Unholy Night

for whatever came his way in front, while Melchyor did the same and covered their backs.

Gaspar watched his fellow fugitives from a distance, reluctant to join them. He could easily slip away in this commotion. He could run away and no one would care. But what about Melchyor? Poor, helpless Melchyor would be lost without him. No, Gaspar wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened. Besides, there was no honor in betraying a loyal friend. But there’s no honor in throwing your life away either. Look, Gaspar — look at how many soldiers come from the side streets…

Nearby in the bazaar, commerce ground to a halt as word spread that something big was happening on the Street of Palms. Curious customers began to walk, then run in the direction of the screams coming from just beyond the market. Merchants gathered their wares and closed their stands, wary of the looting that often followed this sort of excitement.

They’d seen it before. Arguments among the religious pilgrims had spilled into the streets; animals had thrown off their riders and trampled unlucky bystanders. In a small city, chaos was the order of the day. Most of the few dozen men making their way from the bazaar expected to find a familiar disturbance waiting for them on the Street of Palms. Instead, they were greeted by a sight they never could’ve fathomed:

The Roman Army had declared war on Hebron.

At least, that’s the way it looked. There were Roman archers shooting at unarmed citizens from treetops, Roman soldiers bludgeoning the fathers who fought to protect their women, and women using their bodies to shield their children. A mighty army, attacking the good and gentle people of Hebron. Specifically, it looked like they were after a few helpless souls at the center of the fray, including a young woman and an infant. The men of the bazaar took this all in for a moment. There was an unwritten rule in occupied Judea: “Fighting the Romans only brings more Romans.” It was best to let them go about their business and move on. But this wouldn’t stand. The men rushed into the chaos of the street, determined to help their brothers and sisters drive back the aggressors. They picked up stones and flung them at the treetop archers, pelted and punched the soldiers as they advanced deeper into the riot.

Balthazar was fighting his way forward, dragging Mary along, when a lone soldier broke through the riot and came at them, sword held high. Balthazar swung and hit the side of the soldier’s helmet with a clang, stunning him just long enough to swing again. The second strike found the soldier’s jaw, leaving a deep, bloody gash clean through his right cheek, deep enough to take a piece of tongue with it. The resulting spray struck Mary’s face. She gasped but resisted the urge to bring her hands up and wipe it away. She simply held on to the baby as the red droplets ran down her cheeks. Balthazar turned and caught a glimpse of her shocked face, just long enough for a thought to flash in and out of his mind:

Tears of blood.

No sooner had the first soldier fallen than two more came on his heels, side by side. Balthazar couldn’t fight both of them off, not with one hand behind his back, pulling Mary along. He wouldn’t be able to block both of their blades. Balthazar saw exactly how this would play out: He would raise his sword to meet the attack, blocking the first soldier’s blade. Then, as he held it there in the air, the second soldier would run him through his belly. Unless, by some miracle, they both swung their swords at the same time.

But there would be no miracle. The first soldier raised his sword and brought it down on Balthazar’s head. Balthazar, naturally, raised his own sword to block it, even though he knew this would leave him exposed. Their blades met in the air with a clang, and Balthazar held it there with all of his strength, fully expecting that the other soldier would run him through at any moment. But the second attack never came. Only when Balthazar looked down did he realize why: the second soldier was too busy grabbing at his own belly, trying in vain to catch the blood pouring out of it.

Gaspar had attacked him from the side.

Now, with one soldier bleeding and the other disoriented, Gaspar attacked again, running Balthazar’s soldier through his middle and joining his fellow fugitives in pressing forward. Balthazar wondered what had taken Gaspar so long, why he hadn’t run with them when the arrows had started flying. But those questions could wait. For now, they fought through the chaos around them: the Street of Palms a mess of soldiers, angry men, and panicked women. Balthazar and Melchyor took the front; Joseph and Gaspar took the rear, all of them protecting Mary and the baby in the middle.

The camels.

“The camels!” he yelled to the others.

Balthazar knew it was their only chance: to fight their way to where the camels were tied up and ride off into the desert. But even if they could reach the animals, he knew the plan was almost certainly doomed to fail. He had seen how many Romans there were waiting beyond those walls. He’d seen their horses. Still, a long shot was better than no shot.

Mary glanced to the side as Balthazar pulled her along. She caught a glimpse of a young father — Joseph’s age — fighting with a Roman soldier, grabbing on to the sides of his helmet with both hands and trying to bring him to the ground. She saw the young mother — my age — cowering behind him, protecting two small children with her body. Mary watched in horror as the soldier brought his sword down on the man’s forearm, splaying it open and exposing the bone beneath. He cried out and grabbed the wound with his other hand, freeing the soldier, who struck him again, this time in the skull. The blade burrowed deep into his brain, and a spout of dark blood shot into the air above his head, pumped out by the racing heart that would soon beat its last. His young wife screamed twice — first at the sight of her husband’s body hitting the ground, and then as the soldier raised his sword a third time. The young mother held a defensive hand out in front of her body, only to have it split in half as the sword came down between her outstretched fingers. Mary turned away. She couldn’t bear any more.

But the horrors were everywhere. As Mary looked forward, she saw Melchyor drenched from head to toe, his face shimmering with blood. He led his fellow fugitives through the melee, his gifted blade catching glints of sunlight as he twirled it faster than the eye could see, cutting down the unfortunate Romans who powered their way through the panic, only to find themselves face-to-face with the most skilled swordsman in the empire.

Mary saw two soldiers break through the crowd and charge at them from the front. She watched Melchyor swing his blade through the air, taking the first soldier’s head clean off and catching it by the hair with his free hand before it hit the ground. At first, she thought this was merely showing off, until Melchyor lifted the severed head and used it as a shield, blocking the second soldier’s blade before running him through with his own. It was such an impressive feat that Mary almost forgot how gruesome it was.

Yet for all Melchyor’s talent, even he was having trouble keeping up with this onslaught. These soldiers were better trained than the Judeans they’d faced in Bethlehem, and there were more of them. Many more, pouring in from the surrounding streets on foot and horseback. Hacking their way through an innocent mob to get to a child and a thief. The Romans were even landing a few blows, leaving gashes on Melchyor’s stout little arms.

And he wasn’t the only fugitive spilling his blood on the Street of Palms. A cry went out as a passing horseman drove a spear into Gaspar’s shoulder blade. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but it was enough to make him drop his sword and double over. The Roman was about to take another stab at Gaspar’s back when his horse suddenly whinnied and reared. Balthazar withdrew his sword from the horse’s hindquarters and yanked the Roman off his saddle. The horseman fell to the street, and Balthazar drove a blade into his back. The wounded horse took off on its own, cutting a path through the mob. As fate would have it, that path was in the general direction of their camels.

“This way!” yelled Balthazar, grabbing Mary’s hand and pulling her again.

Melchyor threw his arm around Gaspar and helped his injured friend along, both men dripping blood as they followed Balthazar down the horse’s path. The fugitives stepped over a mess of dead and dying bodies as they went. Most belonged to the men who’d come from the bazaar to join the fight. They’d made a fearless charge, but they were paying the price for that bravery with their lives. The citizens of Hebron were outnumbered and underequipped, and they were being slaughtered all along the Street of Palms, their bodies trampled against the cobblestones.

The fugitives were fifty yards from their goal when Balthazar spotted a strangely familiar face in the crowd. An officer, headed straight for them, cutting through the mess of citizens and soldiers with patience and precision. He was young for an imperator — younger than me, if I had to guess, thought Balthazar — but this wasn’t what made him remarkable. Balthazar had never seen him before, but he felt a strange