Unholy Night

Fate hadn’t been quite as kind to the other wise men. After slipping out of the Roman camp, Gaspar and Melchyor had fled to the farthest reaches of the empire, never staying in one place for too long, living from one petty crime to the next. They’d been hard, lonely years. Despite the efforts of Herod’s son to sweep the whole embarrassing affair under the rug, word of Balthazar’s escape and defeat of two armies began to spread, and the Antioch Ghost was vaulted from minor infamy to legend. It didn’t take long for word of Gaspar and Melchyor’s betrayal to spread among the criminal class, either. Everywhere they went, the two men found themselves hunted by authorities and cast out by crooks.

In the end, they’d been caught right back where it all began: in the Great Temple in Jerusalem, trying to steal the same golden censer that had landed them in Herod’s dungeons thirty years earlier. This time, with no one to devise a daring escape, Gaspar and Melchyor had gone to their punishment as scheduled — crucified and left to rot in the sun outside the city walls.

As they’d hung there, dying, they’d spoken with the stranger who hung between them: the one with the plaque affixed to his cross: King of the Jews. Tears had fallen down Gaspar’s and Melchyor’s aging faces when they realized who the man was and what it meant that they’d been brought here to die beside him. They’d been waiting, after all, almost hoping to be punished for their betrayal all those years ago. They’d carried its guilt and suffered its consequences for too long. True to form, the carpenter’s son forgave them both before he died. Balthazar supposed he forgave them too. They’d been dead a long time.

He climbed onto the camel and watched the city burn below him a few moments longer.

“Forever,” he said to himself, then dug his heel into the animal’s side, just like he had in days of old, leaving Rome and its ashes behind. He would never see them again.

An ibex lifted its sleepy head off the desert floor, roused by the beating of feet. It was the only one of its herd to sense the faint trembling, and while the others slept, unaware, it watched a tiny, moonlit cloud of dust move across its field of view, dust kicked up by a galloping camel carrying an old man on its back. After watching them a moment, the ibex laid its head back down and closed its eyes, convinced there was no danger to itself or the herd. There were only two of them, after all. And besides, they weren’t headed this way…

They were riding toward that strangely bright star in the east.

Acknowledgments

“Acknowledgments” isn’t the right word. Rather than “acknowledge” the following people, I’d like to send my love and sincere thanks to:

Ben Greenberg — as fine an editor as ever there was, and a gentleman and patient soul to boot. To Jamie Raab, Elly Weisenberg Kelly, and my Grand Central family. To my WME family: the bookish Claudia Ballard and Alicia Gordon; the cinematic Cliff Roberts, Jeff Gorin, and Mike Simpson; and the telegenic Richard Weitz and Dan Shear. Also, I’d like to thank Ari Emanuel, because it never hurts to thank Ari Emanuel. To Gregg Gellman, that paragon of legality and keeper of the sacred “no.” To the Melissas (Kates and Fonzino), who fight for truth, justice, and ink in a world of ever-expanding Kardashians and ever-dwindling shelf space. To my friend, business partner, and splitter of graham crackers, David Katzenberg, and my adorable little KatzSmith family.

And to my actual family, who have to share me with the long nights and closed doors that come with trying to make all of this work, and deal with the grumblings and panic when it doesn’t — none more so than Erin and Joshy. My love and thanks for your patience.

Above all, thanks to you, Dear Reader.