An ambush.
Joseph stood in awe of the sight. A sight Mary was still blissfully unaware of.
This can’t be. Why would God take us this far, only to strike us down?
Joseph was frozen, waiting for God to tell him what to do. Waiting for him to provide, as he always had. But doubt was rattling its sabers once again, louder than it ever had. He and his young wife would die where they stood. Their child — their ordinary, insignificant child — would die beside them. Right here on this street, only yards from where Abraham and Sarah had been laid to rest. Only, their bodies would have no shrines built above them. No pilgrims would come to pay tribute to their legacy, because they would have none. They would be filled with arrows, and forgotten.
“GET DOWN!”
Joseph suddenly felt his body bolt sideways as it was struck by some unseen force. Only later would he piece together what had happened in those next few seconds: how Balthazar had tackled the three of them just before the arrows arrived. How Melchyor had come running behind him, how he’d swung his sword and cut several arrows out of the air before they could reach their targets.
The baby was screaming, but Mary couldn’t find breath to comfort it. She and Joseph lay on their sides, face to frightened face, still unsure of who or what had brought them to the ground. Unaware that Roman soldiers had begun to pour in from the side streets where they’d been hiding, swords drawn. They heard screams go up along the street as the veil of confusion lifted, and the people of Hebron began to understand. As mothers grabbed their children and hurried them away from the path of the arrows, and as fathers met the advancing Roman soldiers with their fists.
Balthazar and Melchyor were quick to their feet and pulled the others up with them. Balthazar kept one hand clenched around a piece of Mary’s robes, determined not to lose hold of her in the panic, for there was a good chance she and the baby would be trampled if he did. With the other, he held his sword and readied himself for whatever came his way in front, while Melchyor did the same and covered their backs.
Gaspar watched his fellow fugitives from a distance, reluctant to join them. He could easily slip away in this commotion. He could run away and no one would care. But what about Melchyor? Poor, helpless Melchyor would be lost without him. No, Gaspar wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened. Besides, there was no honor in betraying a loyal friend. But there’s no honor in throwing your life away either. Look, Gaspar — look at how many soldiers come from the side streets…
Nearby in the bazaar, commerce ground to a halt as word spread that something big was happening on the Street of Palms. Curious customers began to walk, then run in the direction of the screams coming from just beyond the market. Merchants gathered their wares and closed their stands, wary of the looting that often followed this sort of excitement.
They’d seen it before. Arguments among the religious pilgrims had spilled into the streets; animals had thrown off their riders and trampled unlucky bystanders. In a small city, chaos was the order of the day. Most of the few dozen men making their way from the bazaar expected to find a familiar disturbance waiting for them on the Street of Palms. Instead, they were greeted by a sight they never could’ve fathomed:
The Roman Army had declared war on Hebron.
At least, that’s the way it looked. There were Roman archers shooting at unarmed citizens from treetops, Roman soldiers bludgeoning the fathers who fought to protect their women, and women using their bodies to shield their children. A mighty army, attacking the good and gentle people of Hebron. Specifically, it looked like they were after a few helpless souls at the center of the fray, including a young woman and an infant. The men of the bazaar took this all in for a moment. There was an unwritten rule in occupied Judea: “Fighting the Romans only brings more Romans.” It was best to let them go about their business and move on. But this wouldn’t stand. The men rushed into the chaos of the street, determined to help their brothers and sisters drive back the aggressors. They picked up stones and flung them at the treetop archers, pelted and punched the soldiers as they advanced deeper into the riot.
Balthazar was fighting his way forward, dragging Mary along, when a lone soldier broke through the riot and came at them, sword held high. Balthazar swung and hit the side of the soldier’s helmet with a clang, stunning him just long enough to swing again. The second strike found the soldier’s jaw, leaving a deep, bloody gash clean through his right cheek, deep enough to take a piece of tongue with it. The resulting spray struck Mary’s face. She gasped but resisted the urge to bring her hands up and wipe it away. She simply held on to the baby as the red droplets ran down her cheeks. Balthazar turned and caught a glimpse of her shocked face, just long enough for a thought to flash in and out of his mind:
Tears of blood.
No sooner had the first soldier fallen than two more came on his heels, side by side. Balthazar couldn’t fight both of them off, not with one hand behind his back, pulling Mary along. He wouldn’t be able to block both of their blades. Balthazar saw exactly how this would play out: He would raise his sword to meet the attack, blocking the first soldier’s blade. Then, as he held it there in the air, the second soldier would run him through his belly. Unless, by some miracle, they both swung their swords at the same time.
But there would be no miracle. The first soldier raised his sword and brought it down on Balthazar’s head. Balthazar, naturally, raised his own sword to block it, even though he knew this would leave him exposed. Their blades met in the air with a clang, and Balthazar held it there with all of his strength, fully expecting that the other soldier would run him through at any moment. But the second attack never came. Only when Balthazar looked down did he realize why: the second soldier was too busy grabbing at his own belly, trying in vain to catch the blood pouring out of it.
Gaspar had attacked him from the side.
Now, with one soldier bleeding and the other disoriented, Gaspar attacked again, running Balthazar’s soldier through his middle and joining his fellow fugitives in pressing forward. Balthazar wondered what had taken Gaspar so long, why he hadn’t run with them when the arrows had started flying. But those questions could wait. For now, they fought through the chaos around them: the Street of Palms a mess of soldiers, angry men, and panicked women. Balthazar and Melchyor took the front; Joseph and Gaspar took the rear, all of them protecting Mary and the baby in the middle.
The camels.
“The camels!” he yelled to the others.
Balthazar knew it was their only chance: to fight their way to where the camels were tied up and ride off into the desert. But even if they could reach the animals, he knew the plan was almost certainly doomed to fail. He had seen how many Romans there were waiting beyond those walls. He’d seen their horses. Still, a long shot was better than no shot.
Mary glanced to the side as Balthazar pulled her along. She caught a glimpse of a young father — Joseph’s age — fighting with a Roman soldier, grabbing on to the sides of his helmet with both hands and trying to bring him to the ground. She saw the young mother — my age — cowering behind him, protecting two small children with her body. Mary watched in horror as the soldier brought his sword down on the man’s forearm, splaying it open and exposing the bone beneath. He cried out and grabbed the wound with his other hand, freeing the soldier, who struck him again, this time in the skull. The blade burrowed deep into his brain, and a spout of dark blood shot into the air above his head, pumped out by the racing heart that would soon beat its last. His young wife screamed twice — first at the sight of her husband’s body hitting the ground, and then as the soldier raised his sword a third time. The young mother held a defensive hand out in front of her body, only to have it split in half as the sword came down between her outstretched fingers. Mary turned away. She couldn’t bear any more.