Unholy Night

where to start looking.

“Go! Get outta here!”

It didn’t budge. He smacked it again.

“GO!”

It groaned deeply, knelt forward on its spindly legs, then fell over on its side with a ground-shaking thud — all 1,200 pounds of it.

Dead.

Balthazar took a moment to consider this. In retrospect, maybe he had ridden it a bit too hard. And now that he got a better look, it wasn’t nearly as young as he’d thought. Not even close to fifteen or twenty. In fact, it was one of the oldest camels he’d ever seen. Come to think of it… it was a miracle they’d made it this far.

Balthazar didn’t know what to say. Partly because he was pressed for time, but mostly because sincerity wasn’t his strong suit, he settled on, “Sorry.”

Then, the grieving period over, he ran like hell.

He knew the villagers would keep him safe. They hated the Romans just as much as he did. Okay, so these aren’t actual Roman troops chasing me — they’re Judeans. But really, when you get right down to it, is there a difference? They all take their orders from Rome, just like Herod the Great, that lying, festering, murderous puppet. If there was one thing the Jews hated more than Augustus Caesar, it was the client king who ruled Judea for him. And while Balthazar wasn’t a Jew per se, he was certainly no friend of Herod. That had to count for something, right? The enemy of my enemy?

He was the Antioch Ghost, and people loved a celebrity. Even a minor one.

No, the villagers would take pity on him. They would keep him safe and hidden when the army came kicking down their doors any minute now. And if pity wasn’t enough, then bribing them with a share of his remaining treasure would make up the difference.

Balthazar ran across the square, his bags half full of twice-stolen gold and silver, frankincense and silk, his face still covered by the shemagh. He was headed for the largest building in sight — the only one with a second story and one of the few made from brick. The building had an arched roof and small, glass-paned windows along its eastern and western faces, an extravagance rarely seen outside of Rome. And though Balthazar couldn’t see the source, a column of white smoke rose from behind the building. There wasn’t much strategy behind his choosing it. A bigger building offered more hiding places. And more hiding places meant a greater chance of survival.

But as soon as he crossed the threshold, Balthazar knew he was a dead man.

He had to be dead… for this was surely heaven. There were wet, naked women everywhere. Beautiful. Bare. Steam rising off of their glistening bodies, the vapors glowing in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the glass above.

A bathhouse.

An arched ceiling peaked twenty feet overhead, its smooth surface painted to resemble olive trees reaching toward a cloudy sky. The bath itself, which took up most of the room, was lined with mosaic tiles. Mosaic tiles and the naked bodies of fifteen women. Women who were currently staring at the dusty man with a covered face and large bags over his shoulder. The man who had no business being in the women’s bath.

This was no Flavia situation. There was no question in Balthazar’s mind that these women were about to start screaming unless he acted quickly. Shaking himself back into focus, he brought a finger to his lips — shhhh — and in as nonthreatening a voice as he could manage, said, “A thousand pardons… ”

He pulled the shemagh down, revealing his face — a handsome mix of sunburn and stubble, a prominent scar on his right cheek in the shape of an X. He gave them a smile. Charming, reassuring. Even a bit dashing, he suspected. It was a smile he’d spent hours practicing in the reflective waters of the Orontes River, and it was, if he didn’t mind saying so, one of his stronger assets.

“I,” he continued, “am the Antioch Ghost.”

Was that the twinkle of recognition in some of their eyes?

“I’m just looking for a place to hide from Herod’s men. Once they’re gone, I’ll be on my way without another word. You have nothing to fear, my sisters — I promise you.”

They didn’t scream.

People love a celebrity.

Short of his remaining treasure, Balthazar would’ve given anything in the world to stay and soak in this sight a little longer, but he could hear the rumble of horses’ hooves growing near outside. Time to disappear. Certain that he and the women had reached an understanding, he proceeded as rapidly and respectfully as possible across the room, toward a row of women’s robes hanging on the opposite wall. Enough of them to hide a man and a pair of saddlebags behind, no problem.

It was perfect. The soldiers wouldn’t dare intrude on the privacy of bathing women. Nor would the women likely run into the streets and tattle without their clothes. Balthazar could hear the muffled sounds of orders being shouted outside, the clanging of swords and armor as men fanned out. Seconds later, three Judean soldiers entered. Balthazar watched as the men had the same sequence of reactions he’d had: shock, followed immediately by embarrassment, followed immediately by excitement.

One of the soldiers regained his composure enough to speak: “Pardon us… ”

Go ahead, you dog. Go ahead and ask them if they’ve seen a man come through here. My sisters won’t say a word. If anything, they’ll tell you to go to hell.

“Have you seen — ”

Balthazar’s heart sank as every last woman pointed toward his hiding place in unison.

They didn’t even let him finish the question…

So here it was. After a day in the desert, a dead camel, and a fortune in abandoned spoils, it would come to this.

Balthazar was an exceptional thief. An excellent aggravator and proven survivor. But what he excelled at, what he was truly gifted at, was taking human lives with his sword. This wasn’t a point of pride. Well, maybe just a little. But in general, he measured success in treasure, not blood. “Success,” he was fond of saying, “is stealing a fortune without drawing your sword. Failure is a pile of bodies and no profit.”

The three soldiers drew their swords and started across the room, toward the row of hanging robes the women had pointed to.

None of them had more than a few seconds to live.

Peter could almost taste his victory. As a captain in Herod’s army, there were few priorities higher than catching the Antioch Ghost. And now it seemed he was within moments of doing just that. Such an honor would mean a promotion, of course. Money. Land. Maybe even a slave to farm it for him. Best of all, it would mean a ticket out of Tel Arad and an end to dealing with that fat, corrupt Roman, Decimus Petronius Verres.

His men were kicking in every door, searching every house in the area. The Ghost couldn’t have gone far. They’d reached the square less than a minute after he’d reached it, and he’d stupidly left a dead camel as a starting point for their search. The fact that he’d taken the time to kill it for no reason showed just how vile their fugitive really was.

Of course, some of his men doubted that their target really was the Antioch Ghost. But Peter knew. He’d been around long enough to recognize his methods. His choice of prey. Even before Flavia had described the man she’d seen robbing her father’s compound — tall and olive-skinned, with a strong build, dark hair to his shoulders, and an X-shaped scar across his right cheek — he’d known. He also knew enough to suspect that she’d left out the part about inviting him into her bed, but that wasn’t important. So when reports of a similar-looking man stealing a Bedouin’s camel came in, Peter had gathered as many soldiers as he could and given chase across the Judean Desert — choking on dust and praying that the Ghost didn’t beat him to Jerusalem, where he would’ve disappeared in seconds.

Captain Peter had asked God for a miracle, and God had answered. Here he was in Bethel. The last place he’d expected to be when he’d woken up this morning. The place he would always remember as the home of his