They’d been the kind of days that shone golden in the memories of the old. Days when it had all been promise and forever ahead. Days spent confiding in each other, whispering things they’d never dared to whisper before. And nights, those impossibly warm nights, spent walking the Colonnaded Street, hand in hand. Sneaking off to the banks of the Orontes, disrobing by the light of the stars. Wading into the water and standing face-to-face, pressed against each other beneath the surface. Feeling each other’s nakedness in the black water. The same water Balthazar had waded through, back and forth between the living world and the dead. But these things were far away when he was with her. In these moments, it was just perfect, and it always would be, as if destiny had delivered them to exactly this place, if you believed in stupid things like destiny. Like he’d been sent to rescue her from being alone. To look after her. And like she’d been sent to rescue him back. And, God, it had been so stupidly giddy and erotic and perfect.
And then, like a scorpion stinging the foot of a passerby, it had all been brought crashing down in a single moment.
Just like that.
III
It was a big house by any measure, especially for a woman living alone. The first floor had two bedrooms, one where Sela had slept alone for the last five years and one where she’d worked when there was work to be found. They were centered on a large kitchen and common area, with a table and chairs and rugs covering every square inch of floor. There were three smaller bedrooms upstairs. The previous owner had filled them with children. But Sela had never had any use for them. Not until tonight.
Darkness had only just begun to fall outside, but most of the fugitives had excused themselves and disappeared upstairs for the night, eager to be rid of the strained silence that had hung over the house since their arrival. Balthazar sulked alone in one of the bedrooms, nursing wounds of the face and ego and quietly cursing all those giddy and erotic and perfect memories that had flooded into his rattled mind after their extended absence. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling through a pair of black eyes. He could hear Gaspar and Melchyor’s muffled whispers through the wall on his right and Joseph’s deep, rhythmic snores on his left. He didn’t know which sound he hated more. Or if he hated them at all. Or if he just hated everything.
I shouldn’t have come. I should’ve known she’d react like this.
It was all so stupid, so juvenile. He was a killer. A thief. The Scourge of Rome. And look at him now. Caring for a baby and a couple of zealots. Beaten bloody by a woman. A hole in his chest. The Roman Army on his heels.
Of the six fugitives, only Mary and the baby remained downstairs after sunset. Sela sat with them at the table in the common area, watching the fifteen-year-old girl across from her—not much older than I was when I met him—bathe the tiny, wrinkled creature in a bowl of warm water. His blue eyes were wide open, darting around, looking at everything without really looking at anything. His head was propped against one shoulder to relieve the burden of his tiny neck, and the remnants of his umbilical cord had blackened and shriveled over his belly button, threatening to fall off at any moment.
Sela sat in silent fascination, watching him. Listening to the involuntary little hics and coos come out of his body as his mother gently washed the dust of the desert off his fragile scalp. She’d never had a sibling, never had cousins to care for. She’d never even held a baby, best as she could recall. Abdi was the closest thing I ever—
“Do you take boarders?” asked Mary.
It was a reasonable question, given that the house was much bigger than most single women would need or be able to afford without some form of income.
“No,” said Sela. “But I work. Down here…in one of the rooms.”
Mary was suddenly embarrassed that she’d brought it up. Of course. She knew what line of “work” Sela was in. A beautiful woman with no husband, no children? A beautiful, sophisticated woman who seems to have plenty of mon—
“I’m not a whore, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“What?” said Mary. “No! No, I didn’t think…I didn’t think that.”
Sela watched the girl’s cheeks turn bright red. No…of course you didn’t—that’s why you’re blushing and indignant.
“I read fortunes,” said Sela.
“Oh…”
“Farmers pay me to predict the weather; women pay me to tell them how many children they’ll have. We sit, I conjure, they pay. Though business has been a little slow since the locusts came. Nobody needs a fortune-teller to tell them things in Beersheba are going to be bad for a long, long time.”
“And you…know these things? These answers they’re looking for?”
“I know what people want to hear.”
The blush drained out of Mary’s cheeks, and she tried to keep her face from betraying her disappointment. Fortune-telling wasn’t much better than prostitution, especially when the “telling” part was outright lying. Religiously speaking, it was worse. The Scriptures expressly forbade such things. In the eyes of God, Sela was a false prophet. And false prophets are heretics. And heretics, well—
“Are you all right?” asked Sela. “You look troubled.”
Mary continued to wash the baby’s skin, staring vacantly off into a dark corner of the room as Sela’s eternal damnation played out in her mind. She suddenly felt as though she were standing across the table from a leper. As if Sela’s sin was contagious. There was a palpable urge to snatch her baby up, to protect him from that sin. To wash it off his body. Given the circumstances, the least offensive thing she could think to say was, “It’s just…I couldn’t lie to people, I guess.”
“Why not? You lied to me.”
Mary looked up sharply. Visions of damnation gone in a flash.
“I did not.”
“Sure you did.”
“Why would you say—”
“When I told you I wasn’t a whore, that’s exactly what you’d been thinking. But you insisted it wasn’t. ‘No, no, no—I would never think that!’”
Mary blushed again.
“Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.”
“I…I was trying to be polite.”
“Uh-huh. You do it to be polite. I do it to give hopeless people a little hope and make a little money while I’m at it. Either way, we’re both liars.”
Mary didn’t like this woman. She didn’t like being here. She didn’t like any of this. For the thousandth time since she and Joseph had left Nazareth, she felt the pangs of homesickness. She longed for the familiar faces of the village, the foods and sounds and smells. She longed for the comfort of family. For the spiritual lift that came with being surrounded by the fellow faithful. She and her husband were alone in the great big world. A terrible world, filled with murderers and heathens and famine, with bullying thieves and contagious sin. They were alone, and they were the bearers of an impossible burden: to protect the most important thing that had ever lived from the most powerful men in the world. And, God, he was so small.…
IV
Herod looked down at the deathly white body beneath him. Silent and still. Her eyes open and bulging. Spit drying on the corners of her mouth.
It wasn’t your fault, he thought. You were simply in the wrong place when the news reached me. You were simply there when I needed something to kill.
Herod supposed he regretted killing her, if only because he wouldn’t get to enjoy her again. Her wetness and warmth. But he’d done her a service, in a way. Think of all the misery she would be spared. Even if she didn’t eventually grow sick from his touch, think of all the disappointing years that lay ahead. Years of growing older, of taking a husband. Bearing his children. Her body betraying her, her beauty leaving her as she aged. But she would be spared all of that. This little one would be beautiful for all time.
Besides, who could blame him for reacting the way he did? It had been unwelcome news. They’d had them. The Romans had surrounded the Antioch Ghost and the child in Hebron, Herod had been told. The
y’d had archers lying in wait on the Street of Palms and men hidden on adjacent streets. But when the ambush was sprung, a riot had broken out. Zealots and pilgrims had attacked the Romans as they flooded in, holding them off before they could reach their targets.
Why didn’t they just take them in the open desert? Or arrest them quietly once they entered the city walls? Why do the Romans always have to make such a show of everything?
But as unwelcome as these developments were—as angry as they’d made him—they hadn’t made him kill. No. It was fear, not anger, that had cost this little girl her life. Fear that had summoned Herod’s hands to her throat and made them squeeze the life out, until her bulging eyes glazed over and foam ran red from her mouth. Herod had killed her because for the first time since these troubles began, he was frightened.
To any rational mind, the facts demanded fear. The Romans had been close enough to touch the Antioch Ghost. Close enough to touch the baby’s belly with the tip of their swords. All the might of the empire had descended on a single street, with a single purpose: to kill a wretched little thief and the helpless little infant he harbored. And what had happened? The impossible. One man—one injured, exhausted man—had slipped through their fingers.
When Herod had been told the details of Hebron, he’d known. This was no longer a simple matter of old prophecies and ancient superstitions. This was the God of Abraham taunting the King of Judea. Laughing in the face of Herod’s power. Of Rome’s might. There could be no more doubt: The child was indeed the Messiah. And if allowed to live—if allowed to reach Egypt and disappear beyond the eyes of Judea and Rome—then he would topple the kingdoms of the world. Perhaps even the empire itself.
The emperor won’t believe a word of it, of course. No matter what the evidence is, or how many miracles deliver the fugitives from the hands of his troops. But I know…and it’s time I got directly involved.
Herod thought about his next steps, lying beside a girl who would never know the miseries of age. He would honor her memory somehow. When this was all over, he would do something to make up for his outburst. Perhaps he would order a statue of her made and added to the collection in his courtyard so that he might enjoy her beauty again whenever he went for a stroll outside.
But first, he would enjoy her body one last time.
V
The cool light of early morning invited itself through the windows, the house still quiet and asleep. Balthazar sat alone at the large table downstairs, a knife in his hand. The wound on his chest had finally healed enough for his stitches to come out, and he was carefully cutting them one by one. Pulling the loose threads from his skin, until a shadow cut across the table in front of him, drawing his eyes up.
Sela was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, her hair a mess and her eyes half asleep. But still so beautiful it isn’t fair. She was quick to look away and continue in, as if she’d expected to find him sitting here so early, bare chested and knife in hand. Balthazar, for his part, had been quick to resume cutting his stitches out, pretending she wasn’t there at all.
It had been this way for three days. No words had passed between them since their painful reunion. Balthazar had made a point of avoiding her, keeping mostly to his room upstairs, nursing his swollen eyes and cut lips. Coming down only when he knew she was away or asleep and relying on Joseph to bring him his meals. But with today’s departure weighing heavy on his mind, he’d tossed and turned until it’d become useless to resist. And so he’d come downstairs, thinking he’d be the only one up at this hour.
She probably thought the same thing. And now here we are.
Balthazar had experienced these tense silences with other women. Silences where the air seemed to become flammable. Where a single spark could ignite it all. That’s why it was best to say nothing. No good could come of words. Not when a single misplaced syllable might spark, might light the air on fire and get you blown to pieces.
Balthazar watched as she walked to the opposite side of the room, toward a water jug that sat on the sill of an open window. Pretending to cut away at his chest, he stole little glances at her as she wet her hands, washed the sleep from her face, and smoothed her hair over her scalp—all in unfairly beautiful silhouette against the fluttering curtains.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her back to him. “You know…about your face.”
He was surprised to hear her voice at all. Let alone hear it issue what sounded like a genuine apology. But Balthazar said nothing in return. He just sat at the table, half stitched. No good can come of words.
“It’s just…seeing you was a little…”
What, upsetting? Surprising? So unbelievable that you needed to kick and punch me a few times to make sure I was real? Wait, why are you talking? Don’t you know the air in here might catch fire and kill us both?
Sela shook the excess water from her hands, opened the drapes, and stared out into the empty streets of Beersheba.
“After you left,” she said, “there were days when I would go and stand on the banks of the river. Stand there for hours, looking out into the desert. Wondering if you were out there. Wondering where you were, what you were doing. If you were even alive. Sometimes…sometimes I would hold my hand out in front of my body…lean forward and close my eyes. My arm stiff, my palm facing out—listening for you. I would stand there…as if I could feel you with my body. As if I could send you a message. Send a thought through that outstretched hand and ask you to come home. And it was so stupid, all of it.”
She turned. He saw tears massing in the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall.
“It was so stupid and naïve, but I’d go out there, day after day, convincing myself that sooner or later one of those thoughts would reach you.”
They did…I thought of you every—
“You destroyed me, Balthazar.”
I know.
“You showed me how good life could be, and then you left.”
And you of all people should know why I had to.
“You left, and over time…I forgot. I forgot that feeling. I even forgot your face.”
What was there to say? How many times had he been over this in his mind? How many times had he imagined having this very conversation, on the remote chance he ever saw her again? And now, here he was, and there was nothing to say.
“Your mother is dead, Balthazar.”
It took him a moment to hear this. When he did, he swore he heard the hissssss of all that dangerous air seeping out of the room.
Oh, don’t be so surprised, Balthazar. Don’t you dare get all weepy eyed, as if you didn’t already know. Of course she’s dead. You knew she would be by now. You chose this, Balthazar. You knew you could never see her again—not after Abdi. Not after you left.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve told you sooner.”
Balthazar found tears threatening to fall nonetheless. He couldn’t help but think of his mother alone at the end of her life. All alone, with so many unanswered questions, so much grief over the things she’d lost. He couldn’t help but picture her face. “Promise me…promise me that our happiness doesn’t come at the expense of another’s.” But of course it had. It had come at a terrible expense. Her expense. And now I’ll never get to see her and tell her how sorry I—
Balthazar turned away, not wanting her to see the tears that had made good on their threats. Sela walked closer to the table, wiping away tears of her own. He half expected to feel her hand on his shoulder. Even a kiss of condolence on his forehead. He wanted those things more than he knew how to express, but only if she was willing to give them. They weren’t his to take.
“Balthazar…if you still care about me at all, you’ll promise me something.”
He wiped his eyes and looked up at her.
Anything.
“Promise me that after you leave, I’ll never see your face again.”
With that, she left him to pull the last few threads from his chest.
VI
; Morning was giving way to midday, and still no sign of Gaspar or Melchyor. Balthazar paced back and forth, his face and lip almost completely healed now, his movement enough to stir the curtains that had been drawn to ward off the sun. Where the hell are they? They’d gone for food and supplies shortly after breakfast, leaving their fellow fugitives with Sela to pack up the camels and prepare for their departure. They had a long ride ahead. If they pressed themselves, stopping for only a few minutes at a time and making camp in the open desert, they could reach the Egyptian border in two days.
Mary was in the next room, feeding the baby beneath her shawl, while Sela topped off their canteens, taking care not to spill a single precious drop. Joseph was praying again. Kneeling in the corner of the room, muttering to himself. Though his words were barely above a whisper, they’d slowly built to a crescendo in Balthazar’s ears. We have real problems. Real problems here in the real world, and he sits there and mutters to God. Finally, it was all he could take.
“Could you just…not do that?”
Joseph stopped muttering, though his eyes remained closed.
“You pace when you’re anxious,” he said. “I pray. Of the two of us, I’d say my method was less annoying.”
“Of the two of us,” said Balthazar, “I’m the one with the sword, so I’d shut up and go do something useful before I cut your tongue out.”
Joseph’s eyes opened. He rose to face Balthazar. “Why does my prayer bother you?”
“Because! It goes on and on and on and on and on and on! I’ve never heard someone babble to God so much in my life!”
“Well…I have much to be thankful for.”
“Like what? The fact that the whole world wants your baby dead?”
“Like you.”
Joseph’s answer had the desired effect of stopping Balthazar’s rant in its tracks.
Unholy Night Page 19
