Unholy Night

VI

Adbi’s pendant hung from a weathered neck. The red, leathery neck of a man who’d spent many a carefree day in the sun. A man who’d been permitted to grow old. The hairs on his chest were white, as was his beard. Both stood in stark contrast to the burned pigment of the skin beneath. The admiral — the centurion — had changed drastically in the past nine years. But the eyes were the same. The ones that’d been seared into Balthazar’s mind that day in the forum. The ones that had kept him company under the dark desert skies for all those years as he’d searched the empire for the man in front of him and for the pendant, still hanging there, as it had around Abdi’s neck.

Give me this, O Lord… give me this. Let me see my enemy’s face again. Let me strike him down for what he’s done. Let me do this before my life on this earth is ended. Let me do this, whatever awaits me across the gulf of death. No matter the consequences of time or punishment.

God had delivered him to Balthazar, as Mary said he might. Only he hadn’t delivered him to kill. God had delivered the centurion to taunt Balthazar. To further punish him for all the terrible things he’d done in his life. All the futures and fortunes he’d stolen.

And I deserve to be taunted.

The admiral, however, had no idea who the dirty, bloody beast hanging before him was. He looked Syrian. Like one of the little street rats in Antioch. The thieving little pieces of garbage I had to suffer. Whose stench I can still smell. He didn’t like the way this particular rat was looking at him. Like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s going to kill me. And why do his eyes go to my pendant so often?

This likely would’ve remained a mystery to the admiral had Balthazar’s anger not driven him to bite down on his lip. Bite down so hard that a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. And as it did, the admiral saw it. The little scar on Balthazar’s right cheek. That distinctive little scar in the shape of an “X.”

The scar I gave him…

“GLORY!” cried Herod, the magus at his side.

It wasn’t the perfect word by any means, but it was the first one that jumped off his tongue. He looked down at the baby lying on the table, naked and crying out for his mother in the center of a crowded throne room. The fugitives had been captured sneaking around outside in the rain. It was too good to be true. Herod had expected to endure one final push in this great chase. One last obstacle from the meddling Hebrew God. Instead, the Hebrew God’s little messenger — this so-called Messiah — had walked right to his back door and offered himself up.

“Glory to the people of Judea! Glory to Rome and her emperor!”

Pilate watched the wretched old king celebrate, the infant’s mother and father in chains, in tears — held by Roman guards near the throne room’s entrance. There was another woman with them, also in chains. Probably the same one who harbored them in Beersheba. From the looks of it, she’d been beaten to within an inch of her life. His sentries had done well, and they were being treated by the king’s personal physicians. He was told two would live, though one — the one who’d been stabbed — would likely die of infection. At least he’ll die a hero.

Herod reached down and slid his fingers under the infant’s back. My fingers… no longer blistered. No longer twisted and aching. He picked the child up and held him aloft for all to see. Held him as a temple priest holds an offering to heaven.

And I’ll burn him as an offering, he thought. I’ll burn a god… hear his screams. I’ll watch his flesh melt away and his bones blacken.

He wanted the Hebrew God to get a good look at this. If this baby was destined to topple the kingdoms of the world — if it was truly, as the Jews said, the “son of God” — then what did that make the king who held him in his hands? He walked around the room, displaying the child for the assembled courtesans and officers.

Yes, a man could be bigger than a god. Here was proof. Here was a king holding a god in his hands. My hands… which move without pain for the first time in years. He handed the child to a Roman guard.

“Take him to the dungeon and wait for us… I want to put him in the oven myself.”

These words brought screams of anguished protest from Mary and Joseph, which did nothing to dissuade Herod but did remind him: “Kill the male,” he said before walking toward the door. Then, almost an afterthought, he turned back and gave a nod to the guards.

“Do with the women what you will.”

The admiral could’ve laughed at the wonder of it. If the man before him was the Antioch Ghost, and the Antioch Ghost was the little rat he’d cut in the forum all those years ago, then —

Then I made him… I made the Antioch Ghost.

“He was your… brother,” said the admiral. “The boy in the forum… ”

There was no condescension in the way the admiral said this. On the contrary, there seemed to be genuine sympathy behind the words. A sadness. The admiral was, in fact, touched by what was happening before him. He was overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions, sadness among them. He marveled at the fates. Of all the dungeons in the world, he’d been sent to this one. Sent to face a monster that he created.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Balthazar.

“I know.”

“I swear it… ”

“I know… I know you do,” he said with that same sadness. “My God, what you must think I am… ”

The admiral came closer still. Close enough so Balthazar could see the burst capillaries on the tip of his nose. The scars of a wine-soaked life. After taking in Balthazar’s face, he stepped away and helped himself to a seat in Herod’s chair. A sigh escaped him.

“I have sons, you know,” he said. “Four of them. They’re grown now, of course, but I remember feeling that fear. That fear that they would be taken from me. And if anyone had ever harmed them when they were young, well… ”

“He was a boy… ” Just saying the words brought fresh tears to Balthazar’s eyes.

“He was a thief,” said the admiral. “And I was an officer, in a city where a Roman couldn’t walk from one side of the street to the other without having his pocket picked.”

“HE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND!”

And that’s what hurts the most, when you get right down to it. That look on his face. The one I see over and over in my mind. That fear, that confusion. Why, Bal-faza? What did I do? Why is this man hurting me, Bal-faza? I looked up to you. I loved you and imitated you, Bal-faza, and this wouldn’t have happened to me if you weren’t so bad, Bal-faza. IT’S YOUR FAULT, BAL-FAZA. IT’S YOUR —

Balthazar gritted his teeth, trying to banish the tears. But they came.

“He didn’t understand,” said Balthazar. “He was good. He would’ve had a good life. A beautiful life. And you took it. You took everything he would ever have. We… we would ever have.”

“Maybe,” said the admiral. “Maybe he would’ve had a good life. Maybe he would’ve had a tragic life. But you… ” He rose from Herod’s chair and came forward again. “Look at you. You’ve devoted your whole life to this. To killing me. And now it ends. Useless. Unfulfilled. You’re a cunning man, a strong man. You could’ve done anything. You could have grieved for him and moved on. You could’ve found love and fortune, had children of your own. But you’ve wasted it.”

Balthazar heard a voice whispering in his ears: How does killing honor his memory? How does it bring you any closer to having Abdi in your arms again? Isn’t it better to walk away? Doesn’t that make you the more powerful man? Besides, this admiral was right. He’d wrapped up an entire existence in revenge. His entire being was devoted to a single, murderous purpose. But now that he was so close, a new, terrifying question presented itself: And then what? What does your life mean after that? What comes next?