One by one, fish began to float to the surface — some thrashing and panicked, others simply belly-up. Before Balthazar could process what this was, one of the fishermen, who’d been wading in the river up to his knees, suddenly let out a scream and hurried back to the shore. Balthazar could see blisters on his legs when he emerged, just as he could see steam rising from the water’s surface. The river was beginning to boil. Tigerfish, catfish, and perch floating to the surface by the hundreds. Cooked alive by the river itself.
Night was falling unnaturally fast, the sun retreating toward the west, frightened off by what it saw below. The world was growing dark before Balthazar’s eyes, and the Nile with it. But not for lack of light. The river was turning dark because it was bleeding.
Only the moon loomed above now, casting its full gray glow over Egypt. But there was something different about it tonight. Something wrong. There were strange lines in its surface, and they were growing wider.
The moon was breaking apart.
Like a gray plate slowly shattering against a black marble floor, pieces began to break off and fall from the heavens, each shard the size of a mountain. The pieces began to rain down on the opposite bank — whole cities falling from the sky, making the earth tremble with each impossible impact. Terrified fishermen ran for their lives as one of the pieces crashed down, less than a mile from where they stood. But Balthazar didn’t move. He
And he did. But when the sliver was close enough for Balthazar to see the outlines of craters in its surface, his feet overruled his brain and began to move on their own. Slowly at first, then into a full sprint, up the riverbank and into the desert beyond.
He felt the earth shake as the sliver collided with the desert behind him, just like the earthquakes he remembered in Antioch, only a thousand times more powerful. Behind him, a wave of debris lifted off the desert floor, carried by the shock wave of the impact. There were many things a man could outrun, especially a man of Balthazar’s speed. But a shock wave of the moon and earth colliding wasn’t on the list. The only thing Balthazar could do was hit the ground and try to ride it out. He dove onto his belly and lay as flat as he could against the sand, covering the top of his head with his arms.
The first flecks of debris pelted his legs from behind. The stinging grains of the sandstorms he’d weathered before. And then the wave. Slamming into him like a giant fist. The noise deafening. The debris tearing away at his clothes and skin.
The pressure sucking the air out of his lungs. If there was a God, this would be the sound of his voice.
Then it was gone. And the desert with it.
Balthazar lifted his head and found himself in a vast room of brightly colored walls, their surfaces smoother than he thought possible. Smoother even than glass. Three of those walls were purple: the ones behind him, in front of him, and to his left. The wall on his right, however, was pink. A color he’d rarely seen in the empire, except on the blushing faces of a few fair-skinned Roman women. The floor was an untarnished white. A white table before him, a white chair beneath him, and a white ceiling high, high above him.
A man stood on the far side of the room with his back to Balthazar. A man with long gray hair and matching gray robes. He looked to be pouring something from a clay jug with his left hand and holding a wooden walking staff in his right.
The gray-haired man turned, a wooden cup of water in his left hand. His face was older than Balthazar had expected. Almost unnaturally old, with deep bags beneath his cloudy eyes. His skin had clearly seen its share of sun over the years; his hands had known their share of labor. The old man shuffled across the clean white floor and took a seat across the table. He searched Balthazar with those cloudy eyes for a moment, then slid the cup across the table.
“Drink.”
He did. The cool, clear water was, perhaps, the best he’d ever had. And when he’d had his fill, Balthazar wiped his mouth and spoke. “Who are you?”
“A messenger.”
“Whose?”
The old man smiled at him. It was a familiar smile. One Balthazar loathed more than any other. The smug, self-satisfied smile of a man who thinks himself wise.
“Fine,” said Balthazar. “Then what’s the message?”
“You mustn’t leave the child to die.”
After being torn inside out on top of a pyramid, seeing fish boil in a river of blood, and running from the shattered moon, Balthazar had almost forgotten about the baby.
“I didn’t leave him. I saved him.”
“Not yet. You have to stay with him a while longer.”
“I don’t ‘have’ to do anything.”
The old man considered him through those cloudy eyes.
“If you do, you will never have to steal again, so long as you live. You will be wealthy.”
“How wealthy?”
“Wealthier than Herod. Wealthier than Augustus himself.”
“How long do I have to stay with him?”
The old man smiled. “Until you let him go.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“What I’m asking isn’t easy. Armies will come after you.”
“I can deal with armies.”
“Not just the armies of man.”
Balthazar furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “What other armies are there?”
The old man smiled again. But this one was different. Less smug, more ominous. A “you’ll see” sort of smile. Balthazar changed his mind. He hated this smile the most.
“I said what other type of armies?”
“Why don’t you have another drink?”
Balthazar stared the old man down. He didn’t like being toyed with. Then again, another drink of that cool, clear water sounded like the cure for all that ailed him. He looked down at the half-empty cup on the white table. But when he reached for it, it was with someone else’s hands. Hands that were covered in brown spots, with dark blue veins bulging beneath thin, baked skin. Balthazar startled — pushing his chair away from the table and trying to stand. But his body was weak. Old. When he looked up for an explanation, the old man was gone.
He looked down at his hands again, shaking and discolored. His eyes barely able to see beyond the length of his arm. There was something in his right hand. Something gold. Balthazar raised his arm, slowly. He knew what it was, but he didn’t dare believe it. Not until it became clear in the palm of his shaking hand. Not until he saw the thing he’d spent half his life searching for.
The pendant.
III
The patient would live. He’d been unconscious for nearly two days, sweating through the last of his fever, but he was starting to come around. Zachariah had saved him.
Balthazar had been lucky. He was still young and strong, and the blade had only just broken the outer sac of his lung. Had it gone any deeper — even a few centimeters deeper — there would have been nothing to do but watch him drown. As it was, Zachariah had been able to drain the air and blood trapped in his chest, and suture
