the best part was, there was no end in sight. As long as the Romans kept putting men to death, Balthazar would keep finding uses for their unused valuables.
The next morning, he took Abdi into the city, and the two of them ate cinnamon dates until they were nearly sick. And when they rested beneath their favorite tree on the Orontes — the one with the scar down its side, not far from where Balthazar had entered the water the night before — he presented his brother a little present from his first plunder of the dead. A keepsake. It was a gold pendant on a leather string, a thin, coin- shaped wafer bearing the likeness of the god Plutus on one side.
“The god of wealth,” said Balthazar as he hung it around Abdi’s neck.
The pendant flittered in the afternoon sun, spinning round and round as Abdi jumped and laughed along the riverbank, proud of his gift — but more proud of the fact that his big brother had given it to him. Balthazar watched from the shade of the scarred tree, smiling from ear to ear, a gold disk of reflected light sweeping across his face every so often. The light from his brother’s pendant. The pendant he would spend much of his life searching for.
4
A Strange Eastern Light
“During the time of King Herod, Wise Men from the east came and asked, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.’”
I
Herod smiled, the tips of his blackened teeth showing through thin lips. He’d been right, of course. The one thing people loved more than an outlaw was seeing him punished.
Thousands had turned out to witness the death of the Antioch Ghost. Contrary to the fears of his advisors, there were no protests or demands for his release, no weeping in the streets of Jerusalem over his imminent demise. There was only a sea of people waiting anxiously in the square outside the palace’s north gate, all of them crowded around a small wooden platform that had been erected in its center. A sea of people waiting anxiously for their glimpse of a minor legend. More specifically, for a glimpse of his blood.
Herod stood high above them in the Tower of Mariamne, watching it all through a small widow but taking care to keep his diseased face hidden from view. His soldiers had spent the day canvassing every square inch of Jerusalem, from the poorest suburbs to the porticos of the Great Temple, spreading the word that the famed murderer — the demon known as “the Antioch Ghost” — was going to be executed outside the palace at sundown. Across the city, merchants had closed their shops early. Prophets had canceled their afternoon street sermons. Weary travelers had even given up their places in long census lines and diverted to the square. Herod had expected big crowds, and his expectations had been exceeded.
There’d been some deliberation in the throne room regarding the method of execution. There were so many to choose from, each with their unique advantages and disadvantages. Crucifixion was degrading, but too prolonged. It risked a sympathetic response. Burning alive was dramatic, but too dangerous in the middle of a large, overcrowded city. Hanging was simply beneath the dignity of the occasion.
In the end, it’d been decided that beheading was the best way to go. Quick and easy, yet sufficiently savage and humiliating. In accordance with tradition, the prisoners would be gagged and covered with black hoods, depriving them of any last words or glimpses of the living world. The hoods also hid the fear on the victims’ faces, dehumanized them, therefore lessening the chances that the onlookers would sympathize with their plight.
After being paraded onto the platform, the condemned would be made to kneel over a stone block, and their heads would be promptly hacked off with an iron ax. Although, depending on a number of factors — the size of the neck, the sharpness of the blade, the skill of the executioner — it could take several whacks before the top parted company with the bottom.
As soon as the blades were clean through, the hoods would be removed and the heads lifted for all to see: the jaws hanging slack, the blood draining out of the neck and the color out of the face. If you were lucky, the eyes would still be open. If you were
The beating of drums suddenly filled the square as the doors of the north gate were opened, and Herod’s grown son, Antipas, paraded through it accompanied by royal guards. Antipas was everything his father had once been: muscular and tall, his spine straight, his olive skin perfectly healthy, and his face lightly bearded with dark hair. Herod often imagined what he would give to trade places with his son, what atrocities he would commit if it meant having that many years again, that much health and beauty. Would he kill his own beloved Antipas if it meant gaining his own health? There wasn’t the slightest shred of doubt in his mind:
Antipas climbed the four steps to the platform and quieted the crowd with a wave of his hand.
“People of Jerusalem,” he shouted, “children of Israel! Today we come to see three criminals meet justice!”
A cheer went up, not so much for the concept of justice, but for the bloody method in which it was about to be delivered.
“We come to honor the laws of God! And we come to honor my father, the mighty Herod!”
Antipas indicated the tower above the north gate with his arm, and another cheer went up, no less than was required to seem convincing but not so loud that it was patronizing. A cheer of appropriate reverence. Thousands of eyes were treated to a rare glimpse of mighty Herod himself — his beard thick and brown, his cheeks full and his skin unblemished. Herod had never looked better, and he waved a hearty hand to his subjects below.
Away from the window, the
He couldn’t go out among his people anymore. Not in his current state. Not until a cure was found. But he didn’t want the Jews getting any ideas, either. Spreading rumors. Perceiving him as anything but the ferocious, robust king he’d been until a few years ago.
Herod’s double waved a few seconds more, then disappeared out of sight as he’d been instructed to do. No need to have them looking up at the “king” the whole time, scrutinizing the illusion and distracting from the main event.
“We come,” Antipas continued, “to witness the death of three thieves — the first two caught trying to steal sacred objects from the Great Temple!”
A chorus of angry shouts went up as the drums began to beat again, and the doors of the north gate swung open. Gaspar and Melchyor were marched out under heavy guard — black hoods over their heads, their wrists bound behind them.
Rather than meet their deaths with the quiet dignity that had become a hallmark of men in their position, both of them struggled against their bonds, trying to free themselves from the grasp of the guards. Naturally, the more they struggled, the more the crowd cheered, working itself into a frenzy. It was all music to Herod’s ears, and it made him wish all the more that he could trade places with Antipas. He wanted to be down there on that platform, to personally lift the head of the so-called Antioch Ghost and present it to the heavens. Grab it by the hair and shake it until the last of the blood ran down his arm. Look into its eyes as they looked helplessly around for a few seconds, then faded into a thousand-yard stare. As he had countless times over the past three years, Herod silently cursed the whore who’d made him this way. The whore whose charms had been his undoing.
