Unholy Night (18 page)

“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 still. 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.

Thinking they’re safe.

Pilate had watched, his spies scattered among the masses, his men perched on rooftops. He’d watched all those who rode into Hebron from the north, until at last he’d spotted three exhausted camels making their way through the north gate, three swordsmen, a couple, and their child on their backs. He’d watched as the Antioch Ghost and his companions had split up, the Ghost and his fellow thieves to the bazaar and the couple and child to the Cave of the Patriarchs. And while this split had been unexpected, it was manageable. Pilate dealt in the unexpected. He watched from a second-floor window overlooking the Street of Palms…knowing that he and fate would soon find each other, one way or another.

Joseph had paid his respects, braving the throngs to lay a hand on the monument that covered the Cave of the Patriarchs. He’d stopped only long enough to say a quiet prayer for the dead, while Mary waited with the baby nearby. His prayer finished, he’d taken her hand and led her back the way they’d come.

All in all, it hadn’t been the experience he’d hoped for. The site had been too crowded. The monument too plain. And when he’d finally worked his way close enough to feel the stone against his palm and send his thoughts to God, Joseph had felt rushed. Unable to concentrate. Not because of the noise of his fellow pilgrims or the worries of recent days. It was something else. Even now, as they pushed their way through the crowds, Joseph felt the presence of something sinister outside the walls of his mind, and he didn’t know why.

He and Mary fought the current of bodies until they reached the Street of Palms, walking south down its center, toward where they’d tied up their camels. They would reach the south gate in plenty of time to meet the others.

And then Joseph beheld a miracle…his heart full to bursting.

The palm trees that lined the street were bowing their heads. Bowing in reverence as they passed.
Could it be? Do they bow for
us
?
Joseph turned to Mary, wondering if she saw it too—but her eyes were fixed squarely on the child below.
The child
, thought Joseph.
They bow for the child!
Before he could fully grasp what he was seeing, a passage suddenly unveiled itself in his mind. A passage from the Scriptures. A prophecy of the coming of the Messiah:

And here it was. The prophecy realized. Here was nature, bowing before an infant. Here was a vindication of everything he believed, and a total destruction of the armies of doubt that had laid siege outside his mind. The visions, the rescue from Herod’s men, the stream in the desert, and now this? Now trees bowing their heads? No, there could be no doubt! His son was indeed the Messiah! God be praised!

And then the arrows came.

They came from the tops of the bowing palms. Descending from the heavens—so numerous, so dense that their black bodies looked like a swarm of insects flying in formation. Insects that had caught sight of them, of he and Mary and the baby, and begun their attack. And in the seconds that those arrows hung in the air, Joseph’s eyes drifted back to their source. Only then did he see why the palm trees
really
bowed. Not in reverence to their newborn king, but because they were laden with archers. Assassins, who’d climbed to the tops of the trees and lain in wait.

An ambush.

Joseph stood in awe of the sight. A sight Mary was still blissfully unaware of.

This can’t be. Why would God take us this far, only to strike us down?

Joseph was frozen, waiting for God to tell him what to do. Waiting for him to provide, as he always had. But doubt was rattling its sabers once again, louder than it ever had. He and his young wife would die where they stood. Their child—their ordinary, insignificant child—would die beside them. Right here on this street, only yards from where Abraham and Sarah had been laid to rest. Only, their bodies would have no shrines built above them. No pilgrims would come to pay tribute to their legacy, because they would have none. They would be filled with arrows, and forgotten.