Unholy Night

connection with the man coming straight toward him, his eyes unwavering. You, he thought. You’re the smart one. Smart enough to lure us into a trap instead of coming at us head-on in the open desert.

He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Balthazar was suddenly and completely sure that this was the man who’d kept his troops back, hidden — knowing that the sight of Roman patrols would’ve scared his targets away before he had a chance to strike. The man who’d anticipated their path through the city and set up the ambush. Somehow, Balthazar knew he was looking at the architect of their troubles. And somehow, he knew that this officer still had a very important role to play in his life, though he had no idea what it was or why he was so absolutely certain of it.

“Keep going,” Balthazar told his fellow fugitives, and handed Mary to her husband.

 “But where are you — ” Joseph asked.

“GO!”

Joseph led her toward the camels, Melchyor and Gaspar hobbling along behind them. Balthazar readied his sword as the officer drew closer… almost on him now. Strange, he thought. It’s like we’re both supposed to be here. Like we’re supposed to face each other here on this street, at this moment.

Before Balthazar could think any further, the officer was upon him, and the two were fighting away — each knowing, somehow, that they’d been moving toward this moment their entire lives, two boats on two rivers, winding their way toward the same sea. There was no outward acknowledgment of this feeling. They simply met in the middle of the panicked street, raised their swords, and tried to kill each other. And while the great painters would likely commemorate the occasion in grand fashion, with both men striking impressive poses in impressive outfits, the reality was far less attractive. Balthazar and Pilate were both covered in dirt and sweat and flecks of blood, both doing their best to beat the others’ brains out, punching and grabbing and pulling at each other.

While Balthazar was the better swordsman, Pilate was the better fed and rested, and before long, the Antioch Ghost was on his heels, holding his sword out in front of his face, blocking Pilate’s repeated strikes. Just a few more and I’ll have you on your back, thought Pilate. And then I’ll go after the infan —

A roar went up behind them. The roar of furious men charging into battle, their cries echoing down the length of the street. Pilate and Balthazar ceased fighting and turned toward the source of the noise.

Hundreds of screaming, devout Jews were pouring into the north end of the street, as if a dam holding a sea of bodies had suddenly broken. Word of the Roman attack had finally reached the Cave of the Patriarchs, and pilgrim and prophet alike had thrown off their shawls and rushed to help, ready to give their lives to defend the sanctity of Abraham’s final resting place.

How dare the godless Romans defile such a sacred city! How dare they slaughter the innocent!

The faithful began attacking the Romans with anything they could find. Some fought with their bare hands; others used canes and rocks. The bazaar had given dozens of men to the effort. The Cave of Patriarchs had given hundreds — each one believing his cause righteous.

It was exactly what Pilate had feared. Exactly why he hadn’t marched into the city with his banners flying. Now he would have to pull his men back or risk a real catastrophe, risk seeing the riot spreading to the rest of the city. All of this, he thought, looking at the madness before him. All of this for a baby and a thie —

Pilate remembered the Antioch Ghost and spun around with his sword raised, ready to fight again… but the Ghost was gone.

It doesn’t make sense, Balthazar thought as he ran toward the camels. How had the Romans known where they were going to be? Why had he felt such a strange kinship with the officer?

It didn’t matter, he supposed. What mattered was that no city or village was safe from now on. No road passable. No strangers could be trusted to keep their secret. Not with the Romans looking for them in such numbers. They wouldn’t be able to stop again. Not until they reached Egypt. But they wouldn’t make the Egyptian border without supplies. They’d have to take a different route. An unexpected route. They wouldn’t be able to venture out in public anymore, not even in disguise. It was too dangerous.

What they needed was a place to hide for a while. Resupply. Somewhere unexpected. Somewhere safe. And despite every oath he’d ever sworn to himself, Balthazar knew exactly where they needed to go.

9 The Return

“For it was not an enemy that reproached me; then I could have borne it: neither was it he that hated me that did magnify himself against me; then I would have hid myself from him: but it was thou, a man mine equal, my guide, and mine acquaintance.”

 — Psalms 55:12–13

I

The door opened, and there she was, as wickedly beautiful and dangerous as he remembered.

“Hello, Sela,” he said.

How long had it been, eight years? No, it has to be more. Could it be more? Balthazar was too tired to tax his mind with the math. Besides, it didn’t matter how long it’d been. Here they were, and here she was — a sight for six pairs of sore eyes. Here was the face they’d all crossed an ocean of sand to find, without food or rest, leaving Hebron with their camels in a full gallop, as day became freezing night became glaring morning and scorching day. Here was the reason they’d kept riding, half dead, toward the promised land of Beersheba, the last waypoint of note before the Judean Desert’s long march into Egypt. The last chance to replenish. Riding with nothing to guide them but the faint hope that Balthazar’s information was up to date. That the rumors he’d held on to were true. And always with the knowledge that the Romans weren’t far behind.

But on reaching the city walls, the fugitives had found the promised land of Beersheba a wasteland. At first they thought the Romans might’ve beaten them again, for there was hardly a man or woman to be seen on the streets. Fires had been left to burn themselves out, and malnourished dogs roamed the streets in search of scraps. But it was famine, not Roman swords, that had laid waste to Beersheba. For its crops had been decimated by the only thing farmers feared more than drought:

Locusts.

They’d come as a black cloud. A living storm, half the size of Judea, eating its way across North Africa. Tens of millions of soulless eyes and insatiable mouths, flying from field to field, leaf to leaf, consuming everything they touched. And though months had passed since they’d come through Beersheba, leaving ruin in their wake, the ground was still littered with their withered molts. The dead shells that each locust had cast off, renewing itself before moving on, leaving the city a dead shell, suddenly and totally transformed but not renewed.

The once-vibrant streets were now eerily quiet. Empty. With the crops had gone the traders and merchants, and with the traders and merchants had gone the slaveholders and their slaves. They’d all moved on in search of food and commerce, leaving only a skeleton crew of faithful denizens behind. Seeing all of this on their arrival, Balthazar’s faint hope had just about snuffed itself out:

She won’t be here. She’ll have moved on like the others.

But here she was.

Here she was, standing at the door of a two-story house, its smooth white walls and red-tiled roof distinctly