Unholy Night

another man, whether by her choice or not, and invented the story to explain her condition. Or two, that she suddenly dreaded the idea of being my wife and was trying to scare me off. But I thought, if she dreaded me that much, why has she seemed so happy until now? It didn’t make sense.”

“Women never do.”

“But then I realized that there was a third possibility: that Mary had gone mad. That she actually believed what she’d told me. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt in my heart that this was the real answer. She’d told her story with such conviction. Her face had never wavered; her eyes had never lied, even as her lips did. Maybe it was just that I wanted to believe anything other than the thought of, you know… ”

“I know.”

“But what could I do? If I turned my back on her, I knew exactly what would happen. I’d seen it before: adulterous women dragged out of their homes, made to stand against a wall as the men gathered up stones. I’d seen those women with their skulls cracked open, with their brains dashed out, left to die alone. As much as I refused to believe Mary, I couldn’t condemn her to death. I thought, ‘I could always tell them that I was the father.’ But to admit that we’d been together before marriage? We would’ve been exiled from the only home we’d ever known. Shunned by the people we loved.”

“So you married her anyway.”

“No. I mourned. I mourned the life that could’ve been. Everything had been perfect, you understand. But in the space of one cursed day, my future had been narrowed down to three possibilities: either I would be the husband of an adulteress, the keeper of an unwilling bride, or the guardian of a madwoman. Three possibilities — each one worse than the last. But then? A miracle.”

This time, Balthazar had to consciously keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“That night,” said Joseph, “as I wrestled with these three possibilities, the angel Gabriel visited me and showed me a fourth possibility: that what Mary had told me was true. That the Messiah was growing in her womb and that I was to be his guardian.”

Balthazar sat in silence for a good deal of time. Clearly, the carpenter was also out of his mind. Yes, he’d probably had some kind of vision — a vivid dream brought on by desperation. A desperation to believe anything but the painful truth. Balthazar had experienced visions of his own. Things he would’ve sworn were real at the time. It had happened to him as a boy, when he’d dug up bodies on the far side of the Orontes. It had happened to him while he suffered through his recent surgery. The difference was, he had the ability to discern dreams from reality. Visions presented themselves all the time. Dreams came, fully formed. But they were just that — dreams. Nothing more. And the carpenter was naive for thinking otherwise.

“Well,” said Joseph, “let me know if you change your mind about getting some sleep.”

With that, he excused himself and retreated farther into the cramped cave — disappearing into the darkness. Balthazar flirted with the idea of calling after him. Of keeping him close by so he could spend some more time mocking him for his stupidity. But what was the use? No… leave the little man to his little delusions. It wasn’t worth the energy.

Balthazar sat alone at the mouth of the cave, searching the darkness with his eyes and ears. Looking for the low stars of far-off torches. Listening for the distant beating of hooves and the clanging of armor.

But not the slithering of a brass snake rendered living by an ancient darkness.

If Balthazar had, by chance, turned his attention to the desert floor, he might have seen the Nehushtan slither past him, then off into the black desert with its message:

I’ve found them.…

8 Miracle of the Bowing Palms

“They shoot from ambush at the innocent; they shoot suddenly, without fear.”

 — Psalm 64:4

I

Herod was feeling much better.

Though it was nearly midday, he was still in his bedchamber, his head propped up on silk cushions, his chest shining with scented oils. He was awake, but his eyes remained peacefully closed as he breathed deeply of the healing vapors, just as his physicians had instructed him to do. Herod was usually loath to follow their advice. They’d proven useless in ridding him of his cursed disease, after all. Despite all of their so-called remedies and potions and rituals, his skin remained covered in oozing lesions, and his ribs stuck out of his emaciated chest like dunes in the desert sand. Even so, Herod had to admit that his physicians had done well in ridding him of the raw throat he’d given himself while screaming. He was feeling so good, in fact, that he’d decided to stay in bed on the “pleasure” side of his twin palace today. His “business” palace, with all its duplicitous courtesans, unsettled disputes, and ceaseless bad news, would wait. Today would be a day of rest. Of pleasure. He deserved it. He deserved something new.

And here she was.

Sitting on the bed beside him. A girl he’d never seen before. A girl of twelve, thirteen at the most, her body not yet a womanly shape. Here she was, sitting beside her sickly king, dropping dried figs into his mouth, one at a time. Herod savored each sweet specimen, chewing them slowly, loudly between his blackened teeth — his eyes closed all the while. He’d stolen a glance at this nameless little beauty when she’d entered, carrying her basket of foods and ointments. She’d been fully clothed then. Now her robes sat in a heap around her waist, her bare breasts red from where Herod had playfully pinched them between his fingers. He continued to feel his way around her body, his eyes closed. Chewing his figs with a faint smile on his lips. But it wasn’t the feel of her young, warm secrets that made him smile. It was knowing that he had Augustus Caesar, the world’s most powerful man, right where he wanted him.

Herod’s instincts had proven themselves once again. Only days after his messenger had left for Rome, letter in hand, no fewer than 10,000 Roman soldiers had landed on Judea’s shores. This in itself was something of a miracle. Even Herod couldn’t have imagined such a quick response. But that was Rome. Decisive. Overwhelming. You had to hand it to them — right or wrong, they were never perfunctory.

Herod wasn’t stupid. He’d known that the emperor didn’t like or trust him. Just as he’d known that Augustus wouldn’t be able to resist his letter and the chance it gave him to make a show of his might. He’ll want to frighten me, Herod had thought before sending the letter. Remind me that I’m nothing more than a sniveling little puppet king who’s lucky to have his throne. But far from feeling frightened or inferior, Herod now found himself filled with a deep sense of accomplishment and pride.

He’d killed two birds with one stone: He’d flattered Augustus, and at the same time, he’d turned the Ghost and the infant into Rome’s problem. Let the emperor think what he wanted to think. What mattered were facts. And the fact was, Herod was sitting here in bed, being hand-fed by a naked girl while the Romans were dragging themselves through the desert looking for his fugitives. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought. A legion of the emperor’s best troops, running Judea’s errands.

Your little “puppet” has outsmarted you, Augustus.

There was, however, one little piece of the puzzle that Herod hadn’t anticipated: this “dark priest.” There were rumors of a soothsayer traveling with the Romans, a magician of some kind. Rumors of a ritual in the desert. A bloody sacrifice, a brass snake. Herod’s advisors had come to him with these rumors. They’d warned him that the Romans had brought something strange across the sea. Something that had frightened many of the men who’d witnessed it. And while Herod had been surprised to hear of Romans appealing to the gods for anything, he