to drag it in a slow, straight line toward Balthazar’s hip. The incision was so fine that at first it didn’t bleed. Like a paper cut, it just hung there, breathing a moment, before the blood formed in beautiful dark beads that trickled down his body. And as they began to fall, Balthazar held firm, his arms wrapped tightly around the Man With Wings.
He remained silent and still even as the magus’s blade returned to the top of its path and made a second incision parallel to the first, then connected the two sides with small cuts across the top and bottom. Balthazar didn’t utter so much as a grunt, though his teeth were grinding themselves into powder inside his sealed mouth. He didn’t squirm. And as he opened his eyes, Balthazar was rewarded for his steadfastness with Herod’s scowl. Clearly, the king was disappointed with his prisoner’s performance so far. The Man With Wings — Abdi — had Balthazar firmly in his grasp.
And then the magus pinched the top of the long rectangle of flesh and began to peel it downward, away from Balthazar’s body. And Balthazar was peeled from Abdi’s arms with it.
He screamed.
He screamed as the flank was torn away, starting under his armpit and down toward his hip. He screamed as nerves and capillaries were severed, as skin and fat were uprooted, leaving only bare and bloody muscle beneath. It was quite enough for Pilate, who quietly excused himself from the chamber and into the hall. He couldn’t help but feel something for the poor wretch.
III
R
Sela hid on a cliff just north of the palace, the waves of the Mediterranean crashing only feet from where she crouched behind the jagged rocks. Behind her, Joseph and Mary huddled close together, combining their robes to make an impromptu tent over the baby, though it wasn’t enough to keep all of the rainwater off of him. Despite the intermittent droplets falling on his head, the baby slept, soothed by the sound of rain and waves.
They’d watched from hiding as Balthazar had been overwhelmed and beaten unconscious. Against their better judgment, they’d followed from a distance as the army journeyed to Herod’s summer palace — dragging Balthazar with it. They’d crouched in the driving rain, watching as he was led inside. And here they stayed, huddled in a rainstorm, a few hundred yards from where half the Roman Navy was parked.
“What can we do?” asked Mary. “Two women and a carpenter are no match for the Roman Army.”
Sela knew she was right. There was nothing they could do for him, except get themselves killed and ensure that Balthazar’s imminent death would be in vain. She’d promised him she would get them to Egypt, and that’s exactly what she would do. But she owed him a moment first. A moment longer, here in the storm. Lamenting what could have been between them. Mourning what was.
Sela paid her last respects to the wretched love of her wretched life, lost in her thoughts and the steady noise of rain and sea. Noise that masked the footfalls of the three men sneaking up on them from behind.
IV
Herod strode into his bedchamber, which was far smaller than the cavernous one in his “pleasure palace” in Jerusalem but still a respectable thirty feet square. Soft, cloud-filtered light streamed in through a pair of glass windows on the seaward wall, casting a sleepy glow on the carpets that encircled his oversized bed and its silk pillows and making his long, freestanding silver mirror beckon.
After cutting two strips of flesh off of the Antioch Ghost, the magus had suggested they take a short break from the torture. It was important to give the victim time to recuperate after the first big shock to the system. It was equally, if not
Herod wasn’t taking any chances with his prisoner. The Antioch Ghost had proven too smart and slippery for his Judean guards. Even though he was tied up and weak, he couldn’t be trusted. Before adjourning, Herod had ordered two Roman soldiers to remain in the cell with him at all times. No, he wasn’t risking anything. Not when the Hebrew God was meddling with them. Not when everything was coming together so beautifully.
Herod stood in front of the mirror and removed his robes. He wanted to look at every part of himself, wanted to admire the speed with which he was healing. His lesions were all but gone; the sickly flesh that had been stretched over his skeletal rib cage was now hearty and healthy. Even his teeth, those blackened, crooked little vultures, had grown whiter.
It was a little strange that none of his courtesans had complimented his appearance yet.
The magus was quietly overjoyed too. He reclined on a couch in Herod’s throne room —
Pride was a dangerous thing. The Jews had a saying, didn’t they? About pride being prelude to destruction? So be it. The magus was allowing himself a little pride today, for he’d finally succeeded in doing the impossible. With a little patience and a lot of distant persuasion, he’d manipulated two of the world’s most powerful men into giving him exactly what he wanted: a chance to rebuild. A chance to pull a lost religion out of the ashes.
His fellow magi —
Their temples had been burned. His brothers had been hunted down, accused of heresy and put to death, until the once-thriving magi had been all but erased from the earth. Until all that remained was one lone disciple. One man with mastery over ancient darkness. And that, quite frankly, was a lonely existence.
Herod had been right about one thing: The world had no use for men like him anymore. But the king was weak. And his greatest weakness was that he thought himself wise. All it had taken was a little enchantment. A little trickery. As ancient spells went, it was relatively simple, and it worked only on those desperate enough to believe its effects. Fortunately, the king was such a man.
In reality, Herod’s illness was irreversible. Whatever curse had coiled itself around his innards was far stronger than anything the magus could conjure. But while he couldn’t actually make the puppet king healthy again, he could make the king
Yes, his courtesans and whores might think it strange that their king was suddenly so ebullient and spending so much time admiring himself in the mirror. Yes, they might think it strange when he skipped about with renewed vigor or remarked on his renewed appearance. But the beauty of it was, no one would dare tell him differently. And even if they did, Herod would simply think them mad.
Judea’s puppet king had become the magus’s personal puppet. And he would remain so, even as the