The pendant.
III
The patient would live. He’d been unconscious for nearly two days, sweating through the last of his fever, but he was starting to come around. Zachariah had saved him.
Balthazar had been lucky. He was still young and strong, and the blade had only just broken the outer sac of his lung. Had it gone any deeper—even a few centimeters deeper—there would have been nothing to do but watch him drown. As it was, Zachariah had been able to drain the air and blood trapped in his chest, and suture the wound shut with a bone needle and flax thread. It was healing nicely, thanks in part to the myrrh the patient had been traveling with.
Balthazar was sitting up on his own. His color had returned, and his appetite with it. Zachariah sat at his bedside in the glow of a candle. The house quiet around them. He watched the patient drink from the cup in his hands, wipe his mouth, and politely say no to the question he’d asked moments before.
“Please,” said Zachariah, “tell me what you saw.”
“I told you…I don’t want to talk about it. It was just a dream.”
Balthazar had mumbled in his sleep. Mumbled about flying. About the moon, and the pink walls, and the roots of a tree being ripped from the earth. Zachariah had seen other patients do this over the years, and he’d always found their visions fascinating. The way their minds interpreted what was happening to their bodies. Their vividness.
“Even if it was strange or absurd. Tell me what you saw.”
Balthazar looked at the bearded old man. The man not unlike the one in his dream. The man who’d saved his life. He supposed that he owed him at least that much. It was just the two of them, after all. The others were asleep.
And so he did. He told him about flying over the desert. About the mountain and the people dancing around the great golden something. He told him about his body tearing itself apart and falling down the side of the pyramid. About the statues on the shores of the Nile. He told him about the fish going belly-up in a river of blood, the moon breaking apart into pieces and falling from the sky. About the room with pink and purple walls and the man with the wooden staff who offered him a drink and told him to go to Egypt.
But not about the Man With Wings. That he kept to himself.
When he was done telling his story, Zachariah sat silently for a long time. Thinking. Balthazar thought he saw the old man’s eyes filling with tears.
“I believe,” said Zachariah at last, “that you have been chosen by God.”
Here we go…
In the two days since the surgery, Zachariah’s house had been full of storytelling. He’d learned who his patient really was. How he and the other fugitives had run into Joseph and Mary in the stables. How he’d saved them when Herod’s men had stormed into Bethlehem. His niece, Mary, had told him about visions of the angel Gabriel and her miraculous pregnancy. This had prompted Zachariah’s wife to admit something she’d kept from him for six years: that the same angel had visited her during her own miraculous pregnancy and told her that their son, John, would be the Messiah’s prophet. And now, Zachariah had just been told about the most astonishing dream. A dream he believed to be a message from God himself.
“I believe,” he said, “that you have been instructed to walk the path that Moses walked. The path of Exodus. I believe that you have been chosen to take the child and his parents to Egypt.”
It made sense. Egypt was relatively close, and beyond Herod’s political or military reach. And while it had technically been a Roman province for the last thirty years, the Romans had little influence over local affairs.
“Do you want to know what I think?” asked Balthazar. “I think I had a bad dream.”
“Will you take them?”
The voice hadn’t come from Zachariah. Balthazar turned toward the door and saw a boy. He had no idea who this boy was or how long he’d been standing there.
“Will you take them?” the boy repeated. “Take them to Egypt?”
“My son,” said Zachariah. “You must forgive him. He sometimes mistakes himself for a grown man.”
Balthazar didn’t like children, generally speaking. He especially didn’t like the way this one looked at him. There was no fear in his eyes.
“If I take them,” he said, turning back to Zachariah, “it’s only because I’m headed in the same direction. Not because I believe that some god sent me a message.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not,” said Zachariah. “As long as God believes in y—”
“Stop.”
He wasn’t about to hear any more of that zealot garbage. Not even from the man who’d saved his life.
“I said I’ll think about it.”
It was nearly 200 miles to Egypt if they took the route Balthazar had in mind. South past Aijalon, then through the desert to Hebron, where they would rest and resupply before making the final push south to Egypt. Normally, he could make a trip like that in five days. But with his current entourage, and the fact that they’d have to stay off the main roads, he expected it to take nearly twice as long.
It had been five days since the surgery, and Balthazar was beginning to feel like his old self again. Up, around, and ready to go. Gaspar and Melchyor had seen to it that the camels were fed and watered. They’d packed as much food as they could carry. Their robes were new, their bodies were bathed, and their bellies were full. They were ready.
And they were waiting.
Waiting because the Jews were inside, performing another one of their ancient, pointless rituals. If ever you need proof that religion is a waste of time, here it is. We could’ve been off an hour ago.
With everything that’d happened, Joseph and Mary had almost forgotten that it had been eight days since their baby’s birth. In accordance with Jewish law, males were circumcised and named on their eighth day. Normally, the bris would’ve been performed by a mohel—an elder designated by the father, usually a rabbi. But under the circumstances, an old physician with shaking hands would have to suffice. Joseph and Mary held hands as they watched Zachariah wield his scalpel and lean over the baby.
Both of them said a silent prayer asking God to guide his hand.
7
The Gift of the Magi
“I will scatter you among the nations and will draw out my sword and pursue you. Your land will be laid waste, and your cities will lie in ruins.”
—Leviticus 26:33
I
For a moment, it seemed like Herod was done screaming. Then he began again.
What came out of his diseased mouth was less a collection of words and more a series of sharp, anguished notes. Tired lungs forcing bursts of air through bloodied vocal cords. Sounds with no shape or rhythm. The improvisations of a madman. Herod’s courtesans had taken refuge behind their pillars once again. His advisors and servants pressed their backs against the walls of the sunlit throne room, trying to make themselves as small as possible as their king circled, tearing and kicking at any object that dared cross his path, spewing those frightening, senseless sounds.
A body lay in the center of Herod’s harried orbit—the body of a giant whose legs had been shredded by the enemy in Bethlehem and whose throat had more recently been cut by friends in Jerusalem.
It was the body of the soldier Balthazar had spared.
He’d been led in to see his king only moments before, two fellow soldiers helping him along as he limped down the length of the throne room, helping him down as he knelt before Herod on broken knees. With his head bowed and his body shaking from fright, the giant had delivered the news: They’d failed to kill all the male children of Bethlehem. His captain was dead, and many men with him.
“Did the men of the village rise up against you?” asked Herod. There was a faint hope behind this question. An uprising could be forgiven. Better yet, it could be crushed. He would simply send more men.
“No, Your Highness.”
“Then why does one of my soldiers come crawling back to me with his head hu
ng low, spilling his blood on my floor? Who did this to you?”
The soldier paused, ashamed of what he was about to say. He’d considered lying to the king, saying it was thirty or even fifty men who’d defeated them in Bethlehem, making up some story about a band of mysterious fighters who came out of nowhere. Mercenaries from some nearby kingdom. But lying was pointless. Sooner or later, Herod would learn the truth. Shameful as it was, it had to be told.
“Three men, Your Highness,” he said at last.
Herod stood and walked slowly, slowly down the steps from his throne.
“Three men?”
“Three men…dressed in the robes of nobles.”
Somewhere at the ends of his arms, Herod’s spindly fingers were balling into fists.
“They…killed our captain and…escaped with one of the children. One of them gave me a message. I’m…supposed to deliver it to you.”
Herod was directly in front of the soldier now, his small frame rendered almost comically frail next to the giant kneeling before him.
“Then,” said Herod, “I suppose you’d better deliver it.”
The soldier swallowed hard. All things being equal, he would’ve preferred being left to bleed on the streets of Bethlehem. But this duty had fallen to him, and it must be done.
“He said ‘the Antioch Ghost is laughing at you.’ He said he’ll…‘stand over your grave.’”
The words took a moment to register. When they did, Herod lost the last of himself that was sane and ordered the soldier’s throat cut at once. Even repeating such a thing was an act of treason. And so the two soldiers who’d helped their battered comrade kneel now drew their blades from behind. The giant, for his part, didn’t resist. Not as his brothers dragged their daggers along his neck. Not even as he saw a spray of red cover their arms or felt the warmth of blood running over his chest. He’d known. He’d known the moment the Antioch Ghost had chosen him as his messenger. He’d known he would never leave Herod’s throne room alive. The giant fell forward, feeling as if his head were full of wine. A moment later, he couldn’t remember his own name. A moment after that, he was gone, and Herod was screaming, “The child will die! The child will die, and the Antioch Ghost with him!”
There were no political considerations to be made. No discussions to be had or advisors consulted. These things would simply come to pass, no matter the cost in men or treasure. They would come to pass, even if he had to kill all the sons in all of the villages of Judea.
Not even the sight of that treasonous blood spilling on his floor, of that treasonous mouth hanging stupidly open, could assuage the effect of what the giant had said. Of how the Antioch Ghost was mocking him. And so Herod circled, spewing those strange, disconnected noises with his raw throat while his advisors waited in silence. Waiting for his rage to subside—for they could no more hasten the end of their king’s tantrum than make a storm blow itself out before its time. All they could do was take shelter and wait for the clouds to part. When at last they did, Herod slumped into his throne. He was shaking from exhaustion, wincing from the pain in his throat…but he was smiling. Smiling, because the storm had left a seedling in its wake. An idea.
Herod smiled, for here again was proof that he was blessed with the greatest gift a leader could possess:
Vision.
Where others saw arid wastelands, he saw future cities. Where others mourned the ashes, he harnessed the flames. Even now, slumped over in his throne, weak with rage, he saw an opportunity. A way to slay the child and the Ghost in one stroke, and achieve something even greater in the process.
The emperor…
Herod, like all provincial kings, only ruled because he enjoyed the backing of Rome. But his relationship with the empire had been strained ever since Rome’s civil war, from which Augustus Caesar emerged the ultimate victor. Unfortunately, Herod had been a supporter of Augustus’s chief rival, Marc Antony. And while he’d been quick to pledge his everlasting and unwavering loyalty to the new Caesar, Augustus had viewed Judea’s puppet king with suspicion ever since. But here was a chance to change all of that. A chance to improve relations with Rome and protect his dynasty in Judea. Here was a chance to flatter the emperor, while using him at the same time.
With the last of his voice, Herod summoned a scribe and dictated a letter. It began:
Mighty Augustus, Master of the World,
I humble myself before your glory, and beg you condescend to advise me in a matter most dire. A matter of great consequence, not only for Judea, but for all the empire…
II
A fellowship of six fugitives rode south from Emmaus, divided among the backs of three camels: Gaspar alone in front, Melchyor and Joseph in the middle, and Balthazar, Mary, and the child in back. They moved slowly over the sand, far from the roads and the prying eyes of soldiers, their mouths dry and canteens nearly empty. There were no debts of honor binding them together. No pledges of friendship or shared beliefs. Balthazar had saved the lives of his companions, and they’d saved his in return. They were square in the eyes of the desert. All that united them now was a common need to escape Herod’s grasp.
As the heat of the day reached full bloom on their backs, the child woke and began to cry, and Balthazar realized this was the first time he’d heard his voice since they’d escaped Bethlehem. Given everything he had been through in the last few days, the infant had remained strangely calm, strangely silent. Now his sharp, short wails rang in his ears, waking the headache he’d almost managed to forget. He was parched, fatigued, and half starved. Sharp pain pulsed from his stitches and through his body with each of the camel’s footfalls. And now a baby was screaming at the back of his throbbing head.
“We have to stop,” said Mary.
“We can’t,” said Balthazar.
“But he’s hungry.”
“We’re all hungry.”
“I have to feed him.”
“Then feed him while we ride. I won’t look.”
“I can’t. Not with the camel moving up and down like this.”
“Then I guess he’ll starve.”
How could he say that so dispassionately?
“You would deny a hungry baby his mother’s milk?” she asked.
“No, I’d deny Herod’s men a better chance of catching us. We find food or water? That’s when we stop. Otherwise, you’re the woman—you figure it out.”
“But—”
“Look, I’ll gladly let you climb down and feed him, but I won’t wait behind while you do.”
Mary thought about appealing to Gaspar or Melchyor, but it was useless. They’d simply tell her the same thing. She thought about calling ahead to her husband and begging his help in convincing Balthazar to stop. But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference what Joseph said. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and hated herself for it. Who were these men they’d entrusted with their lives? With their child’s life? But her frustration gave way to dread when she realized the baby had stopped crying.
Maybe he’s too exhausted to cry. Too dehydrated. Too hungry and weak. Maybe this is how the end begins. Maybe I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe we should never have left Emmaus. Maybe this was all a—
“Look!”
The voice had come from up ahead. Gaspar had stopped his camel and was pointing at something on the ground. Something in the sand, catching the sunlight. It was a stream—a tiny sliver of life trickling across the desert, a foot in width and only a few inches deep. It ran from left to right, as far as the eye could see in both directions, and from what they could tell, it was almost perfectly straight.
Balthazar had traveled this section of desert many times before, but he had no recollection of there ever being a stream. In fact, he had no recollection of ever seeing water move over the sand in such a way, flowing over it, without being absorbed into the grains. He would have thought it impossible. Yet here it was, running clear and cool, from horizon to horizon.
“What do we do?” asked Gaspar.
“We stop.”
III
The young Roman officer knew an opportunity when he saw it.
It was one of his gifts. The gift of being able to sit, and watch, and wait—letting others pick the low-hanging fruit, until the right, ripe opportunity presented itself. The gift of knowing when to get aggressive. And when aggressive wasn’t enough, knowing when to get ruthless.
This self-discipline was a skill in its own right. But when coupled with naked ambition, it became a thing of beauty, a weapon, which had seen this particular officer rise through the ranks faster than almost any in Rome’s history. Rising through lieutenant, then captain, until he was made imperator at the age of twenty-two. Most of the recruits under his command were older than he was, but this didn’t bother the officer in the least. He was comfortable with power. He’d been born to wield it.
He marched down the central corridor of the emperor’s palace, flanked by two of his lieutenants. Heels clopping against the marble floor, helmets held firmly on their hips, swords rattling against their sides. In his hand, the young officer held the letter that had been delivered by a rider from the East that very morning. A letter that bore the seal of Judea’s king.
In that letter was one of those juicy pieces of fruit. The young officer had known the moment he’d read it. A piece worth getting aggressive over. Here was a chance to catch someone called “the Antioch Ghost.” A middling pest who’d caused the Roman Army no shortage of headaches over the past decade. More important, here was a chance to further impress his beloved emperor and further secure his future. He would be a general, of course. There could be no doubt. And before his thirtieth birthday, at this rate. After that? A senator, perhaps. Or a provincial governor. But those pieces of fruit were still ripening on the vine. He would pick them all in due time.
Unholy Night Page 13
