Unholy Night

chasing the thief who’d made off with a fortune of stolen goods, and they weren’t after the murderer who’d killed a handful of their comrades…

They were trying to catch “the Antioch Ghost.”

It was a nickname born of the only two things the Romans knew about him: one, that he was Syrian by birth, in which case it was a good bet that he’d grown up in Antioch; and two, that he had a knack for slipping into the homes of the wealthy and making off with their riches without being seen or heard. Other than those scant facts and a rough physical description, the Romans had nothing — not his age, not even his real name. And while “the Antioch Ghost” wasn’t particularly inspired as nicknames went, it wasn’t all that bad, either. Balthazar had to admit, he enjoyed seeing it among the “known criminals” painted on the side of public buildings — always in red, always in Latin: Reward! The Antioch Ghost — Enemy of Rome! Thief of the Eastern Empire! Sure, he hadn’t achieved the infamy of a Hannibal or a Spartacus, but he was something of a minor celebrity in his little corner of the world.

There was a second chorus of whistling, followed by a second strike of arrows behind him. Balthazar turned and watched the last of them fall. While still too far away to cause concern, this volley hadn’t been quite as hopeless as the last. They’re getting closer, he thought.

“Faster, stupid!” he yelled at the stubborn beast, kicking its sides with his heels.

If only he could get out of their sight for a minute or two, change direction. Even now, with an indeterminate number of Judean soldiers chasing him through the middle of nowhere, with only a tired, pungent camel and a dull sword to protect him, and even though his pursuers were only two minutes behind him at best, Balthazar still had a chance. He’d spent years memorizing a network of caves to hide out in, shortcuts across barren lands, the best places to scrounge up food and water on the run. He’d trained himself how to survive. How to carry on in times when the whole world seemed hell-bent on snuffing him out. Times like now.

He sensed his camel slowing down and gave it another swift kick in its side.

C’mon… just a little longer…

The beast had struggled to keep pace with the weight of all that treasure on its back, and Balthazar had been forced to toss some of his heavier spoils overboard as they’d fled Tel Arad. The sight of all that wealth skipping across the sand had nearly made him sick to his stomach. The thought of some lucky shepherd stumbling upon his spoils made his jaw clench and his teeth grind. There was nothing more enraging, more unjust than denying a man the hard-earned fruits of his labor, especially when those fruits were made of solid gold. Balthazar had briefly considered cutting off one of his own limbs to shed an equal amount of weight. But the long-term prospects of a one-armed marauder were limited.

“Faster!” he cried again, as if this would spur on the camel any more than the thousand sharp kicks he’d delivered to its sides. It was still losing steam, and once again, Balthazar was forced to consider the unthinkable: jettisoning more of his hard-earned treasure.

He reached into one of the large saddlebags and fished around until his hands found something that felt heavy. He almost couldn’t bear to look as he pulled it out into the sunlight. There, in his hand, was a solid silver drinking cup — nearly the size of a bowl. Intricately carved and adorned with precious stones. It was a stunning piece, made from the finest materials with the finest artistry. It was also incredibly heavy. Balthazar held the chalice out to his side. Then, with his eyes averted and his stomach churning, he let it slip from his fingers. He turned away to spare himself the sight of it rolling across the desert floor and gave the camel another swift kick in retaliation.

C’mon, stupid… just a little longer…

It couldn’t be thirsty. A camel could drink forty gallons in one go, and its body could cling to that water for weeks. Its piss came out as a thick syrup of pure waste. Its shit was dry enough to use as firewood, for the love of God. No… it wasn’t thirsty. Not a chance. Tired? Unlikely. Camels had been known to live fifty years or more. And while Balthazar had gotten only a brief look at the face of this particular beast in the process of stealing it from a very unhappy Bedouin, he guessed that it was no more than fifteen years old. Twenty, tops. Still in the prime of its wretched life.

Just a little longer, you son of a bitch…

No, this camel was just being stubborn. And stubbornness could be corrected with a firm kick or two. Balthazar reckoned the beast could flat-out gallop for another hour. Maybe two. And if that estimate held up — if this camel could be coaxed through its stubbornness — then he had a real shot at making Jerusalem. And if he made Jerusalem, he was home free. There, he’d be able to blend in with the masses that were no doubt choking the streets for the census. He’d be able to disappear. Trade his stolen goods for coins, clothes, food — certainly a new camel.

Balthazar may have been a thief, but he deplored risk. Risk got men killed. Risk was unnecessary. When a man was prepared, when he was in control, things usually went according to plan. But the minute he left something to chance? The minute he trusted in partners, or instinct, or luck? That’s when everything went to hell. That’s why he was being chased across the desert by a giant cloud atop a stinking, unmotivated beast. Because he’d taken a risk. Because he’d committed the unforgivable sin of trusting his instincts.

As much as it irked him, as much as it went against everything in his nature, Balthazar had to accept that the outcome of his current predicament was beyond his control. He could kick and curse all he wanted…

It was up to the camel now.

II

It had all seemed so perfect. All the enticements had been there: a loosely guarded stash of expensive items, a corrupt nobleman, a populace being taken advantage of by the Romans. A more direct route to Balthazar’s heart couldn’t have been charted by a mapmaker.

Location had been another enticement. The city of Tel Arad was more than fifty miles south of Jerusalem. And the farther you were from Jerusalem, the less likely you were to encounter troops, whether they were King Herod’s Judean troops or Rome’s elite soldiers. And while Tel Arad still paled in comparison to Judea’s great city, it was home to a new, impressive temple of its own. To the noncriminal, that may have seemed like a trivial detail. But to Balthazar, it was everything. Temples meant travelers and money changers. They meant that a man with a strange appearance or accent was less likely to draw attention and that someone looking to trade stolen goods for gold and silver coins could do so with ease. Temples were a thief’s best friend.

Tel Arad had been settled thousands of years earlier, destroyed and rebuilt more times than any of the locals cared to remember. And for thousands of years, it had never grown beyond the rank of “desolate village.” But times had changed. Empires had sprung up on either side of the once-forgotten settlement and transformed it into a thriving center of trade. Suddenly Ted Arad was the central point between Roman goods heading east and Arabian goods heading west toward Egypt, the Mediterranean, and, ultimately, Rome — and its status had been steadily upgraded to “small city.”

The strongest sign of its growing importance had come only a year earlier, when Rome had decided to dispatch a governor — Decimus Petronius Verres — to look after the little city. Officially, Decimus was there to make sure Tel Arad adhered to the traditions and upheld the virtues of Roman life. Unofficially, and more importantly, he was there to put troublemakers to death and make sure the locals paid their taxes on time.

Decimus, for his part, had been crushed when he learned of the assignment. It had been presented as an “honor,” of course. He’d been “handpicked by Augustus himself to represent the empire in the East.” But Decimus knew what it really was: a castration. A punishment for taking sides against the emperor one too many times in the senate.

He’d privately sobbed when he’d heard the news. How could they do this to him? For one thing, the desert was no place for a Roman, especially one of his considerable weight and fair complexion. For another, he had been perfectly happy where he was: safely, quietly ensconced in the suburbs of Rome, surrounded by the trappings of reasonable, if not exorbitant wealth. He was in his fifties — far too old to be picking up his entire life and traipsing around in the heat. Rome was the center of the world. Home to all the entertainment and enticement a man could want. The desert, by contrast, was a death sentence. But the emperor had spoken. And castration or not, Decimus had no choice but to go.