He ran his spindly fingers through her brown hair, then pulled her close. Closer, until he could feel her hurried breath against his face. He could feel her trembling. They usually did. But that fear was good. It was normal for a common girl to fear her king. To be excited by his touch. Honored by his attention. She held a fig to Herod’s lips, but he pushed it away.
“Enough of that,” he said.
He drew her in. Kissed her deeply. He could feel her pulling away as his tongue felt its way around her mouth. Felt her struggling against his grasp. This was the part he enjoyed most. The resistance. They all resisted. They all tried to run.
But in the end, they were all his.
II
An ibex looked up, mindlessly gnashing the dry grass in its teeth—the flavorless blades it was somehow compelled to seek out and pull from the hot earth, from morning until night. Something was wrong. It’d caught another glint in the corner of its eye, felt another tiny, almost imperceptible vibration beneath it. And now it watched—its eyes unblinking, its body tense and ready—as three camels passed the herd, a hundred yards distant. Close enough to raise concern but not close enough to send them scattering. Not yet.
The ibex had no memory of ever seeing a camel before, although it had, on countless occasions. It watched as the larger beasts moved from left to right across its field of view—five humans on their backs, one of them carrying something small in its arms. They moved slowly, purposefully in the direction of what the ibex, for lack of knowing the proper term, called “the thing over there.” The big, smooth thing that all the humans hid behind. The one it and its herd mates dare not approach.
Confident there was no danger from the camels or their passengers, the ibex lowered its head and resumed the hunt for dry blades. The hunt that it had been compelled to begin the moment it had emerged on wet, rickety legs and would continue until its dying breath. By the time it pulled another flavorless patch of grass from the desert floor, it had forgotten the camels were ever there.
Just as it’d forgotten the thousands of Romans who’d marched past an hour before.
Joseph stared back at the ibex. A large herd had taken note of them, watching closely as they passed, their curled horns held high, their mouths mindlessly chewing cud. They were stupid little creatures, to be sure. But they were a welcome sign of life in a desert that had enveloped them for hours, empty and eternal.
Hebron was finally in their sights, though there were a few miserable miles to go before they reached its smooth outer walls. They would be silent miles, for Joseph, Mary, and the others had hardly passed a word for hours. They were all stiff from a night spent tossing and turning on the floor of a cave, all weak for lack of food and water and sick from the unrelenting heat. And the baby—the baby had grown eerily quiet again. Too dehydrated to cry for his mother’s milk.
God knows how long they’d ridden. Eight hours straight? Ten? They’d set out before dawn, and while the sun finally seemed to be falling toward its western cradle, its rays were still murderous as they beat down from the heavens, baking their faces and the tops of their feet, turning their skin a painful pink.
Patience, Joseph…God will provide.…
It’d become his desert mantra. The only thing keeping doubt outside the walls of his mind, where it had laid siege months ago, waiting oh so patiently to starve him out and slaughter his sanity. Joseph felt the presence of doubt all around him, just as he had when Mary first told him about her dream. Its sabers rattling outside his city walls, ready to accept his offer of surrender. Admit it, Joseph, she’s a liar. Admit it, Joseph, this was a mistake. Admit it, Joseph, he’s not the Messiah. And yes, in times of weakness and fatigue—times like now—these voices had a way of growing louder. But then they’d crested the hill and spotted the walls of Hebron in the distance, and Joseph had breathed fully of the desert air. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. His desert mantra had never rung truer.
God will provide.…
Hebron had suddenly and completely revealed itself before them—a walled oasis in the desert. Not quite big enough to be called a city, but too substantial to be called a village. It was surrounded by almost perfectly square walls of beige brick. Behind those walls, there would be markets where they could resupply. Baths where they could wash the dust from their faces. Beds where they could spend the night, restful and replenished. God, as always, had provided.
A few silent miles later, as they neared Hebron’s north gate, the fellowship passed a small hill on their left. On its peak, a dozen wooden posts had been driven deeply, permanently into the earth at even intervals. To the unknowing eye, they looked like the naked anchors of some unfinished structure. But to Balthazar and his fellow thieves, they seemed like claws reaching out of the earth, ready to grab them if they strayed too close.
Crucifixion was among the bloodier innovations the Romans had brought from the West, and it had quickly become a favorite method of execution throughout this part of the empire. The condemned were attached to beams by having spikes driven through their palms and into the wood. After those beams were hoisted up, men simply hung in agony for hours, sometimes days, humiliated by their nakedness, covered in the remnants of their own filth. As hunger and thirst set in, they were taunted with unkept promises of food and water. Pelted with stones and poked at with spears.
Some had their legs shattered by the clubs of earthbound soldiers. Sometimes this was done to hasten death. More often, it was done to make their final hours even more wretched. When at last they did die—usually from blood loss, exposure, shock, starvation, or infection—their stinking, discolored bodies were left to wither in the heat for weeks…a warning to men thinking of committing similar crimes. A warning to men like Balthazar.
Thankfully, there were no men affixed to those posts today. Balthazar had witnessed the suffering of crucifixion before, and he never wished to see it again. Still, as he left the hill behind and led the others through the north gate, he couldn’t help but feel a chill swim through his blood. There was something about those posts. Something about how they’d looked. Naked, and eager for company. Hungry.
Almost like they were looking at us.
Something was wrong. Balthazar suddenly had that feeling. The feeling of eyes on him. It was undefined and instinctual, but it was real. Maybe he’d caught a glint of something in the corner of his eye; maybe he’d felt some tiny, almost imperceptible change in his surroundings. Whatever it was, Balthazar decided, silently, that they wouldn’t be spending the night in Hebron.
Through the gate and into the bustle they went. Directly in front of them, a wide, central street ran straight and clear to the other side of the village, packed with people and lined with tall palm trees on either side. To their left, a bazaar rang with the blended noise of merchants, customers, and animals. To their right, dozens of Jewish pilgrims swarmed toward a massive square monument in the distance—a clean, windowless cube of white stone blocks, with walls eighty feet high and six feet thick. Joseph had never seen it before, but he knew at once what it was.
“The Cave of the Patriarchs,” he whispered.
It was one of the holiest sites in all of Judea. Second only to the Great Temple to some. For as plain as its white stone walls were, those walls protected something extraordinary beneath: the final resting place of Abraham. The father of Judaism.
Legend held that Abraham and his wife, Sarah, had asked to be entombed in a cave beneath Hebron. For thousands of years, the faithful had come to the cave’s sealed mouth to offer their prayers to the man who’d communed with God, the woman who’d borne Isaac and Ishmael.
Herod had ordered a monument built over the site—another selfless gift to his Jewish subjects. And while many felt the monument defaced Abraham’s grave, men still traveled days to offer their prayers at its walls. To pray over the bones of the man from whom all Jews were descended, from Isaac to Moses to David. Joseph had often thought of making the pilgrimage himself, but the opportun
ity had never arisen, until now.
Here he was, cave in sight. And in spite of the troubles that had led him here, Joseph couldn’t resist the urge to join those pilgrims he watched streaming toward its wall, off to commune with the Lord. He said as much to the others.
“Are you crazy?” asked Balthazar. “We don’t have time to stop and pray. We have to resupply and get out of Hebron as quickly as we can.”
“If ever we needed God’s ear,” said Joseph, “it’s now. Besides, to be so close and not pay my respects…it would be a sin.”
“Sin or no sin, I’m not going to watch you pray in front of a wall. End of discussion.”
“Then don’t go,” said Mary. “My husband and I will go by ourselves while you get supplies.”
“We’re not splitting up,” said Balthazar. “Not when we’ve got the whole world looking for us.”
“And who are they looking for?” asked Mary. “Four men, a woman, and a baby. If we stick together, we’ll only draw more attention to ourselves.”
Balthazar felt his jaw clench. He hated this woman. The way she looked, the way she talked, as if she knew everything. But what he really hated was the fact that—in this case, anyway—she was right. They would attract less attention if they split up. But I’ll sit here and glare at you a moment longer, just so we’re clear on how much I despise you.
“Fine,” he said at last. “We meet at the south gate in an hour. You’re not there, we leave without you.”
Mary glared back at Balthazar. Just so we’re clear that I’m not afraid of you.
“South gate,” she said. “One hour.”
After tying their camels up along the Street of Palms, the fellowship went their separate ways.
The wise men headed left toward the bazaar, where Gaspar and Melchyor would trade the last of their stolen gold for whatever it would buy, and Balthazar would work on stealing more gold. Joseph, Mary, and the baby went right, toward the Cave of the Patriarchs, braving a sea of faithful pilgrims to pay their respects to the ancient founder of their faith.
Joseph held on to Mary for dear life, fearful that she and the baby would be swept away in the current of bodies if he let go. The area around the monument was even worse than it’d looked—packed with bodies and filled with unrelenting noise. Musicians clanging their cymbals and plucking their harps. Merchants enticing the faithful to buy all manner of souvenirs. There were sacrificial goats and oxen braying and bleating, money changers pouring coins. Above it all, the din of a thousand voices muttering a thousand prayers.
And then there were the prophets. The screaming prophets, who could be found holding court on all sides of the monument, issuing dire warnings of God’s wrath, of Herod’s—even Rome’s overthrow from atop their makeshift platforms. Proclaiming the day of the Messiah was at hand—the day that would see the children of Israel freed from bondage. The same thing they’d been proclaiming for thousands of years.
“He will strike the earth with the rod of his mouth! With the breath of his lips he will slay the wicked! Righteousness will be his belt, and faithfulness the sash around his waist!”
One of these prophets, who called himself Simeon, was ranting to an anemic—and by the looks of it, bored—group of nine or ten followers as Joseph and Mary tried to push their way past. It was the same fiery sermon he’d been barking for weeks:
“Herod executes those who dare speak against him! He rules through brutality, and he remains in power because we fear him! Well I say he has reason to fear! For it is written that the arrival of the Messiah is at hand! A king of the Jews, who will topple not only the rulers of Judea and Galilee, but also the rulers of all the world! And when our Savior comes, it will be with…with a…”
Simeon’s eyes had landed on a young girl on the other side of the crowded street. A girl being led along with a child in her arms. He stepped down from his platform, not quite sure of why he was doing so, and pushed his way through the mob.
Joseph turned his head just in time to see this strange, wild-eyed man grab Mary’s hand.
“You!” Joseph cried. “Let go of her!”
But Simeon the prophet didn’t move. He just stared at Mary, as if reunited with a long-lost friend…his face a mix of reverence and terror.
“A sword,” he said. “A sword shall pierce your heart.…”
As the words fell from his mouth, they seemed to come from a far-off place—as if spoken by someone else. Someone behind his eyes. Years later, Simeon wouldn’t even remember saying them. And when told by his future followers what he’d said, he would claim to have no idea what the words had meant.
Joseph shoved him aside and pulled Mary along, eager to be rid of this madman. Simeon held on to Mary’s hand firmly for a moment, then let it slip from his fingers. He watched her go, his eyes suddenly, inexplicably filled with tears. Filled with joy. Something had stirred within him. Something he couldn’t possibly explain.
Balthazar hovered above the earth—watching, waiting. He stood atop Hebron’s north wall, near the leaning ladder he’d used to scale it. Looking down on the bazaar that ran along it below. He needed money to buy their much-needed supplies. And to get it, he needed a pocket to pick.
“C’mon,” he muttered to himself. “I know you’re out there.…”
There weren’t as many targets as there would’ve been in the markets of Jerusalem or Antioch. Hebron’s bazaar was a decidedly smaller affair, with fewer goods to buy and fewer overstuffed coin purses to steal. He scanned the earth from his perch, a mere sixteen feet from the ground, yet above it all: above the people shoving past each other, moving up and down the dirt street that ran through the market’s center. Above the men haggling with merchants, the women dragging uncooperative children behind. He could see Gaspar arguing with a man over the price of dried fruits, as Melchyor stood fatly and faithfully behind him. An old woman with a clubfoot limping blindly along. A dog pushing its nose through the dirt, sniffing around for anything that might’ve—
“There you are.”
Balthazar locked onto a heavyset man in sweat-soaked robes. From the quality of his clothing and the size of his belly, he was well-to-do. And from the unevenness of his gait, he was carrying something heavy on his belt. Balthazar guessed it wasn’t a weapon. No, you’re not a fighter. You’re not a fighter or a farmer or a slave trader.…You’re a money changer. One of the larger specimens I’ve seen too.
Large was good. The bigger they were, the less aware of their bodies they tended to be.
Balthazar reached for the ladder, ready to climb down and follow his target through the crowd. Following, waiting for the right time to make his move, setting up for a bump. A bump. Bumps are always good with bigger targets. When the time was right, he would “accidentally” knock into the money changer. It would have to be a good jolt—enough to startle him but not enough to hurt. You never want to hurt them, no. Never want to make them angry. As he had a thousand times, Balthazar would apologize profusely for his clumsiness and be gone before the money changer realized exactly what he’d lost at the moment of impact. His plan in place, Balthazar put one foot on the ladder, ready to climb down and—
There’s that feeling again.
The feeling of eyes on him. The feeling that something was wrong. But where the first instance had been vague, unattached to any particular evidence, this one was validated almost at once. In stepping onto the ladder, Balthazar had turned his body away from the bazaar, ready to climb down. Now he lifted his eyes and looked out over the top of the wall and into the desert that lay beyond. And as he did, Balthazar felt his heart sink, for he knew that there was a very slim chance they would make it out of Hebron alive.
Romans.
Thousands of them, massed in the desert, less than a mile north of Hebron. They were lined up in ranks. But they weren’t charging toward the north gate, sabers held high. Nor were they limping along, as if they’d been tracking Balthazar and the others through the desert all day. They were simply standing sti
ll. In fact, these didn’t look like soldiers who were in pursuit at all. They looked like soldiers who’d been…
Waiting. They were waiting for us.
Balthazar and his companions had been lured into a trap. Made to feel safe and alone as they rode into Hebron, only to be surrounded on their arrival. Imprisoned by its almost perfectly square, smooth walls. The “how” of it all would come later, if ever. Right now, Balthazar had to find the others.
Pilate was a patient man.
Though he still wasn’t entirely sure how, the magus—or rather, his snake—had tracked their prey to a cave south of Emmaus. And though he wasn’t entirely sure why, he’d decided to take the magus at his word when he reported having a vision of six fugitives walking down a street lined with tall, uniform palm trees on either side. If this vision was accurate, then the Antioch Ghost was headed to Hebron. It made sense. Hebron was on the way to Egypt. A perfect place to rest and resupply. The question was, what to do with this information.
Pilate knew he couldn’t storm Hebron and slay a seemingly innocent couple in cold blood.
What, run their baby through with a sword in the light of day? Only a madman like Herod would do such a thing. Besides, the Jews would start a riot.
Nor could he challenge the Antioch Ghost in the open desert. Not with 10,000 of his men lumbering along, kicking up dust. They’d be spotted miles off, and the fugitives would have too much time to escape.
A trap. That was the smart move. The patient move.
Pilate would race to Hebron, but he wouldn’t enter it. He would hold the bulk of his men outside the city walls, keeping the emperor’s treasured magus safe and keeping a respectful distance from the pilgrims who’d come to see the Cave of the Patriarchs. At the same time, he would dispatch horsemen to cover all possible exits—every gate on every side of the city. A small detachment of foot soldiers would take position on the streets adjacent to the Street of Palms, closing in and attacking only if something went wrong. He would let his targets ride into Hebron, thinking they were days ahead of their pursuers.
Unholy Night Page 16
