“Did the men of the village rise up against you?” asked Herod. There was a faint hope behind this question. An uprising could be forgiven. Better yet, it could be crushed. He would simply send more men.
“No, Your Highness.”
“Then why does one of my soldiers come crawling back to me with his head hung low, spilling his blood on my floor? Who did this to you?”
The soldier paused, ashamed of what he was about to say. He’d considered lying to the king, saying it was thirty or even fifty men who’d defeated them in Bethlehem, making up some story about a band of mysterious fighters who came out of nowhere. Mercenaries from some nearby kingdom. But lying was pointless. Sooner or later, Herod would learn the truth. Shameful as it was, it had to be told.
“Three men, Your Highness,” he said at last.
Herod stood and walked slowly, slowly down the steps from his throne.
“Three men?”
“Three men… dressed in the robes of nobles.”
Somewhere at the ends of his arms, Herod’s spindly fingers were balling into fists.
“They… killed our captain and… escaped with one of the children. One of them gave me a message. I’m… supposed to deliver it to you.”
Herod was directly in front of the soldier now, his small frame rendered almost comically frail next to the giant kneeling before him.
“Then,” said Herod, “I suppose you’d better deliver it.”
The soldier swallowed hard. All things being equal, he would’ve preferred being left to bleed on the streets of Bethlehem. But this duty had fallen to him, and it must be done.
“He said ‘the Antioch Ghost is laughing at you.’ He said he’ll… ‘stand over your grave.’”
The words took a moment to register. When they did, Herod lost the last of himself that was sane and ordered the soldier’s throat cut at once. Even repeating such a thing was an act of treason. And so the two soldiers who’d helped their battered comrade kneel now drew their blades from behind. The giant, for his part, didn’t resist. Not as his brothers dragged their daggers along his neck. Not even as he saw a spray of red cover their arms or felt the warmth of blood running over his chest. He’d known. He’d known the moment the Antioch Ghost had chosen him as his messenger. He’d known he would never leave Herod’s throne room alive. The giant fell forward, feeling as if his head were full of wine. A moment later, he couldn’t remember his own name. A moment after that, he was gone, and Herod was screaming, “The child will die! The child will die, and the Antioch Ghost with him!”
There were no political considerations to be made. No discussions to be had or advisors consulted. These things would simply come to pass, no matter the cost in men or treasure. They would come to pass, even if he had to kill all the sons in all of the villages of Judea.
Not even the sight of that treasonous blood spilling on his floor, of that treasonous mouth hanging stupidly open, could assuage the effect of what the giant had said. Of how the Antioch Ghost was mocking him. And so Herod circled, spewing those strange, disconnected noises with his raw throat while his advisors waited in silence. Waiting for his rage to subside — for they could no more hasten the end of their king’s tantrum than make a storm blow itself out before its time. All they could do was take shelter and wait for the clouds to part. When at last they did, Herod slumped into his throne. He was shaking from exhaustion, wincing from the pain in his throat… but he was smiling. Smiling, because the storm had left a seedling in its wake. An idea.
Herod smiled, for here again was proof that he was blessed with the greatest gift a leader could possess:
Vision.
Where others saw arid wastelands, he saw future cities. Where others mourned the ashes, he harnessed the flames. Even now, slumped over in his throne, weak with rage, he saw an opportunity. A way to slay the child and the Ghost in one stroke, and achieve something even greater in the process.
Herod, like all provincial kings, only ruled because he enjoyed the backing of Rome. But his relationship with the empire had been strained ever since Rome’s civil war, from which Augustus Caesar emerged the ultimate victor. Unfortunately, Herod had been a supporter of Augustus’s chief rival, Marc Antony. And while he’d been quick to pledge his everlasting and unwavering loyalty to the new Caesar, Augustus had viewed Judea’s puppet king with suspicion ever since. But here was a chance to change all of that. A chance to improve relations with Rome and protect his dynasty in Judea. Here was a chance to flatter the emperor, while using him at the same time.
With the last of his voice, Herod summoned a scribe and dictated a letter. It began:
II
A fellowship of six fugitives rode south from Emmaus, divided among the backs of three camels: Gaspar alone in front, Melchyor and Joseph in the middle, and Balthazar, Mary, and the child in back. They moved slowly over the sand, far from the roads and the prying eyes of soldiers, their mouths dry and canteens nearly empty. There were no debts of honor binding them together. No pledges of friendship or shared beliefs. Balthazar had saved the lives of his companions, and they’d saved his in return. They were square in the eyes of the desert. All that united them now was a common need to escape Herod’s grasp.
As the heat of the day reached full bloom on their backs, the child woke and began to cry, and Balthazar realized this was the first time he’d heard his voice since they’d escaped Bethlehem. Given everything he had been through in the last few days, the infant had remained strangely calm, strangely silent. Now his sharp, short wails rang in his ears, waking the headache he’d almost managed to forget. He was parched, fatigued, and half starved. Sharp pain pulsed from his stitches and through his body with each of the camel’s footfalls. And now a baby was screaming at the back of his throbbing head.
“We have to stop,” said Mary.
“We can’t,” said Balthazar.
“But he’s hungry.”
“We’re all hungry.”
“I have to feed him.”
“Then feed him while we ride. I won’t look.”
“I can’t. Not with the camel moving up and down like this.”
“Then I guess he’ll starve.”
“You would deny a hungry baby his mother’s milk?” she asked.
“No, I’d deny Herod’s men a better chance of catching us. We find food or water? That’s when we stop. Otherwise, you’re the woman — you figure it out.”
“But — ”
“Look, I’ll gladly let you climb down and feed him, but I won’t wait behind while you do.”
Mary thought about appealing to Gaspar or Melchyor, but it was useless. They’d simply tell her the same thing. She thought about calling ahead to her husband and begging his help in convincing Balthazar to stop. But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference what Joseph said. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and hated herself for it. Who were these men they’d entrusted with their lives? With their child’s life? But her frustration gave way to dread when she realized the baby had stopped crying.
