But the horrors were everywhere. As Mary looked forward, she saw Melchyor drenched from head to toe, his face shimmering with blood. He led his fellow fugitives through the melee, his gifted blade catching glints of sunlight as he twirled it faster than the eye could see, cutting down the unfortunate Romans who powered their way through the panic, only to find themselves face-to-face with the most skilled swordsman in the empire.
Mary saw two soldiers break through the crowd and charge at them from the front. She watched Melchyor swing his blade through the air, taking the first soldier’s head clean off and catching it by the hair with his free hand before it hit the ground. At first, she thought this was merely showing off, until Melchyor lifted the severed head and used it as a shield, blocking the second soldier’s blade before running him through with his own. It was such an impressive feat that Mary almost forgot how gruesome it was.
Yet for all Melchyor’s talent, even he was having trouble keeping up with this onslaught. These soldiers were better trained than the Judeans they’d faced in Bethlehem, and there were more of them. Many more, pouring in from the surrounding streets on foot and horseback. Hacking their way through an innocent mob to get to a child and a thief. The Romans were even landing a few blows, leaving gashes on Melchyor’s stout little arms.
And he wasn’t the only fugitive spilling his blood on the Street of Palms. A cry went out as a passing horseman drove a spear into Gaspar’s shoulder blade. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but it was enough to make him drop his sword and double over. The Roman was about to take another stab at Gaspar’s back when his horse suddenly whinnied and reared. Balthazar withdrew his sword from the horse’s hindquarters and yanked the Roman off his saddle. The horseman fell to the street, and Balthazar drove a blade into his back. The wounded horse took off on its own, cutting a path through the mob. As fate would have it, that path was in the general direction of their camels.
“This way!” yelled Balthazar, grabbing Mary’s hand and pulling her again.
Melchyor threw his arm around Gaspar and helped his injured friend along, both men dripping blood as they followed Balthazar down the horse’s path. The fugitives stepped over a mess of dead and dying bodies as they went. Most belonged to the men who’d come from the bazaar to join the fight. They’d made a fearless charge, but they were paying the price for that bravery with their lives. The citizens of Hebron were outnumbered and underequipped, and they were being slaughtered all along the Street of Palms, their bodies trampled against the cobblestones.
The fugitives were fifty yards from their goal when Balthazar spotted a strangely familiar face in the crowd. An officer, headed straight for them, cutting through the mess of citizens and soldiers with patience and precision. He was young for an imperator — younger than me, if I had to guess, thought Balthazar — but this wasn’t what made him remarkable. Balthazar had never seen him before, but he felt a strange connection with the man coming straight toward him, his eyes unwavering. You, he thought. You’re the smart one. Smart enough to lure us into a trap instead of coming at us head-on in the open desert.
He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Balthazar was suddenly and completely sure that this was the man who’d kept his troops back, hidden — knowing that the sight of Roman patrols would’ve scared his targets away before he had a chance to strike. The man who’d anticipated their path through the city and set up the ambush. Somehow, Balthazar knew he was looking at the architect of their troubles. And somehow, he knew that this officer still had a very important role to play in his life, though he had no idea what it was or why he was so absolutely certain of it.
“Keep going,” Balthazar told his fellow fugitives, and handed Mary to her husband.
“But where are you — ” Joseph asked.
“GO!”
Joseph led her toward the camels, Melchyor and Gaspar hobbling along behind them. Balthazar readied his sword as the officer drew closer… almost on him now. Strange, he thought. It’s like we’re both supposed to be here. Like we’re supposed to face each other here on this street, at this moment.
Before Balthazar could think any further, the officer was upon him, and the two were fighting away — each knowing, somehow, that they’d been moving toward this moment their entire lives, two boats on two rivers, winding their way toward the same sea. There was no outward acknowledgment of this feeling. They simply met in the middle of the panicked street, raised their swords, and tried to kill each other. And while the great painters would likely commemorate the occasion in grand fashion, with both men striking impressive poses in impressive outfits, the reality was far less attractive. Balthazar and Pilate were both covered in dirt and sweat and flecks of blood, both doing their best to beat the others’ brains out, punching and grabbing and pulling at each other.
While Balthazar was the better swordsman, Pilate was the better fed and rested, and before long, the Antioch Ghost was on his heels, holding his sword out in front of his face, blocking Pilate’s repeated strikes. Just a few more and I’ll have you on your back, thought Pilate. And then I’ll go after the infan —
A roar went up behind them. The roar of furious men charging into battle, their cries echoing down the length of the street. Pilate and Balthazar ceased fighting and turned toward the source of the noise.
Hundreds of screaming, devout Jews were pouring into the north end of the street, as if a dam holding a sea of bodies had suddenly broken. Word of the Roman attack had finally reached the Cave of the Patriarchs, and pilgrim and prophet alike had thrown off their shawls and rushed to help, ready to give their lives to defend the sanctity of Abraham’s final resting place.
How dare the godless Romans defile such a sacred city! How dare they slaughter the innocent!
The faithful began attacking the Romans with anything they could find. Some fought with their bare hands; others used canes and rocks. The bazaar had given dozens of men to the effort. The Cave of Patriarchs had given hundreds — each one believing his cause righteous.
It was exactly what Pilate had feared. Exactly why he hadn’t marched into the city with his banners flying. Now he would have to pull his men back or risk a real catastrophe, risk seeing the riot spreading to the rest of the city. All of this, he thought, looking at the madness before him. All of this for a baby and a thie —
Pilate remembered the Antioch Ghost and spun around with his sword raised, ready to fight again… but the Ghost was gone.
It doesn’t make sense, Balthazar thought as he ran toward the camels. How had the Romans known where they were going to be? Why had he felt such a strange kinship with the officer?