by Glenn Beck
“I’ll do what I can,” Agios said.
“That is all I ask.”
“What will you do?”
“The rest of the caravan will travel on,” Gamos told him. We are on our way to Khor Rori, the port city. We’ll trade what we have and load the camels with goods to carry home. If the gods will it, we will meet Caspar again on the trade route, or failing that, back in his kingdom.”
Agios did not reply. It was a troubled world. He wondered if he would ever feel at home in it again.
Gamos eventually fell asleep with his cloak pulled over his head, and Krampus was able to find rest, too. The bulky man snored and tossed fitfully, but Agios was grateful that he could sleep without fear or pain.
In the firelight, Krampus’s ugly face lost its seeming fierceness. In sleep, the big man had an expression of sorrow. Agios wondered about his past, his sufferings. He suspected the simple man had known nothing besides mistreatment and the sting of the lash. It would take time to undo what had been done to him. Not for the first time, Agios wondered at the men who had abused him. It was exactly as he had suspected: Krampus was not a monster, but simply a man starved for kindness. He didn’t look or act or talk like other men, but he had something gentle, something childlike in him. Agios had seen it the very first time he laid eyes on him.
Because he couldn’t sleep, Agios pulled out his knife. He had pocketed two small pieces of wood earlier and he chose one now, a long, thin piece that would serve his purpose perfectly.
It took hours to carve, and the sun was just spilling gold across the horizon when he put the finishing touches on one of the wings. He had never seen a picture of one of these creatures, but Gamos had spoken of them, and now Agios had made his best effort at capturing its likeness. The dragon was a thing of beauty—his best effort yet—and he marveled at it for a moment. The sleek, scaly body curved sinuously, the tail coiled like a snake. That hadn’t been the hard part. Agios had labored over the wings, spread wide and marvelous, and the tiny, pointed teeth in the open, roaring mouth. Agios smiled a little, then placed the beast on the ground next to Gamos. It would be the first thing he would see when he opened his eyes. It was the only way Agios could think to say good-bye.
Quietly, Agios woke Krampus. Pressing his finger to his lips, he helped the giant to his feet and they slipped away in the predawn light. The horses were saddled and ready, and so was Caspar. Without even uttering a greeting, Agios took the spear a servant offered him and slid a short sword into the leather strap across his back. Krampus would not mount.
“Let him go on foot,” Agios said.
“He will slow us.”
“If we try to gallop the whole way, we’ll kill the horses.”
“True,” said Caspar. In the end, two on horseback and one jogging tirelessly along, they left the caravan and headed north as a dry wind stirred up clouds of dust.
Chapter 5
Caspar explained that the journey would take close to two weeks, and they would have to trade and hunt to survive along the way. Hunting was no problem—very little could evade Agios’s spear—but he worried about the trading. Caspar had said that the surplus frankincense could be sold for food or for unexpected needs, new horseshoes or reins to replace worn-out ones—but Agios knew that frankincense would rouse suspicion and greed. It wouldn’t be long before their reputation preceded them, and when that happened, they would likely find themselves in a perilous situation.
“All will be well,” Caspar assured him. “We have the brute.”
“His name is Krampus,” Agios insisted. “Even with him, we are only three. We can be outnumbered and defeated.”
Caspar thought for a moment. “I have an idea.”
At the next village they traded for hot bowls of a rich lentil stew, several crusty loaves of barley bread, and some oddities that Caspar was very secretive about. First they secured six balls of yarn and a dozen small earthenware vessels. Then Caspar visited a seller of medicines and curious chemicals. That night, as they sat with their mats unrolled beside a low fire, Caspar unpacked bags and flasks of powders and mixed them until he tossed a pinch of it into the campfire. It flared like lightning, blinding, and sent a wave of heat that scorched Agios’s face. An acrid boiling smoke remained. “Good,” Caspar said. “An acid will make it take fire.” He produced small flasks with corks, prepared them, and then wound skeins of wool around a bag full of the powders and one of the flasks. When he was finished, they each had two balls of wool that they tucked carefully inside their cloaks.
Caspar showed them how one loop of wool was left. “Pull the loop and it uncorks the flask inside. The acid mixes with the powder, and . . .” Caspar mimed an explosion with his hands.
Krampus twitched the loop on one of the two balls of wool he held.
“Not now,” Agios told him quickly, putting a warning hand on the man’s broad arm. “It’s dangerous.”
Krampus seemed to understand.
As the fire slowly burned to glowing coals, Caspar and Krampus gave in to sleep. But Agios couldn’t find rest. Staring into the dying fire, he suddenly became aware that the land was bathed in light, nearly as bright as a full moon on the desert. Yet the moon was well past full, and in a different part of the sky. Agios got to his feet and saw that halfway to the zenith and off to the northwest a star shone, an unfamiliar one. Its brilliance astonished him.
Krampus muttered in his sleep and stirred slightly.
Staring at the star, Agios felt a stirring of memory almost as sharp as longing.
A light in the night. Darkness all around.
He had dreamed of this, dreamed of something even more valuable than frankincense. Something that he himself lacked.
But as a brisk wind lifted the hem of his cloak, Agios turned from the star and its unusual light. It was part of the heavens, an unearthly fantasy of the sort that Philos used to believe in. His son had wished on stars. But Agios knew that was foolishness. The star was nothing but far-off light and impossible yearning: a dream.
In spite of the harsh, unforgiving landscape, they journeyed as quickly as they could toward the city of Megisthes, where Melchior ruled, prodded forward by Caspar’s desire to join his friends and their shared anxiety about the safety of the trade route. They found themselves in a dry land with high sandstone cliffs. The rock face was honeycombed with caves—the dwelling places of lepers and outcasts, Caspar told him.
The day grew unbearably hot and Caspar called for a midday break. They watered the stallions in a nearby stream and then tethered them in the shade of a small stand of trees. Caspar took out his bedroll and in minutes dropped into a doze, apparently confident that his guards would let nothing escape their watchful gaze. But Krampus’s eyes were fixed on the caves—not the road.
Agios watched his charge. He suspected that Krampus was much younger than he had originally supposed—maybe as young as his mid-teens. But there was no way to know for sure. He was slowly learning to speak, gaining in confidence daily. He usually talked, though, only of immediate needs, food or drink or the need to relieve himself. Never of the past. Perhaps he did not even comprehend time as other men did.
Crouching down beside him, Agios motioned to the hills and the dwellings that Krampus seemed so fixated on. “Where do you come from?” he asked.
No answer but a grunt.
Agios tried in the handful of other languages he knew. Krampus did not respond at all, until Agios spoke Latin: “Where do you come from?”
Krampus growled and shook his head. He mimed pulling at an oar.
“Yes, I heard you were a galley slave. Before that, though? Where did you live? Who were your father and mother?”
Krampus stared at Agios for a moment, and then he turned fully away, giving Agios his back. It was a childish move, a clear indication that he didn’t want to talk and, even more likely, didn’t want to remember. Agios could understand. He clapped a hand on Krampus’s shoulder for just a moment, and then walked away to give him privacy. A
measure of peace. Even from several strides away, Agios could hear the muffled, gargling sound that came from deep inside Krampus’s throat. It was the sound of his weeping.
At least I know he understands Latin. Perhaps, Agios thought, he should use that tongue to speak with Krampus. He might be quicker to talk in his native language.
The three men saw their destination a day before they reached it. Megisthes was a fortified city in the mountains, a place of domes and spires. It ran along a ridge and commanded valleys on three sides, in morning light a shining, rose-colored metropolis carved in stone. Farms lush with produce nearly ready for harvest crowded the valleys. They were an anomaly in the barren mountains, but Megisthes seemed perched on a vast oasis.
They camped outside the city and the next morning Caspar, Agios, and Krampus took a long, winding road across the plain and up to the broad summit of the ridge, where guards allowed them to pass through a gate and into the outer courtyards of Megisthes. Agios saw that the streets, though narrow, were carefully paved with precisely cut pale sandstone. The houses and buildings were of pinkish granite, and though crowded, the place seemed well ordered, the people happy. They appeared to recognize Caspar, but they shot curious glances at Agios and Krampus. No one spoke to them as an armed man led the three to the inner city and to the gates of an enormous palace.
Word had been sent ahead and a second guard met them at the inner gate and then led Caspar, Agios, and Krampus into a collection of airy, comfortable rooms. They found Melchior in his library, surrounded by a hundred or more scrolls. He rose from his seat at a table: a tall, dark-haired man with a flowing black beard and brown eyes that had the faraway gaze of a scholar.
He was taller than Agios by a few finger-breadths, though not as muscular. He wore a gray knee-length tunic, the garment belted at the waist, and Greek sandals. His expression seemed open and honest and his features had the mark of intelligence.
“Caspar!” he called, crossing the room to embrace his old friend. “It’s good to see you. The time of the prophecy is near.”
The two men embraced, and then Caspar turned to introduce Melchior to Agios. As a hired guard and nothing more, Agios hadn’t expected to be allowed into Melchior’s home, much less treated as a man of any significance. But Caspar seemed full of surprises.
Agios bowed slightly and then gestured at Krampus. Ill at ease as he generally was beneath a roof, Krampus shambled a step toward him. “This is Krampus. He’s my friend and a strong fighter. He will help us defend ourselves.”
Krampus looked at Agios for direction. Agios bent his head, and Krampus imitated him.
Without reacting to either Krampus’s size or his ugliness, Melchior said, “You are welcome, too. I hope we will have no need of violence, but I am grateful for your strength.”
Krampus grinned, obviously pleased, at least at Melchior’s tone. Agios doubted that he understood any of the words.
Caspar told Melchior, “I have explained that the trip may be difficult. We will be few in number, and we will be carrying valuable things. I don’t wish to take a guard of any size— our mission is not a political one, and the less warlike we seem, the easier it will be to pass borders. Are you in agreement, Melchior?”
“Certainly, if these two men are willing to fight.”
Agios nodded but held his tongue.
Melchior looked at him silently and then asked, “What gods do you worship, Agios?”
“None,” Agios confessed.
Looking surprised, Melchior asked, “None at all? Are you a complete unbeliever?”
Agios told him, “My people have no gods, though we believe that everything has a spirit of its own. But as for worship, no, I have no god to pray to. If I have faith in anything, sir, it’s in spirit and in life. I can’t believe in gods. It’s hard enough for me to believe in people.”
Caspar smiled. “Though our friend is not a man without any beliefs, or without any sense of spirit.”
“I wonder more than believe,” Agios corrected.
Melchior asked, “But how do you feel if others believe?”
With a shrug, Agios said, “So long as it harms no one, let each believe as he wishes.”
“Well, well,” Melchior said, his voice thoughtful. “Perhaps you may find more to believe in by and by.” He rang a bell, and a servant came to the library doorway.
“These men are tired after a long ride,” Melchior told him. “See that they have baths and fresh clothing and a good meal.”
Agios explained Krampus’s special needs—the big man would never sleep inside a building or tent, but insisted on being in the open, or at least in a place where he could see the sky—and the servants found a room for Agios with a balcony outside. Krampus indicated that he would be content to sleep there, out in the air. They bathed and donned fresh clothing provided by Melchior, and later they ate together. The two scholars dined elsewhere. Krampus obviously relished the food—roast peafowl and goat’s meat—and when they had finished, he spread his arms, as if to take in the entire place, perhaps the entire kingdom. “Good,” he said. For him it was quite a speech.
That night as Agios readied himself for bed, a servant came to the room. “Melchior commands your presence,” the servant said. Agios checked on Krampus, who had fallen into a sound sleep, and he followed the servant to a tower built into a corner of the city wall—a tower far too tall to be a defensive post.
The servant said, “He awaits you at the top.”
A spiral stairway of many hundred steps led up and up. Agios climbed steadily, though his thighs began to ache just past the midway point. The stair ended on a flat, roofless platform. Agios stepped out into the night. A sky like black velvet stretched overhead, sprinkled with stars looking unusually bright, for the moon had not risen.
“Come here,” Melchior said. He was a silhouette in the darkness.
Agios felt the fresh breeze of the mountains. In the faint starlight he could tell only that Melchior stood alone. With some caution Agios walked across the platform to stand near him.
“Caspar just left me. He suggested I show you a few things. This way is north,” Melchior said, taking Agios’s upper arm and turning him so he looked out over the low parapet. “Do you know the stars?”
“I know some have names for them,” Agios said. “The Babylonians call one Ishtar. My own people didn’t name the stars, but I can tell my way from them.” He looked up. “There is the North Star, for example. It is always in the night sky and shows a true direction.”
“Look straight ahead, and to the west, and a third of the way up from the horizon. Do you see that star, the brightest one?”
He couldn’t have missed it: a star as bright as the Morning Star or Evening Star, nearly as bright as a beacon, brighter than the last time he had caught sight of it. It flared and seemed to shoot brilliant beams of light. “I see it, sir. I noticed it in the desert some days ago.”
“It is a new star,” Melchior said, his voice taut with an underlying excitement. “It is not a wandering star, of the kind the Greeks call planeta. I don’t think it is a fixed star, at least not one of the ordinary kind, for the whole dome of the sky slowly rotates through the year, turning around the axis of the North Star, but for the ten months since that one appeared, it has been in the very same place, growing steadily brighter. The planets roam, the fixed stars rotate but keep their patterns—but that star alone is faithful to its place in the heavens.”
Agios didn’t know what to say. He grunted thoughtfully.
“It is something new,” Melchior said. “It’s an omen.”
Omens. They crammed the world full, if you listened to all the priests of all the religions. A crow flying overhead was an omen, or an oddly shaped fruit, or the cry of a wolf, or an earthquake or a storm, or drought or flood, wind or calm. Omens everywhere, and most of them evil, Agios thought.
As though reading his mind, Melchior said, “This one means something good, Agios. Something wonderful. I’ve read about
it in the old scrolls and have discussed it with wise men. My friends Caspar and Balthasar have seen it, too. Balthasar is on his way and will be here in the next few days. We must prepare. If the prophecies are true, if this is the sign in the heavens I’ve been looking for, that star will grow steadily brighter. When it is as bright as the full moon, we must leave. That may be in a few days or in a few weeks—there’s no telling. When the time comes, we must begin our search.”
“And what do you hope to find, sir?”
“Someone to whom Balthasar, Caspar, and I must bow,” Melchior said.
Agios tried to peer through the darkness but he couldn’t quite make out Melchior’s features. “Mithridates?” he asked, naming the man he recalled as ruler of the entire Parthian Empire.
“Mithridates died years ago,” Melchior said. “Phraates holds the throne now—but I don’t mean him, either.”
“Then who?” Agios asked.
Melchior took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was low and full of awe: “I mean the hope of the world, the one whose coming is foretold in prophecy. I mean a King of Kings.”
It was the second time Agios had heard the term. This time it made him shiver.
Chapter 6
Balthasar arrived the following day. He was from the far southern desert country, a swarthy, heavyset man of great vigor. He spoke the common language, Aramaic, with a pronounced accent and a booming voice. As soon as he met the others, the three prepared for the journey. Agios and Krampus stayed out of the way, but after nightfall Melchior invited Agios once again to the observation tower. Krampus remained below, on solid ground.
Agios followed the three scholar-kings up the stair. When they arrived on the platform, Balthasar cried out in wonder. “This is the clearest I’ve ever seen it,” he said. “It is a glory in the heavens.”