“He cared enough to send me his son.”
This time Balthazar made no attempt to hide the roll of his eyes. You’ve got to be kidding me…
“Right, right — the Messiah. And let me ask you a question: Of all the thousands of years, of all the thousands and thousands of Jews he had to choose from, God chose a poor carpenter and a little girl to raise him? Why not a king, huh? Why not let him be the son of an emperor? Give him a real chance to change things?”
Joseph thought about it as the baby began to cry in the other room. In truth, the best he could manage was, “I don’t know. I just know that he did.”
“See?” said Balthazar with a smile. “That’s the problem with your God. He doesn’t think big enoug — ”
“BALTHAZAR… OF… ANTIOCH!”
The voice had come from outside, cutting off the rest of Balthazar’s insult. An unfamiliar voice, from in front of the house. Balthazar felt the strength leave his limbs. The blood in his fingertips froze, just as they had when he’d seen the Roman legions in Hebron.
They’ve found us.
Silence followed. A deathly silence as Balthazar and Joseph shared a look of dread, their argument already long forgotten, and moved toward the nearest window to sneak a look through the curtains.
Here were the empty houses of Beersheba. In front of them, standing in neat formation in the street, were Roman soldiers — led by a young officer atop a brown horse. Beyond the soldiers and empty houses, a long, dark cloud hung near the horizon, silent and still. Sandstorm, thought Balthazar. Big one.
“That is your name, isn’t it?” asked the officer. “‘Balthazar’?”
The baby’s cries were suddenly behind Balthazar’s ears. Mary and Sela had come running into the room, drawn by the commotion. As soon as they saw Balthazar and Joseph kneeling by the window, they knew. They’ve found us.
“Can we get out the back?” asked Sela.
“Doubt it,” said Balthazar.
He was smart, this officer. This time he would’ve taken care to surround them first. To make sure there was no chance of escape. These discouraging thoughts were still forming in his head when Balthazar spotted two men standing beside the officer’s horse. But these weren’t Roman or Judean soldiers. They were liars and thieves. Cowards and traitors.
Gaspar and Melchyor.
“I can see why you don’t use it,” the officer continued. “‘The Antioch Ghost’ is much more colorful, more menacing.”
Balthazar glared at his fellow wise men across the wide street. “How long?” he yelled. “How long have the two of you been working for these dogs? Is this how they found us in Hebron? Did you lead them right to us?”
“On my life,” said Gaspar, “we did not.”
“Your ‘life’? Your ‘life’ isn’t worth the spit in your lying mouth! You only have a life because I spared it! I saved you! Both of you!”
Here it was. Here was a vindication of everything Balthazar believed. Here was proof that men were dogs and that all hearts were empty vessels. It’s too bad I won’t live long enough to rub this in Joseph’s face.
“You have to understand,” said Gaspar, “they caught us in the market! They… they recognized us. We had no choice but to — ”
“Lies!”
Balthazar was right. Gaspar had been considering this betrayal for days — especially in the wake of their near-capture in Hebron. And when he’d watched the mighty Antioch Ghost get beaten senseless by a woman, the last of his faith in their fearless leader had evaporated. Better to strike a deal and live than cast their lot with Balthazar, whose luck had clearly run out.
“They offered us pardons,” said Melchyor, so stupidly and apologetically that it was hard not to feel for him.
This part, at least, was true. When Gaspar had approached the Romans, he and Melchyor had been offered pardons in return for the Antioch Ghost and the infant.
“They offered us pardons if we led them back to — ”
“Led them back to what,” cried Mary, “an infant? You’re no better than Herod’s men! Both of you!”
Melchyor looked away, clearly ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” said Gaspar.
“Go to hell,” said Balthazar.
As far as insults went, it left a lot to be desired. Especially since Balthazar didn’t even believe in such a place. But under the circumstances, it was the best he could muster. With an entire legion of Roman troops staring him down, surrounding the house. There would be no angry pilgrims to help them fight this time. This time they would either be captured or —
“Balthazar!”
Sela was looking out a side window, clearly distressed. Or at least, more distressed than everyone else under her roof. Balthazar and the others hurried to her and peered through the curtains and saw why.
They’re going to burn us.
A handful of Roman soldiers stood ready with flaming torches in their hands, awaiting the order. Their young commander sat atop his horse, his eyes darting between the house they’d surrounded and the long, dark cloud hanging low to the horizon. Sandstorm, he thought. A big one, and growing closer.
For all the fugitives’ fears of charred flesh, Pilate had no intention of burning them out. There were Jewish zealots in there, and he knew how zealots thought. They would rather give themselves to God as burnt offerings than surrender to a godless Roman like me. No, if he ordered the house set alight, he would only be able to watch as they martyred themselves in the flames. And what good would that be? And the Antioch Ghost? What glory was there in burning him? Pilate wanted to present his emperor with a living, quivering specimen, not a heap of charred remains. Unlike Herod, he wasn’t comfortable having the blood of women and infants on his hands. This campaign had taken on a dark enough tenor already.
It was a dark thing to hunt a newborn child with swords and spears. But Pilate had comforted himself with the idea that he was merely delivering his targets to their judges. He wasn’t responsible for what happened after that. What Pilate wasn’t comfortable with was the magus. The way he frightened the men with his strange little rituals. With his very appearance. The power he seemed to have to conjure visions from the air, to breathe life into places it didn’t belong. The way he seemed to know exactly where their targets were going. This was an altogether different kind of darkness. One that any rational man would know to fear. But in this case, Pilate’s hands were tied. Augustus wished it, and so it must be done. But Pilate had tried to keep the emperor’s little mystic on a tight leash — keeping him sequestered “for his own safety.” Under guard, alone in his tent. Miles from where they now stoo —
Stop.
Pilate caught his mind wandering and reined it back in. The image of the magus had just popped into his head out of nowhere, distracting him from the task at hand. Regaining focus, he noticed the torch-bearing solders beginning to advance on the house, their faces uniformly blank. Their movements stilted and awkward, as if they had strings attached to their limbs, being pulled from above. At first he thought it was some kind of joke.
“What are they doing?” cried Pilate to his officers. “WHAT ARE THEY DOING?” But when he got a better look at their faces, Pilate knew. They have no idea what they’re doing.
“STOP!”
But it was too late. The torches were laid at the foot of the house on all sides, and in seconds, the flames had taken hold. They climbed the walls, hastened by the dryness that permeated all of Beersheba. And though he would never have the opportunity to prove it, Pilate would go to his grave believing that the magus was responsible for it alclass="underline" flooding his thoughts to distract him. Sitting cross-legged in his tent, eyes closed, muttering some strange old chant. Controlling his men, all the while thinking, This is what you get for trying to keep me on a short leash, you insignificant little nothing.