Unholy Night

Sargon with suspicion, though they would’ve liked to rough him up and warn him off, they knew better than to cross the only daughter of Decimus Petronius Verres.

Three nights and three trips around the bazaar later, Flavia snuck Balthazar into the compound and into her bedchamber… just as he’d known she would.

The next two weeks had been fun. More importantly, they’d been fruitful.

Each night as Flavia slept, Balthazar rose silently from her bed and went to work — slowly, methodically sneaking his way through the slumbering compound. Mapping it in his mind until he knew its every corner by heart. Until he knew the sleeping habits of every slave and the position of every guard. Until he knew how to walk from one side to the other without setting foot in the glow of the torches. And most of all, until he had examined every confiscated item in the governor’s fabled storeroom, which he’d found on the first night, and which, like everything in Tel Arad, had exceeded his expectations.

And on the night that Balthazar felt he could know no more, he’d filled two large saddlebags — the most he could reasonably carry and still move quickly if he had to — with predetermined items chosen for their value-to- weight ratios. Bags stuffed, he’d snuck back along his carefully rehearsed route toward the compound’s rear gate. The one that was always unmanned for a ten-minute window at this time of night, thanks to a guard with a phenomenally regular constitution.

He crept along in the dark, through the garden — twenty-seven steps — past the fountain — another ten but veering slightly left — then a sharp right turn at the sundial. After that, it was just thirty steps in a straight line to the gate. Thirty steps to free —

“Sargon?”

Balthazar nearly let out a yelp as he spun in the direction of the voice. At first, he thought he’d come face- to-face with a ghost. A translucent white being seemed to float toward him out of the darkness, barely perceivable in the light of the moon. He stood, frozen, as it moved closer… until Balthazar saw what it really was: a white sleeping gown, fluttering in the warm night air.

“Flavia… ,” he whispered.

“You’re… you’re a thief,” she said.

What gave you that idea? Is it the two huge bags of stolen treasure I’m carrying out here in the middle of the night?

“No — ”

“You used me.”

Yes, I used you, and I’d use you again. And who are you to feel used, anyway? You’re a Roman. All your kind does is use. All you do is rape, and burn, and steal, and murder.

“No,” said Balthazar. “Flavia, listen to m — ”

“Shut up!”

All she had to do was scream and the guards would come running. And when that happened, the exciting trouble currently making Balthazar’s heart pound against the back of his ribs would become real trouble — blood trouble — in a hurry.

On the other hand, she could just as easily let him slip away into the night. No one would ever suspect her unwitting part in the robbery. Her chastity would never be called into question, and Balthazar would be halfway to anywhere by morning, with a promise to return and “take you away, Flavia — when the time is right, take you away from all of this so we can be together.” A promise he would have no intention of keeping.

“Flavia,” he said. “Listen to me, okay? Yes… yes, I was taking these. Taking them from your father’s storeroom. But you have to believe me — I have good reason to take them! Your father stole these things from the people of Tel Arad! Poor people! Honest men! I couldn’t stand by and watch them suffer. The truth is, I was stealing them, yes. Stealing them from the man who stole them first. Stealing them back so that I could return them to their rightful owners! Aren’t you always talking about how cruel and selfish your father is? Well here, Flavia! Here’s the proof!”

I’m getting through to her. Now make it personal… turn her mind away from the theft.

“And… and yes,” he continued, “I know I should have told you first. But I didn’t want to get you involved. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d gotten in trouble? I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself, Flavia. You’re too good for this.”

“I… I don’t know… ”

Yes, you do.

“Flavia, I swear on our love… on my soul — everything I say is true.”

She stood there for a moment, conflicted and confused. A victim of youth and inexperience and a deep desire — a need — to believe that everything he was saying was, in fact, true.

“Please, Flavia, there isn’t much time.… ”

I could always give her a knock on the head. If it came down to it, just a little knock on the head. Not enough to really hurt her, but enough to let me get the hell out of here.

But Balthazar didn’t think that would be necessary. His instincts were beginning to tell him this was going to be okay — and he decided to trust them.

She’s not going to scream. She hates her father. Yes, she hates her father, hates the fact that he brought her here. Besides… we’ve shared everything. Our deepest secrets. Our deepest love. And yes, that’s all bullshit — but not to her. There’s no way she’d give me up. She loves me. No… I’m a man with a knack for knowing things, and I know she’s not going to scream. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

She screamed.

III

It was clear he wasn’t going to make Jerusalem. The camel had been gradually slowing down over the past hour. And as much as Balthazar kicked and cursed, it wouldn’t pick up the pace. This wasn’t stubbornness… he’d stolen a dud.

Balthazar knew of a good-sized village just north of Jerusalem — Bethel, if he remembered correctly. Or Beit El. Or whatever the hell they called it. The one that sounds like “Bethlehem” but isn’t. It didn’t matter. He knew it was there, some eight miles ahead, and it would have to do. With his camel fading fast, he pointed its nose in the village’s direction. There was still a chance. He could still get away, as long as the beast held up.

What’s that story the Jews tell? The one about the menorah that had enough oil for only one night but burned for eight? That’s my camel… only enough fuel left for one mile. If it lasts eight, it’ll be a miracle.

Miracle or not, the camel made it, and Balthazar galloped into Bethel (he’d been right the first time) only a minute or so ahead of the untold menace behind him. It was one of the nicer satellites that orbited Jerusalem. A small village of fewer than 2,000 people where many Jewish noblemen chose to escape the noise and bustle of the city with their families. There were no inns to accommodate travelers, no massive temple spewing sacrificial smoke or bazaar spewing noise and fragrances. And while the census was currently packing the streets of Jerusalem only eight miles away, you’d hardly know there was a census looking at Bethel. Fewer than ten people took note of him as he galloped into the village’s small central square.

Balthazar brought the camel to a stop, which it was all too happy to do, and leapt to the ground. He pulled the half-empty saddlebags off its back, threw both of them over his left shoulder, and gave the camel a firm smack on its hindquarters. He couldn’t have it standing around. God knows how many soldiers were about to come riding into the village with orders to find and kill him at all costs. If they saw the camel, they’d have a pretty good idea