pilgrims swarmed toward a massive square monument in the distance — a clean, windowless cube of white stone blocks, with walls eighty feet high and six feet thick. Joseph had never seen it before, but he knew at once what it was.
“The Cave of the Patriarchs,” he whispered.
It was one of the holiest sites in all of Judea. Second only to the Great Temple to some. For as plain as its white stone walls were, those walls protected something extraordinary beneath: the final resting place of Abraham. The father of Judaism.
Legend held that Abraham and his wife, Sarah, had asked to be entombed in a cave beneath Hebron. For thousands of years, the faithful had come to the cave’s sealed mouth to offer their prayers to the man who’d communed with God, the woman who’d borne Isaac and Ishmael.
Herod had ordered a monument built over the site — another selfless gift to his Jewish subjects. And while many felt the monument defaced Abraham’s grave, men still traveled days to offer their prayers at its walls. To pray over the bones of the man from whom all Jews were descended, from Isaac to Moses to David. Joseph had often thought of making the pilgrimage himself, but the opportunity had never arisen, until now.
Here he was, cave in sight. And in spite of the troubles that had led him here, Joseph couldn’t resist the urge to join those pilgrims he watched streaming toward its wall, off to commune with the Lord. He said as much to the others.
“Are you crazy?” asked Balthazar. “We don’t have time to stop and pray. We have to resupply and get out of Hebron as quickly as we can.”
“If ever we needed God’s ear,” said Joseph, “it’s now. Besides, to be so close and not pay my respects… it would be a sin.”
“Sin or no sin, I’m not going to watch you pray in front of a wall. End of discussion.”
“Then don’t go,” said Mary. “My husband and I will go by ourselves while you get supplies.”
“We’re not splitting up,” said Balthazar. “Not when we’ve got the whole world looking for us.”
“And who are they looking for?” asked Mary. “Four men, a woman, and a baby. If we stick together, we’ll only draw more attention to ourselves.”
Balthazar felt his jaw clench. He hated this woman. The way she looked, the way she talked, as if she knew everything. But what he really hated was the fact that — in this case, anyway — she was right. They would attract less attention if they split up.
“Fine,” he said at last. “We meet at the south gate in an hour. You’re not there, we leave without you.”
Mary glared back at Balthazar.
“South gate,” she said. “One hour.”
After tying their camels up along the Street of Palms, the fellowship went their separate ways.
The wise men headed left toward the bazaar, where Gaspar and Melchyor would trade the last of their stolen gold for whatever it would buy, and Balthazar would work on stealing
Joseph held on to Mary for dear life, fearful that she and the baby would be swept away in the current of bodies if he let go. The area around the monument was even worse than it’d looked — packed with bodies and filled with unrelenting noise. Musicians clanging their cymbals and plucking their harps. Merchants enticing the faithful to buy all manner of souvenirs. There were sacrificial goats and oxen braying and bleating, money changers pouring coins. Above it all, the din of a thousand voices muttering a thousand prayers.
And then there were the prophets. The screaming prophets, who could be found holding court on all sides of the monument, issuing dire warnings of God’s wrath, of Herod’s — even Rome’s overthrow from atop their makeshift platforms. Proclaiming the day of the Messiah was at hand — the day that would see the children of Israel freed from bondage. The same thing they’d been proclaiming for thousands of years.
“He will strike the earth with the rod of his mouth! With the breath of his lips he will slay the wicked! Righteousness will be his belt, and faithfulness the sash around his waist!”
One of these prophets, who called himself Simeon, was ranting to an anemic — and by the looks of it, bored — group of nine or ten followers as Joseph and Mary tried to push their way past. It was the same fiery sermon he’d been barking for weeks:
“Herod executes those who dare speak against him! He rules through brutality, and he remains in power because we fear him! Well I say
Simeon’s eyes had landed on a young girl on the other side of the crowded street. A girl being led along with a child in her arms. He stepped down from his platform, not quite sure of why he was doing so, and pushed his way through the mob.
Joseph turned his head just in time to see this strange, wild-eyed man grab Mary’s hand.
“You!” Joseph cried. “Let go of her!”
But Simeon the prophet didn’t move. He just stared at Mary, as if reunited with a long-lost friend… his face a mix of reverence and terror.
“A sword,” he said. “A sword shall pierce your heart.… ”
As the words fell from his mouth, they seemed to come from a far-off place — as if spoken by someone else. Someone behind his eyes. Years later, Simeon wouldn’t even remember saying them. And when told by his future followers what he’d said, he would claim to have no idea what the words had meant.
Joseph shoved him aside and pulled Mary along, eager to be rid of this madman. Simeon held on to Mary’s hand firmly for a moment, then let it slip from his fingers. He watched her go, his eyes suddenly, inexplicably filled with tears.
Balthazar hovered above the earth — watching, waiting. He stood atop Hebron’s north wall, near the leaning ladder he’d used to scale it. Looking down on the bazaar that ran along it below. He needed money to buy their much-needed supplies. And to get it, he needed a pocket to pick.
“C’mon,” he muttered to himself. “I know you’re out there.… ”
There weren’t as many targets as there would’ve been in the markets of Jerusalem or Antioch. Hebron’s bazaar was a decidedly smaller affair, with fewer goods to buy and fewer overstuffed coin purses to steal. He scanned the earth from his perch, a mere sixteen feet from the ground, yet above it all: above the people shoving past each other, moving up and down the dirt street that ran through the market’s center. Above the men haggling with merchants, the women dragging uncooperative children behind. He could see Gaspar arguing with a man over the price of dried fruits, as Melchyor stood fatly and faithfully behind him. An old woman with a clubfoot limping blindly along. A dog pushing its nose through the dirt, sniffing around for anything that might’ve —
“There you are.”
Balthazar locked onto a heavyset man in sweat-soaked robes. From the quality of his clothing and the size of his belly, he was well-to-do. And from the unevenness of his gait, he was carrying something heavy on his belt. Balthazar guessed it wasn’t a weapon.
Large was good. The bigger they were, the less aware of their bodies they tended to be.
Balthazar reached for the ladder, ready to climb down and follow his target through the crowd. Following, waiting for the right time to make his move, setting up for a bump.
