, and their grandsons to rule over it for all time, each generation praising the name of the visionary king who’d started it all.

  And who was to say? In time, maybe his descendants would build a whole empire of their own. Maybe the children of Augustus would find themselves kneeling before the children of Herod, instead of the other way around.

  Jerusalem was home to some 150,000 people. Still little more than a suburb when compared to Rome’s million-plus inhabitants, but it was on its way to becoming one of the grandest cities in the empire—right up there with Alexandria and Antioch. And with the census in full swing, its population had swelled to nearly twice its usual size.

  The hordes barely noticed as Balthazar was paraded through the packed streets—streets that had changed so drastically, even in his lifetime. Where Balthazar remembered nothing but dirt, Herod’s amphitheater now rose more than a hundred feet off the ground, its stage home to the newest works from Rome and Greece. There was the Antonia Fortress, which Herod had named in honor of his friend and patron Marc Antony; the monument to King David, who’d ruled from this very city a thousand years before Herod’s birth; and, of course, there was Herod’s Temple—the city’s biggest, most stunning feature.

  A city unto itself, the temple took up nearly half of Jerusalem’s eastern border. The outer walls measured 1,600 feet by 950 feet and rose 100 feet above the ground. Those walls supported a collection of inner courtyards and buildings, all of which surrounded the gleaming, white marble temple in the center. The biggest of these was the Court of the Gentiles, with its money changers and barbers; its priests scurrying about in their white robes; and merchants selling sacrificial animals, food, and souvenirs to the throngs of pilgrims.

  At the center of it all was the temple itself—a white marble tower, from which the smoke of burning sheep and doves never ceased to rise. Unlike the noise and activity of the complex around it, the temple and its walled-in courtyards were strictly for worship and sacrifice, and strictly for the faithful. Non-Jews were expressly forbidden, on punishment of death, from setting foot inside. Even Herod would’ve risked a riot if he’d insisted on entering. For though he’d officially converted to Judaism when he took power, he was still considered an Arab by most of the local population.

  The temple was the grandest flourish of Herod’s grand flourishes. But while he publicly boasted of the house he’d built to honor God, he was privately fondest of the house he’d built to honor himself: his palace in the Upper City.

  Herod had palaces throughout Judea. In Caesarea near the Mediterranean coast and in Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee. In Masada and Jericho. Each one beautiful and grand. But even though some of these palaces were bigger than his home in Jerusalem, none of them approached its magnificence. Like the Great Temple, it was built on a raised platform, a rectangle measuring nearly 1,000 feet long and 200 feet wide, and surrounded by high walls and guard towers. Officially, it was built as a fortress to protect the Upper City, on Jerusalem’s west side, from invading forces. In reality, it was an offering from a mighty king unto himself. The towers were spaced evenly along the four walls. Each had a name. One for the king’s brother, one for a friend, and one for his beloved second wife, Mariamne.

  Mariamne…oh, what a beauty she’d been. Oh, how Herod had loved her. And oh, what a shame that he’d been forced to have her executed. And the man he’d suspected her of having an affair with. And her brother. And the two sons she’d borne him, lest they grow up to resent their father for having their mother executed. Mind you, it hadn’t given Herod pleasure to do this. Ordering one’s own children put to death was one of the more unsavory of a king’s duties. But, as Herod was fond of telling his remaining sons, “Emotion is emotion, and politics is politics, and one has nothing to do with the other.”

  Now all that remained of Herod’s favorite wife was a guard tower bearing her name above the north gate. The gate through which Balthazar was unceremoniously led into Herod’s Palace for the first and last time in his life. Backward. Covered in his own blood and vomit.

  Thirty-three years later, another man would be paraded through the same gate to face another Herod—also covered in his own blood, and also on the way to his death.

  Once Captain Peter and his men were inside the palace walls, Balthazar was finally untethered from his chaperone and lowered to the ground, still slightly dizzy and very thirsty. It took a moment to steady himself, especially since his hands were still tied behind his back.

  After gaining his balance, Balthazar turned away from the north gate…​and found himself transported to another world. A world almost as surreal and infinite as the one he’d flown through in his dreams. It was a world of lush green and cool marble. A world of polished bronze fountains and meticulously groomed dogs. It was, simply, paradise on earth. The Garden of Eden, rediscovered at last.

  Inside the rectangular outer walls, the interior grounds were divided down the middle into two smaller, perfectly symmetrical rectangles—each half m
irroring the other down to the smallest detail. And while outsiders probably imagined Herod’s Palace as a single structure behind those walls, just as Balthazar had, there were actually two identical, sprawling palaces inside—both facing each other across a vast rectangular courtyard.

  Running down both sides of the courtyard, covered walkways and rows of neatly planted trees offered shade in the hottest months. And when those weren’t enough, a pair of circular pools—each fed by identical bronze fountains—stood ready to provide relief from the heat.

  Balthazar knew at once why Herod had built two identical palaces. One of them undoubtedly contained his throne room, where he held court, threw official banquets, and greeted foreign dignitaries. And where he dreams up new atrocities to commit against his people and lives in fear of a man 1,000 miles away. This palace was distinguished by the courtiers, military officers, and wise men—a title that covered a broad range of functions, from advisor to physician, but that usually referred to priests—milling about in front of it.

  Across the courtyard, some 300 feet away, the other palace served as Herod’s private residence, with apartments for his wives, his sons and their wives, heated baths, and a personal harem of some forty women—all of whom he’d “recruited” from the local population and not one of whom was older than sixteen. This palace was distinguished by the hordes of children playing and young women sunning themselves in front. Two palaces. One business and one pleasure.

  You had to give the man credit. He was one hell of a builder.

  Predictably, Balthazar was led toward the business palace by his soldier escorts. But business aside, there was scarcely a doubt in his mind that Herod was going to take plenty of pleasure in killing him.

  III

  Balthazar had assumed he would be led straight into the throne room. Paraded before Herod for a minute or two, mocked, perhaps tortured, depending on the king’s mood, and executed for the amusement of all. Quick and easy.

  But the king was a busy man, and even a prisoner of Balthazar’s stature had to wait for an appointment. Here he was in an antechamber, almost an hour after arriving at the palace, sitting on a stone bench just outside the closed doors of the throne room. Judean soldiers sat on either side of him, their captain pacing nervously nearby, silently rehearsing his presentational speech. And designing the new house you’re going to build with all that money, you self-righteous—

  “This again!” someone screamed.

  The gravelly, muffled voice had come from the other side of the throne room doors.

  Herod.

  It had to be. Who else would scream like that in a throne room?

  It was funny—the two of them shared so much history, caused each other so much grief. Yet they’d never seen each other in person. Balthazar had no idea what his nemesis looked like. Sure, there was the familiar profile stamped on all those coins—and the mosaics and the carvings and the statues. But in Balthazar’s experience, those likenesses tended to be a bit flattering when compared to the real things.

  Even through the closed doors, Balthazar and the Judean soldiers—who did their best not to look like they were listening—could make out every word:

  “Thirty years!” the gravelly voice continued. “For thirty years I’ve built this city into what it is! I’ve shepherded Judea into a new age! But no matter what I do—no matter how many glorious monuments I build to honor their God—I’m still forced to listen to this! This nonsense! This treason!”

  “And when the Great Temple has been rebuilt,” said a calmer voice, quoting the prophecies, “when the city of David has been overrun and the ruins of Judea born anew, the Messiah shall appear—born of a virgin in the town of Bethlehem.”

  “Yes…I’ve heard it all before.”

  “And with him the dead shall rise, and the plagues of old retur—”

  “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “The plagues of old return to smite the nonbelievers. The kings of the earth shall be rendered powerless, and a voice shall be heard, the voice of mothers weeping for their children, because they are no more.”

  “I said ENOUGH!”

  A short silence followed the outburst. Then, in a more conversational tone, the gravelly voice continued. “If I heeded the warnings of every screaming prophet in this city, I would drive myself mad in an hour’s time. I will not cower before old superstitions.”

  “All the same, Your Highness, never have there been so many signs from so many prophecies: the temple rebuilt, the cities of Judea born anew, the crowds in Jerusalem for the census. All that remains to be seen is a light in the east.”

  “And what would you have me do? Would you have me go and tell Augustus that he should fear a child who may or may not exist? That Rome should recall its mighty armies from Gaul and Germania and lay siege to the town of Bethlehem? Do you have any idea what a fool he would think me?”

  “The prophecy is clear, Your Highness. The Messiah shall topple all the kingdoms of the world. Even yours.”

  There was a loud crash. The sound of something being knocked (or more likely kicked) over. Something metal. From the sound of the impact and the resulting smaller clangs, Balthazar guessed it was a table, from which several chalices and serving platters had fallen.

  A considerably longer silence followed. Balthazar caught a few of the Judean soldiers trading nervous glances.

  When Herod finally spoke again, it was to issue an order:

  “There will be no more talk of Messiahs.”

  IV

  A cry went up through the town of Bethlehem, reverberating through the torch-lit houses in the village and the caves that had been carved into the hills above it many thousands of years earlier. It was brief and sharp, and it came from a small stable on the north side of the little town. A stable that was unremarkable in every way—except for the star that shone directly over it in the high heavens, brighter than any in the eastern sky. A star that hadn’t been there an hour before.

  Joseph and Mary felt like every innkeeper in the Upper City had turned them away. Every house had been full to bursting, every room taken, every patch of bare earth spoken for. With Mary’s contractions growing more frequent and Joseph’s fuse growing shorter, they’d given up on Jerusalem and taken the road south to Bethlehem—where, rumor had it, there were still a few spaces for smaller families.

  But Bethlehem had proven every bit as full, and they’d been turned away from the first two places they inquired. With the sky growing dark, Mary no longer able to ride or walk, and Joseph ready to throw up his hands and curse every man in Judea, an old shepherd and his sons had taken pity on them. And though the shepherd’s home—like all the homes in the area—was packed with boarders and relatives for the census, he’d offered them the cramped stables behind it. After laying out some fresh straw and water and hanging a small oil lamp, he’d left them alone. The birth of a child was a sacred, private affair. No place for men or strangers.

  And there they were. Surrounded by the stench of animals. The glow of a single flame. A fitting place for the birth of a king, thought Joseph.

  If they’d been in Nazareth, Mary would have been attended by the women of the village. She would’ve been comforted by familiar faces and voices and surrounded by those with years of childbearing experience. But here she was utterly alone. A fifteen-year-old girl, lying on hard straw and the few blankets they’d carried across the desert, sweating and pushing her way through the worst pain she’d ever known.

  There had been times—many times—​throughout the night when Mary had been convinced something was wrong. It’s not supposed to be this hard, this painful. It’s not supposed to take this long. I must be doing something wrong. And there had been times—many times—​throughout the night when Joseph had been close to rushing in. But he couldn’t. It was forbidden. He couldn’t lay eyes on her in such an indecent state. He couldn’t touch her when she was unclean. And so he’d done the only thing he could—he’d shouted words of encouragement to her t
hrough the stable walls, and prayed.

  The infant had cried at first, an announcement of health. A cry that had echoed across Bethlehem. A voice that shall be heard the world over, Mary thought as she held the baby to her chest. And then it had been silent. Calm. It had looked into Mary’s eyes for a moment. Not the all-knowing look of an all-knowing God, but merely the quizzical look of an exhausted infant. Then it had slept.

  Mary and Joseph lay beside each other, watching the baby sleep as the sun peeked through the slats in the stable walls, and the animals around them began to stir.

  It was tradition that a male child’s name not be spoken aloud until its eighth day. The day of its circumcision. But there was no need to speak.

  The angel had told both of them what to name the child.

  V

  The doors to Herod’s throne room were finally opened, and Balthazar was ushered in to meet his punishment, with Captain Peter proudly leading the way.

  The throne room was every bit as symmetrical and rectangular as the rest of the palace grounds, with the doors on one end and the throne on the other, so as to make guests walk the maximum distance for added dramatic effect. But unlike the lush paradise he’d seen outside, Balthazar found the interior cold and drab by comparison. Stone columns lined both sides of the narrow passage. Daylight filtered in through the windows behind those columns and from the large, square opening in the center of the ceiling, some forty feet above. At night, the torches and lamps mounted along the length of the room would provide ample light and heat, although Balthazar guessed that Herod didn’t spend much time in here after dark. Why would he, with a whole pleasure palace waiting across the courtyard?

  As they neared the throne, Balthazar saw slaves hurriedly cleaning an overturned table to its right and the chalices and platters that had been knocked off of it. And as he silently congratulated himself for correctly guessing that it had, in fact, been a table overturned, his eyes turned back to the throne itself, and the figure slumped in it.