Unholy Night

“You mean it’ll please your Roman masters.”

A hush blanketed the room. Balthazar saw Herod’s priests trading nervous looks.

Here it comes… here comes the punch in my insolent face. Though I doubt this one will have as much behind it as the captain’s did.

But Herod simply broke into laugher. His rotting teeth exposed. His foul breath attacking Balthazar’s senses once again.

“You see?” said Herod. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. That’s a response worthy of the Antioch Ghost.”

And before the conversation had even really begun, it was over. Herod turned away and slowly, frailly climbed the steps to his throne. His advisors stepped forward with the next items of business, and Balthazar was ushered out the same way he came.

The king was a busy man.

VI

Balthazar had to admit, Herod’s dungeons were among the nicest he’d seen. The sand-colored walls and floors were smooth and dry, and at ten feet by ten feet, the cells were on the larger side. But the real attention- getting amenities were the small, iron-barred windows on the east-facing walls of each cell. Windows… in a dungeon. What a world this is.

He was led down a corridor by no less than six torch-wielding palace guards and pushed into a cell at the far end, where he was slightly disappointed to see two other prisoners sitting on the floor against the opposite wall. He’d assumed that a guest of his stature would be afforded private quarters. One was an African, lean and muscular, with a permanent scowl and a bald head. The other looked Greek, though it was hard to tell through his thick brown beard. Whatever his nationality, he was round and short. From the looks of them, they’d been through ordeals of their own.

“The Mighty Herod will hear your last request,” said the chief guard.

Balthazar thought about it for a moment. In truth, there was nothing on earth he wanted more than food — any food — and water. But a plan was a plan.

“I’d like a priest,” he said. The guard made no effort to hide his surprise, and the other prisoners exchanged bewildered looks behind him. “I’d like a priest to come and offer me comfort before they take us. One for me” — Balthazar turned and examined his cellmates — “and one for each of them.”

“Save your priests the trouble,” said the African, in an accent Balthazar was almost positive was Ethiopian. “My friend and I are comfortable enough.”

“Please… I insist,” said Balthazar. Then, turning back to the guards, “Three priests. One to comfort each of us.”

The chief guard considered this request for a moment. “Suit yourself,” he said, and removed the binds from Balthazar’s wrists, which felt almost as good as a drink of water would have. And with that, the guards were gone, taking the light of their torches with them. The door was shut and locked, and Balthazar was suddenly alone in the dark with a pair of strangers. Nothing but a few feet of cell and a few slivers of moonlight between them. He swung his arms in circles, trying to loosen his aching shoulders, trying to get the blood back in his wrists.

“Congratulations,” said the African. “You are, perhaps, the dumbest man I have ever met.”

“You’re probably right. But it’ll save time if you call me Balthazar.”

“Gaspar,” he said. “And this is my partner, Melchyor of Samos — the finest swordsman in the empire.”

Balthazar had listened to his share of dungeon boasts. Criminals were a bragging breed, especially around other criminals. But that was among the more ridiculous he’d heard. Gaspar’s round little companion didn’t look like he could lift a sword, let alone kill something with it. But as he was too weak for the usual verbal jousting that went on in these cells, Balthazar chose to ignore it.

“And you?” he asked Gaspar. “I suppose you have some extraordinary talent, too?”

“My only talent is being smart enough to partner with the best swordsman in the empire.”

“He must not be that good,” said Balthazar, “if the two of you ended up in here.”

“We were captured trying to steal a golden censer from the Soreg,” said Gaspar. “Turns out I don’t make a very convincing Jew.”

“We’re to be put to death in the morning,” said Melchyor, in a way that suggested he didn’t fully understand the implications of what that meant.

“What a coincidence. I’m to be put to death in the morning, too.”

“And you?” said Gaspar. “What did you do to end up as a guest of Herod the Great?”

Here we go.

“If I tell you,” said Balthazar, slumping against the opposite wall, “you’ll think I’m a liar.”

“I already think you’re a fool. Any man who turns down food and water in favor of a priest is a fool.”

What difference does it make? I’m a dead man. Let these two spend their last night on earth thinking I’m a liar.

“I’m the Antioch Ghost.”

This was followed by a considerable silence, as it always was.

“Nice to meet you,” said Gaspar. “I’m Augustus Caesar.”

Melchyor guffawed.

“Believe me or don’t believe me,” said Balthazar. “It doesn’t change the fact that we’ll all be dying together in the morning.”

“If you’re the Antioch Ghost,” said Gaspar, “how was it you were captured? I thought he had the strength of ten men.”

“I heard he was eight feet tall,” said Melchyor.

“Eight feet tall,” said Gaspar, “and faster than a horse. And yet here you are with us, a man who needs the comfort of a priest in his final hours.”

“Look, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just… think for a while.”

“By all means. You’re going to need your strength to knock down the dungeon walls and free us.”

As Melchyor guffawed again, Balthazar stared through the iron bars on the eastern wall and at the unusually bright star that hung in the sky. A plan was a plan.

Even when it was a stupid plan with virtually no chance of succeeding.

3 The Unspeakable Idea

“People do not despise a thief if he steals to satisfy his hunger when he is starving.”

 — Proverbs 6:30

I

There were plenty of ways to pick a pocket.

There was the Bump, wherein your accomplice “accidentally” collided with your target on a crowded street. And while he apologized profusely, you made the lift. The Beggar, wherein your accomplice — or even better,