Unholy Night, Page 2

  And while these rumors usually amounted to nothing, even the remote possibility of stealing a little stolen treasure, and embarrassing a Roman governor in the process, warranted a firsthand look. And so Balthazar had set out from Damascus, where he’d been chasing another rumor. The one he’d been chasing for years. The only one that really matters. He’d ridden south through Bosra, avoiding the roads as much as possible. And on the fifth night of his journey, he’d seen the torches of Tel Arad burning in the distance and the grand white walls of the governor’s compound above them.

  The next day, he’d asked around the bazaar, hoping to verify some of the stories that had reached him up north. To his surprise, not only did they check out, but also the value of the confiscated goods was far greater than he’d imagined. Gold chalices, silver bracelets, rare perfumes and spices—all of it taken by this “Decimus.” All of it locked away behind his walls.

  It seemed that this was one of those rare instances where the truth was even bigger than the legend.

  Balthazar had his motive. Now all he needed was an opportunity. He surveyed the governor’s compound from afar, taking note of how many guards there were, when and how they patrolled the grounds, what kind of weapons they carried. Although Tel Arad was a Roman province, and its locals paid Roman taxes, the Roman Army couldn’t be bothered to come this far east—not to babysit a governor who’d fallen out of the emperor’s favor, anyway. Decimus had been forced to settle for a handful of soldiers from the less-impressive Judean Army, on loan from Herod the Great, to guard his compound. The Judean troops may not have been as professional or well equipped as their Roman counterparts, but they were nothing to take lightly. Storming the compound alone was out of the question.

  Balthazar needed a way in. A way through its defenses. Two days after arriving in Tel Arad, he found one.

  Her name was Flavia.

  At seventeen, she should have been in Rome, enjoying the trappings of wealth and youth in the world’s great city, living it up with the other sons and daughters of the ruling class. Instead, her father had dragged her to the desert of the Eastern Empire and left her to wither in the heat. With nothing to do. No one to talk to but concubines and slaves.

  Balthazar had watched her for three days. Every morning, she walked down the hill from her father’s compound, accompanied by a pair of Judean soldiers. For the next few hours, she wandered up and down the network of crowded streets that made up the bazaar, buying everything from silks to harps to figs, either unaware or undeterred by the fact that any of these goods could be had for free back at her father’s compound. Then, at midday, she climbed the hill and disappeared behind the compound’s walls, not to be seen again until the following day.

  When Balthazar finally made his move, he’d done so using the oldest, easiest trick in the book. So easy, that he was almost ashamed of himself.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  Flavia turned, as did the soldiers at her side. She was a curly haired blonde—a rarity in this part of the world—with a full figure, a pretty face, and a lightly freckled nose, also a rarity. Not his type, but not bad at all.

  “I believe you dropped this.”

  He offered his closed hand, which was promptly grabbed by one of the bodyguards. Balthazar smiled and opened his fingers, revealing a beaded bracelet inside. The bracelet Flavia’s mother had given to her before she died.

  The bracelet that Balthazar had stolen off of her wrist moments before.

  Flavia studied it in disbelief. They always do. She wondered how on earth she could’ve dropped something so dear to her. Shooing her guards aside, she thanked Balthazar profusely and introduced herself with an extended hand. “Flavia,” she said.

  “Sargon,” Balthazar replied, taking it.

  “Sargon…would you care to join me for a walk around the bazaar?”

  Now I hesitate…my face flushed with modesty. Yes, I’ll join you for a walk around the bazaar. But I’m going to make you believe it was the furthest thing from my mind…

  “Come,” she said, sensing his hesitation. “Let me buy you something. A reward for your good deed.”

  “Oh, well…I don’t know…”

  Of course I do. But now I hesitate some more. Not too long—not long enough for you to lose interest. Just long enough for you to believe I’d say no. And then, the instant I see that belief in your eyes, I answer—

  “I guess I can, but…your company is the only reward I need.”

  And you silently swoon…as I prepare to win you over with a lifetime’s worth of lies.

  Flavia and “Sargon” walked for hours, telling each other everything. Two lonely spirits who’d finally—miraculously—found kinship in this faraway land. And though her bodyguards eyed this Sargon with suspicion, though they would’ve liked to rough him up and warn him off, they knew better than to cross the only daughter of Decimus Petronius Verres.

  Three nights and three trips around the bazaar later, Flavia snuck Balthazar into the compound and into her bedchamber…just as he’d known she would.

  The next two weeks had been fun. More importantly, they’d been fruitful.

  Each night as Flavia slept, Balthazar rose silently from her bed and went to work—slowly, methodically sneaking his way through the slumbering compound. Mapping it in his mind until he knew its every corner by heart. Until he knew the sleeping habits of every slave and the position of every guard. Until he knew how to walk from one side to the other without setting foot in the glow of the torches. And most of all, until he had examined every confiscated item in the governor’s fabled storeroom, which he’d found on the first night, and which, like everything in Tel Arad, had exceeded his expectations.

  And on the night that Balthazar felt he could know no more, he’d filled two large saddlebags—the most he could reasonably carry and still move quickly if he had to—with predetermined items chosen for their value-to-weight ratios. Bags stuffed, he’d snuck back along his carefully rehearsed route toward the compound’s rear gate. The one that was always unmanned for a ten-minute window at this time of night, thanks to a guard with a phenomenally regular constitution.

  He crept along in the dark, through the garden—twenty-seven steps—past the fountain—another ten but veering slightly left—then a sharp right turn at the sundial. After that, it was just thirty steps in a straight line to the gate. Thirty steps to free—

  “Sargon?”

  Balthazar nearly let out a yelp as he spun in the direction of the voice. At first, he thought he’d come face-to-face with a ghost. A translucent white being seemed to float toward him out of the darkness, barely perceivable in the light of the moon. He stood, frozen, as it moved closer…until Balthazar saw what it really was: a white sleeping gown, fluttering in the warm night air.

  “Flavia…,” he whispered.

  “You’re…you’re a thief,” she said.

  What gave you that idea? Is it the two huge bags of stolen treasure I’m carrying out here in the middle of the night?

  “No—”

  “You used me.”

  Yes, I used you, and I’d use you again. And who are you to feel used, anyway? You’re a Roman. All your kind does is use. All you do is rape, and burn, and steal, and murder.

  “No,” said Balthazar. “Flavia, listen to m—”

  “Shut up!”

  All she had to do was scream and the guards would come running. And when that happened, the exciting trouble currently making Balthazar’s heart pound against the back of his ribs would become real trouble—blood trouble—​in a hurry.

  On the other hand, she could just as easily let him slip away into the night. No one would ever suspect her unwitting part in the robbery. Her chastity would never be called into question, and Balthazar would be halfway to anywhere by morning, with a promise to return and “take you away, Flavia—when the time is right, take you away from all of this so we can be together.” A promise he would have no intention of keeping.

  “Flavia,”
he said. “Listen to me, okay? Yes…yes, I was taking these. Taking them from your father’s storeroom. But you have to believe me—I have good reason to take them! Your father stole these things from the people of Tel Arad! Poor people! Honest men! I couldn’t stand by and watch them suffer. The truth is, I was stealing them, yes. Stealing them from the man who stole them first. Stealing them back so that I could return them to their rightful owners! Aren’t you always talking about how cruel and selfish your father is? Well here, Flavia! Here’s the proof!”

  I’m getting through to her. Now make it personal…​turn her mind away from the theft.

  “And…and yes,” he continued, “I know I should have told you first. But I didn’t want to get you involved. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d gotten in trouble? I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself, Flavia. You’re too good for this.”

  “I…I don’t know…”

  Yes, you do.

  “Flavia, I swear on our love…on my soul—everything I say is true.”

  She stood there for a moment, conflicted and confused. A victim of youth and inexperience and a deep desire—a need—to believe that everything he was saying was, in fact, true.

  “Please, Flavia, there isn’t much time.…”

  I could always give her a knock on the head. If it came down to it, just a little knock on the head. Not enough to really hurt her, but enough to let me get the hell out of here.

  But Balthazar didn’t think that would be necessary. His instincts were beginning to tell him this was going to be okay—and he decided to trust them.

  She’s not going to scream. She hates her father. Yes, she hates her father, hates the fact that he brought her here. Besides…we’ve shared everything. Our deepest secrets. Our deepest love. And yes, that’s all bullshit—but not to her. There’s no way she’d give me up. She loves me. No…I’m a man with a knack for knowing things, and I know she’s not going to scream. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

  She screamed.

  III

  It was clear he wasn’t going to make Jerusalem. The camel had been gradually slowing down over the past hour. And as much as Balthazar kicked and cursed, it wouldn’t pick up the pace. This wasn’t stubbornness…he’d stolen a dud.

  Balthazar knew of a good-sized village just north of Jerusalem—Bethel, if he remembered correctly. Or Beit El. Or whatever the hell they called it. The one that sounds like “Bethlehem” but isn’t. It didn’t matter. He knew it was there, some eight miles ahead, and it would have to do. With his camel fading fast, he pointed its nose in the village’s direction. There was still a chance. He could still get away, as long as the beast held up.

  What’s that story the Jews tell? The one about the menorah that had enough oil for only one night but burned for eight? That’s my camel…only enough fuel left for one mile. If it lasts eight, it’ll be a miracle.

  Miracle or not, the camel made it, and Balthazar galloped into Bethel (he’d been right the first time) only a minute or so ahead of the untold menace behind him. It was one of the nicer satellites that orbited Jerusalem. A small village of fewer than 2,000 people where many Jewish noblemen chose to escape the noise and bustle of the city with their families. There were no inns to accommodate travelers, no massive temple spewing sacrificial smoke or bazaar spewing noise and fragrances. And while the census was currently packing the streets of Jerusalem only eight miles away, you’d hardly know there was a census looking at Bethel. Fewer than ten people took note of him as he galloped into the village’s small central square.

  Balthazar brought the camel to a stop, which it was all too happy to do, and leapt to the ground. He pulled the half-empty saddlebags off its back, threw both of them over his left shoulder, and gave the camel a firm smack on its hindquarters. He couldn’t have it standing around. God knows how many soldiers were about to come riding into the village with orders to find and kill him at all costs. If they saw the camel, they’d have a pretty good idea where to start looking.

  “Go! Get outta here!”

  It didn’t budge. He smacked it again.

  “GO!”

  It groaned deeply, knelt forward on its spindly legs, then fell over on its side with a ground-shaking thud—all 1,200 pounds of it.

  Dead.

  Balthazar took a moment to consider this. In retrospect, maybe he had ridden it a bit too hard. And now that he got a better look, it wasn’t nearly as young as he’d thought. Not even close to fifteen or twenty. In fact, it was one of the oldest camels he’d ever seen. Come to think of it…it was a miracle they’d made it this far.

  Balthazar didn’t know what to say. Partly because he was pressed for time, but mostly because sincerity wasn’t his strong suit, he settled on, “Sorry.”

  Then, the grieving period over, he ran like hell.

  He knew the villagers would keep him safe. They hated the Romans just as much as he did. Okay, so these aren’t actual Roman troops chasing me—they’re Judeans. But really, when you get right down to it, is there a difference? They all take their orders from Rome, just like Herod the Great, that lying, festering, murderous puppet. If there was one thing the Jews hated more than Augustus Caesar, it was the client king who ruled Judea for him. And while Balthazar wasn’t a Jew per se, he was certainly no friend of Herod. That had to count for something, right? The enemy of my enemy?

  He was the Antioch Ghost, and people loved a celebrity. Even a minor one.

  No, the villagers would take pity on him. They would keep him safe and hidden when the army came kicking down their doors any minute now. And if pity wasn’t enough, then bribing them with a share of his remaining treasure would make up the difference.

  Balthazar ran across the square, his bags half full of twice-stolen gold and silver, frankincense and silk, his face still covered by the shemagh. He was headed for the largest building in sight—the only one with a second story and one of the few made from brick. The building had an arched roof and small, glass-paned windows along its eastern and western faces, an extravagance rarely seen outside of Rome. And though Balthazar couldn’t see the source, a column of white smoke rose from behind the building. There wasn’t much strategy behind his choosing it. A bigger building offered more hiding places. And more hiding places meant a greater chance of survival.

  But as soon as he crossed the threshold, Balthazar knew he was a dead man.

  He had to be dead…for this was surely heaven. There were wet, naked women everywhere. Beautiful. Bare. Steam rising off of their glistening bodies, the vapors glowing in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the glass above.

  A bathhouse.

  An arched ceiling peaked twenty feet overhead, its smooth surface painted to resemble olive trees reaching toward a cloudy sky. The bath itself, which took up most of the room, was lined with mosaic tiles. Mosaic tiles and the naked bodies of fifteen women. Women who were currently staring at the dusty man with a covered face and large bags over his shoulder. The man who had no business being in the women’s bath.

  This was no Flavia situation. There was no question in Balthazar’s mind that these women were about to start screaming unless he acted quickly. Shaking himself back into focus, he brought a finger to his lips—shhhh—and in as nonthreatening a voice as he could manage, said, “A thousand pardons…”

  He pulled the shemagh down, revealing his face—a handsome mix of sunburn and stubble, a prominent scar on his right cheek in the shape of an X. He gave them a smile. Charming, reassuring. Even a bit dashing, he suspected. It was a smile he’d spent hours practicing in the reflective waters of the Orontes River, and it was, if he didn’t mind saying so, one of his stronger assets.

  “I,” he continued, “am the Antioch Ghost.”

  Was that the twinkle of recognition in some of their eyes?

  “I’m just looking for a place to hide from Herod’s men. Once they’re gone, I’ll be on my way without another word. You have nothing to fear, my sisters—I prom
ise you.”

  They didn’t scream.

  People love a celebrity.

  Short of his remaining treasure, Balthazar would’ve given anything in the world to stay and soak in this sight a little longer, but he could hear the rumble of horses’ hooves growing near outside. Time to disappear. Certain that he and the women had reached an understanding, he proceeded as rapidly and respectfully as possible across the room, toward a row of women’s robes hanging on the opposite wall. Enough of them to hide a man and a pair of saddlebags behind, no problem.

  It was perfect. The soldiers wouldn’t dare intrude on the privacy of bathing women. Nor would the women likely run into the streets and tattle without their clothes. Balthazar could hear the muffled sounds of orders being shouted outside, the clanging of swords and armor as men fanned out. Seconds later, three Judean soldiers entered. Balthazar watched as the men had the same sequence of reactions he’d had: shock, followed immediately by embarrassment, followed immediately by excitement.

  One of the soldiers regained his composure enough to speak: “Pardon us…”

  Go ahead, you dog. Go ahead and ask them if they’ve seen a man come through here. My sisters won’t say a word. If anything, they’ll tell you to go to hell.

  “Have you seen—”

  Balthazar’s heart sank as every last woman pointed toward his hiding place in unison.

  They didn’t even let him finish the question…

  So here it was. After a day in the desert, a dead camel, and a fortune in abandoned spoils, it would come to this.

  Balthazar was an exceptional thief. An excellent aggravator and proven survivor. But what he excelled at, what he was truly gifted at, was taking human lives with his sword. This wasn’t a point of pride. Well, maybe just a little. But in general, he measured success in treasure, not blood. “Success,” he was fond of saying, “is stealing a fortune without drawing your sword. Failure is a pile of bodies and no profit.”