The feeling of eyes on him. The feeling that something was wrong. But where the first instance had been vague, unattached to any particular evidence, this one was validated almost at once. In stepping onto the ladder, Balthazar had turned his body away from the bazaar, ready to climb down. Now he lifted his eyes and looked out over the top of the wall and into the desert that lay beyond. And as he did, Balthazar felt his heart sink, for he knew that there was a very slim chance they would make it out of Hebron alive.
Thousands of them, massed in the desert, less than a mile north of Hebron. They were lined up in ranks. But they weren’t charging toward the north gate, sabers held high. Nor were they limping along, as if they’d been tracking Balthazar and the others through the desert all day. They were simply standing still. In fact, these didn’t look like soldiers who were in pursuit at all. They looked like soldiers who’d been…
Balthazar and his companions had been lured into a trap. Made to feel safe and alone as they rode into Hebron, only to be surrounded on their arrival. Imprisoned by its almost perfectly square, smooth walls. The “how” of it all would come later, if ever. Right now, Balthazar had to find the others.
Pilate was a patient man.
Though he still wasn’t entirely sure how, the magus — or rather, his snake — had tracked their prey to a cave south of Emmaus. And though he wasn’t entirely sure why, he’d decided to take the magus at his word when he reported having a vision of six fugitives walking down a street lined with tall, uniform palm trees on either side. If this vision was accurate, then the Antioch Ghost was headed to Hebron. It made sense. Hebron was on the way to Egypt. A perfect place to rest and resupply. The question was, what to do with this information.
Pilate knew he couldn’t storm Hebron and slay a seemingly innocent couple in cold blood.
Nor could he challenge the Antioch Ghost in the open desert. Not with 10,000 of his men lumbering along, kicking up dust. They’d be spotted miles off, and the fugitives would have too much time to escape.
A trap. That was the smart move. The patient move.
Pilate would race to Hebron, but he wouldn’t enter it. He would hold the bulk of his men outside the city walls, keeping the emperor’s treasured magus safe and keeping a respectful distance from the pilgrims who’d come to see the Cave of the Patriarchs. At the same time, he would dispatch horsemen to cover all possible exits — every gate on every side of the city. A small detachment of foot soldiers would take position on the streets adjacent to the Street of Palms, closing in and attacking only if something went wrong. He would let his targets ride into Hebron, thinking they were days ahead of their pursuers.
Pilate had watched, his spies scattered among the masses, his men perched on rooftops. He’d watched all those who rode into Hebron from the north, until at last he’d spotted three exhausted camels making their way through the north gate, three swordsmen, a couple, and their child on their backs. He’d watched as the Antioch Ghost and his companions had split up, the Ghost and his fellow thieves to the bazaar and the couple and child to the Cave of the Patriarchs. And while this split had been unexpected, it was manageable. Pilate dealt in the unexpected. He watched from a second-floor window overlooking the Street of Palms… knowing that he and fate would soon find each other, one way or another.
Joseph had paid his respects, braving the throngs to lay a hand on the monument that covered the Cave of the Patriarchs. He’d stopped only long enough to say a quiet prayer for the dead, while Mary waited with the baby nearby. His prayer finished, he’d taken her hand and led her back the way they’d come.
All in all, it hadn’t been the experience he’d hoped for. The site had been too crowded. The monument too plain. And when he’d finally worked his way close enough to feel the stone against his palm and send his thoughts to God, Joseph had felt rushed. Unable to concentrate. Not because of the noise of his fellow pilgrims or the worries of recent days. It was something else. Even now, as they pushed their way through the crowds, Joseph felt the presence of something sinister outside the walls of his mind, and he didn’t know why.
He and Mary fought the current of bodies until they reached the Street of Palms, walking south down its center, toward where they’d tied up their camels. They would reach the south gate in plenty of time to meet the others.
And then Joseph beheld a miracle… his heart full to bursting.
The palm trees that lined the street were bowing their heads. Bowing in reverence as they passed.
And here it was. The prophecy realized. Here was nature, bowing before an infant. Here was a vindication of everything he believed, and a total destruction of the armies of doubt that had laid siege outside his mind. The visions, the rescue from Herod’s men, the stream in the desert, and now this? Now trees bowing their heads? No, there could be no doubt! His son was indeed the Messiah! God be praised!
And then the arrows came.
They came from the tops of the bowing palms. Descending from the heavens — so numerous, so dense that their black bodies looked like a swarm of insects flying in formation. Insects that had caught sight of them, of he and Mary and the baby, and begun their attack. And in the seconds that those arrows hung in the air, Joseph’s eyes drifted back to their source. Only then did he see why the palm trees
Joseph stood in awe of the sight. A sight Mary was still blissfully unaware of.
Joseph was frozen, waiting for God to tell him what to do. Waiting for him to provide, as he always had. But doubt was rattling its sabers once again, louder than it ever had. He and his young wife would die where they stood. Their child — their ordinary, insignificant child — would die beside them. Right here on this street, only yards from where Abraham and Sarah had been laid to rest. Only, their bodies would have no shrines built above them. No pilgrims would come to pay tribute to their legacy, because they would have none. They would be filled with arrows, and forgotten.
“GET DOWN!”
Joseph suddenly felt his body bolt sideways as it was struck by some unseen force. Only later would he piece together what had happened in those next few seconds: how Balthazar had tackled the three of them just before the arrows arrived. How Melchyor had come running behind him, how he’d swung his sword and cut several arrows out of the air before they could reach their targets.
The baby was screaming, but Mary couldn’t find breath to comfort it. She and Joseph lay on their sides, face to frightened face, still unsure of who or what had brought them to the ground. Unaware that Roman soldiers had begun to pour in from the side streets where they’d been hiding, swords drawn. They heard screams go up along the street as the veil of confusion lifted, and the people of Hebron began to understand. As mothers grabbed their children and hurried them away from the path of the arrows, and as fathers met the advancing Roman soldiers with their fists.
Balthazar and Melchyor were quick to their feet and pulled the others up with them. Balthazar kept one hand clenched around a piece of Mary’s robes, determined not to lose hold of her in the panic, for there was a good chance she and the baby would be trampled if he did. With the other, he held his sword and readied himself
