Unholy Night

A Man With Wings.

He was good and beautiful. And the admiral began to sob, for he knew — somehow he knew exactly who this man was and what he’d come to do. He sobbed and shook, for he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. And worst of all, he knew that he deserved it.

The Man With Wings walked forward and took the admiral gently in his arms, and off they went. Off into a sea of time and space — the whole of the universe reflected in its shimmering surface. Off to the place where the dead burned forever…

And Mary and Joseph instinctively press their backs to the wall of their pitch-black cell and shield the baby with their bodies as they hear the latch opening. Sela rises, determined to die fighting whatever comes through that door. Every inch of her is broken and bloodied; her hands are shackled. But they aren’t getting that baby without a fight. Not a chance. And the creak of the cell door opening, and the lone, impossible silhouette it reveals. And the joy and amazement of impossible reunion and the hurried tossing off of chains.

The reunited fellowship hurried down the corridor that twisted its way through the dungeon, trying to go as quietly as they could despite the two inches of rainwater on the floor. Trying to find a sliver of daylight to show them the way and running from the growing shouts in the dark behind them. A call of alarm had gone out, and every way in or out of the palace would soon be sealed off. They needed another miracle, and for a moment, Balthazar thought they’d gotten it: daylight. Up ahead, around the next corner.

He led the others quickly and quietly around the corner. But on rounding it, Balthazar froze. There was a Roman soldier blocking their path, his sword drawn. The promise of daylight behind him. The dungeon’s torchlight flickering off his meticulously polished helmet, breastplate, and sword. He’d been waiting for them.

Pontius Pilate.

Balthazar stood with his sword clutched tightly in his right hand, his left arm extended, shielding Mary and the baby behind him. The two men glared at each other. Both of them dark, driven men. Both of them killers. Their fingers shifted on the handles of their swords, each man waiting for the slightest twitch of the other. Waiting for attack. But none came.

Satisfied that Balthazar didn’t mean to cut him down on the spot, Pilate’s eyes shifted to the other fugitives: the baby’s parents. Terrified. The woman who harbored them. Who risked her life to save them and fought off at least two of my men by herself. And then there was the Antioch Ghost. Who risks his life to protect them even now, when he could have just as easily escaped on his own.

Pilate stood there a moment — his eyes fixed on Balthazar. On everything he’d ever wanted.

“Fifty paces,” he said. “And then I start yelling.”

With that, he lowered his sword, passed by them, and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Until his dying breath, Pilate would never fully understand why he’d done it. All he’d had to do was call for help, and he would’ve been a hero. Had it been the sight of Balthazar being tortured? Was it the desire to see the puppet king of Judea humiliated? Or was it just that he didn’t like the idea of putting newborn babies to death?

Whatever the reason, he’d held the glory he sought right there, in his hands — and he’d let it slip away. Just like that. It was a decision that would shape his life in ways he couldn’t possibly understand, and it wouldn’t be the last time he faced it. Some three decades later, Pontius Pilate would encounter the infant again, in Jerusalem. Once again, he would feel a strange compulsion to spare his life. But the second time, he would fail.

The fellowship of five ran out of the palace’s seaward entrance and into the stormy gray of its terrace, where raindrops collided with marble, producing a ceaseless, almost soothing noise. With the rain falling and the alarm being raised inside, the terrace was momentarily free of guards. Balthazar had a decision to make, and it had to be made in the next few seconds, in spite of his exhaustion and the breathtaking pain radiating from the exposed muscle on his sides.

They could flee through the desert on foot, but if they were spotted, they’d be no match for the Romans and their horses. They could look for somewhere to hide near the palace and hope that the Romans would be fooled into chasing an assumption through the desert — but what if they weren’t? It was here, in this moment of bleeding indecision, that a vision of waving reeds caught the fellowship’s attention, and their eyes descended the wet marble steps to the sea, where the masts of Roman warships bobbed up and down in the swell. All of them firmly moored against the dock…

… all of them left untended.

VII

A young girl came running out of Herod’s throne room, sobbing and soaked in blood. Some of it was hers. Most of it wasn’t. She pushed her way past the Roman and Judean soldiers who packed the hallways.

“The king!” she cried. “The king has gone mad!”

The soldiers had come running only moments before, summoned by the sounds of a melee. They’d expected to find the Antioch Ghost battling it out with their comrades, trying to get his hands on Herod. But on arriving, they’d been shocked to see that it was Herod himself wielding a blade, using it to dispose of his courtesans and advisors, his wise men and women. The soldiers could only stand and watch as he hacked them to pieces, screaming all the while. None of them dared defy the will of a king, madman or not.

It was something out of a nightmare. A grisly scene that forced even the most cast-iron of soldiers to look away, lest they be sick. The throne room was littered with headless and limbless victims. Shards of smashed pottery and splinters of broken furniture. And in the middle of it all, Herod himself, kneeling over one of the bodies, a sword by his side… his face almost completely obscured by blood.

Minutes before this madness began, Herod sat impatiently on his throne, awaiting an update on the escape. The magus sat next to him, meditating silently. Searching for the fugitives, Herod hoped. Hunting them with his mind.

Minutes after the first shouts of alarm echoed through the palace, Pontius Pilate appeared with his lieutenants, ready to give the king his report. It would be nearly an hour before the Romans discovered one of the smaller ships in their fleet was missing.

“It seems,” said Pilate, “that the Ghost and the other fugitives were able to slip out of the palace, Your Highness.”

Herod involuntarily balled his fists. The Hebrew God…

“At present,” Pilate continued, “we have no clue as to where they went, but I have some of my men searching the grounds in case they’ve hidden close by.”

“SOME of your men? Send ALL of them, you idiot! Send them all into the desert! Into the mountains! Send them up and down the coast!”

Pilate hesitated, sharing a look with some of his officers. “Your Highness,” he said, “in light of the admiral’s death, I’ve… decided to recall my men to Rome.”

It took Herod a moment to register this.

“What did you say?”

“The emperor has already sacrificed enough of his men for this folly. I won’t risk losing any more or endangering his magus. Not until I’m able to make a full report.”

Herod lifted his body off the throne, his anger rising to its full height.

“‘His’ magus?” He walked slowly down the steps, a smile spreading across his lips. “You can tell Augustus that his magus won’t be coming back to Rome.”

Pilate glared back at him. What is this?