Unholy Night

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 through 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.

Balthazar had seen a lot of gruesome things in his twenty-six years. But nothing he’d seen had prepared him for his first glimpse of Herod the Great.

There had been whispers that the king had been sick for years. He didn’t venture out among the people anymore. He no longer came to supervise and bask in the glory of his construction projects. Even the lavish private box at his beloved theater had been empty for years. Some speculated that he was dead. That his sons were secretly sharing power and using their father’s feared name to their advantage. But Herod was alive… if you could call it that.

He was hunched forward, his spine twisted. His eyes were yellowed, his teeth blackened, his pale flesh covered with open sores. His sunken eyes and cheeks barely looked strong enough to support the weight of his wispy, graying beard, and his robes hung off of him like sheets from a clothesline.

This was the mighty Herod? This shriveled little man? This wisp? This was the King of Judea? He looked less like the man who had rebuilt Jerusalem and more like one of the lepers begging blindly on its streets. In contrast, his throne was grand, its white marble seat embellished with gold accents. But while it had been designed to inspire awe, it only served to make the tiny man sitting in it look that much smaller.

Peter stepped forward, his captain’s helmet under one arm. He snapped his heels together and — just like he’d rehearsed on the way from Bethel — addressed his king. “Mighty Herod! It is my honor to present to you the Ant — ”

“Yes, yes,” said Herod with a wave of his hand. “Leave us.”

Balthazar saw Peter’s face sink at the realization that he was being brushed aside. He could see the visions of promotions and slaves and reward money burning away before the captain’s eyes. It almost made his current predicament worth it.

As Peter sulked away, Herod considered Balthazar from his throne. Studied him with those yellow eyes.

In Balthazar’s experience, men of power were either cats or dogs. Dogs were simple. Direct. If you wronged a dog, it barked, sank its teeth into you, and shook you until you were dead. But cats… cats were devious. Cats liked to toy with their prey before eating it.

“The Antioch Ghost,” Herod shouted, opening his arms wide and walking down the steps from his throne. “You do me a great honor by gracing my humble palace.”

Cat.

Herod continued down the steps until he was close enough to put a hand on Balthazar’s shoulder. So close that Balthazar could smell the decay coming off of him. The rot of fungus and boils. The smell of death. Balthazar suddenly had a vision of Herod traipsing through his harem at night, pressing his naked, diseased flesh against that of his concubines. Forcing his decaying self on girls a quarter his age. He nearly retched again.

“Here we are at last. The two most famous men in all of Judea.”

Balthazar looked straight ahead. Not at Herod, not past him, but through him. Just as he’d refused to give the Judean troops the satisfaction of seeing him squirm, he wasn’t about to give their king the satisfaction of an answer — even if he was a little flattered at having his fame compared to Herod’s.

“Although, how famous can a man be if he doesn’t even have a name?” Herod stepped back and admired his prize for a moment. “Please,” he said. “I must know. I must know the true name of the man who’s taken up so much of my time these many years. Whose name I have — I admit — often cursed from this very chamber.”

Not a word from Balthazar. Not so much as a quiver of his cracked lips.

“Yes,” said Herod after a few silent moments. “Well… I suppose a man has to take something to his grave.”

Herod backed away and began to pace, much to the relief of Balthazar’s nostrils.

“You know,” he continued, “some of my advisors say that I should have you put to death immediately. Right now, in this very room. They tell me that a public execution is too risky. That you have too many admirers among the people.”

Balthazar couldn’t help but feel a little rush of pride. People love a celebrity.

“But I told them no! ‘You overestimate the public!’ I said. For the one thing the people love more than an outlaw is seeing him punished!”

Sadly, Balthazar suspected he was right. But he said nothing.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to give you the execution you deserve. The horrid, excruciating death you’ve been begging me to give you for years. And despite what my advisors think, I can tell you with absolute certainty that your suffering will please the people of Judea almost as much as it will please me.”

No… it’s too perfect. I have to say it.