Unholy Night

by Seth Grahame-Smith

  The next morning, he took Abdi into the city, and the two of them ate cinnamon dates until they were nearly sick. And when they rested beneath their favorite tree on the Orontes—the one with the scar down its side, not far from where Balthazar had entered the water the night before—he presented his brother a little present from his first plunder of the dead. A keepsake. It was a gold pendant on a leather string, a thin, coin-shaped wafer bearing the likeness of the god Plutus on one side.

  “The god of wealth,” said Balthazar as he hung it around Abdi’s neck.

  The only god worth worshipping.

  The pendant flittered in the afternoon sun, spinning round and round as Abdi jumped and laughed along the riverbank, proud of his gift—but more proud of the fact that his big brother had given it to him. Balthazar watched from the shade of the scarred tree, smiling from ear to ear, a gold disk of reflected light sweeping across his face every so often. The light from his brother’s pendant. The pendant he would spend much of his life searching for.

  4

  A Strange Eastern Light

  “During the time of King Herod, Wise Men from the east came and asked, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.’”

  —Matthew 2:1

  I

  Herod smiled, the tips of his blackened teeth showing through thin lips. He’d been right, of course. The one thing people loved more than an outlaw was seeing him punished.

  Thousands had turned out to witness the death of the Antioch Ghost. Contrary to the fears of his advisors, there were no protests or demands for his release, no weeping in the streets of Jerusalem over his imminent demise. There was only a sea of people waiting anxiously in the square outside the palace’s north gate, all of them crowded around a small wooden platform that had been erected in its center. A sea of people waiting anxiously for their glimpse of a minor legend. More specifically, for a glimpse of his blood.

  Herod stood high above them in the Tower of Mariamne, watching it all through a small widow but taking care to keep his diseased face hidden from view. His soldiers had spent the day canvassing every square inch of Jerusalem, from the poorest suburbs to the porticos of the Great Temple, spreading the word that the famed murderer—the demon known as “the Antioch Ghost”—was going to be executed outside the palace at sundown. Across the city, merchants had closed their shops early. Prophets had canceled their afternoon street sermons. Weary travelers had even given up their places in long census lines and diverted to the square. Herod had expected big crowds, and his expectations had been exceeded.

  There’d been some deliberation in the throne room regarding the method of execution. There were so many to choose from, each with their unique advantages and disadvantages. Crucifixion was degrading, but too prolonged. It risked a sympathetic response. Burning alive was dramatic, but too dangerous in the middle of a large, overcrowded city. Hanging was simply beneath the dignity of the occasion.

  In the end, it’d been decided that beheading was the best way to go. Quick and easy, yet sufficiently savage and humiliating. In accordance with tradition, the prisoners would be gagged and covered with black hoods, depriving them of any last words or glimpses of the living world. The hoods also hid the fear on the victims’ faces, dehumanized them, therefore lessening the chances that the onlookers would sympathize with their plight.

  After being paraded onto the platform, the condemned would be made to kneel over a stone block, and their heads would be promptly hacked off with an iron ax. Although, depending on a number of factors—the size of the neck, the sharpness of the blade, the skill of the executioner—it could take several whacks before the top parted company with the bottom.

  As soon as the blades were clean through, the hoods would be removed and the heads lifted for all to see: the jaws hanging slack, the blood draining out of the neck and the color out of the face. If you were lucky, the eyes would still be open. If you were really lucky, they’d be darting around, looking fearfully at the cheering faces of the crowd.

  The beating of drums suddenly filled the square as the doors of the north gate were opened, and Herod’s grown son, Antipas, paraded through it accompanied by royal guards. Antipas was everything his father had once been: muscular and tall, his spine straight, his olive skin perfectly healthy, and his face lightly bearded with dark hair. Herod often imagined what he would give to trade places with his son, what atrocities he would commit if it meant having that many years again, that much health and beauty. Would he kill his own beloved Antipas if it meant gaining his own health? There wasn’t the slightest shred of doubt in his mind: Of course I would.

  Antipas climbed the four steps to the platform and quieted the crowd with a wave of his hand.

  “People of Jerusalem,” he shouted, “children of Israel! Today we come to see three criminals meet justice!”

  A cheer went up, not so much for the concept of justice, but for the bloody method in which it was about to be delivered.

  “We come to honor the laws of God! And we come to honor my father, the mighty Herod!”

  Antipas indicated the tower above the north gate with his arm, and another cheer went up, no less than was required to seem convincing but not so loud that it was patronizing. A cheer of appropriate reverence. Thousands of eyes were treated to a rare glimpse of mighty Herod himself—his beard thick and brown, his cheeks full and his skin unblemished. Herod had never looked better, and he waved a hearty hand to his subjects below.

  Away from the window, the real Herod looked on as his double completed the illusion.

  He couldn’t go out among his people anymore. Not in his current state. Not until a cure was found. But he didn’t want the Jews getting any ideas, either. Spreading rumors. Perceiving him as anything but the ferocious, robust king he’d been until a few years ago.

  Herod’s double waved a few seconds more, then disappeared out of sight as he’d been instructed to do. No need to have them looking up at the “king” the whole time, scrutinizing the illusion and distracting from the main event.

  “We come,” Antipas continued, “to witness the death of three thieves—the first two caught trying to steal sacred objects from the Great Temple!”

  A chorus of angry shouts went up as the drums began to beat again, and the doors of the north gate swung open. Gaspar and Melchyor were marched out under heavy guard—black hoods over their heads, their wrists bound behind them.

  Rather than meet their deaths with the quiet dignity that had become a hallmark of men in their position, both of them struggled against their bonds, trying to free themselves from the grasp of the guards. Naturally, the more they struggled, the more the crowd cheered, working itself into a frenzy. It was all music to Herod’s ears, and it made him wish all the more that he could trade places with Antipas. He wanted to be down there on that platform, to personally lift the head of the so-called Antioch Ghost and present it to the heavens. Grab it by the hair and shake it until the last of the blood ran down his arm. Look into its eyes as they looked helplessly around for a few seconds, then faded into a thousand-yard stare. As he had countless times over the past three years, Herod silently cursed the whore who’d made him this way. The whore whose charms had been his undoing.

  She’d been so young…so new and naïve. He’d enjoyed her so many times, in so many ways. And though she’d resisted at first, Herod was sure she’d grown to enjoy him, too. But then he’d found the mark. The lesion on her breast. Within a day, there’d been another on her neck. Within a week, she’d been covered in them. Covered in sores that oozed a foul-smelling milk. Her eyes had gone yellow, her skin a deathly gray.

  And then he’d seen it. The first lesion on his own flesh. Herod had ordered his physicians to carve it out, but two more had appeared in its place. Then ten more—each one oozing and foul, each one sucking the pigment from the surrounding skin until his entire body was gray and withered. Until his teeth rotted in his mouth and his app
etite vanished. His physicians diagnosed it as leprosy, though they had to admit they’d never seen a form quite like this one.

  A king. A builder of great cities…undone by the wretched disease of beggars.

  No, Herod couldn’t go out among the people anymore, but he could still lead them. It took a bit of trickery, a bit of illusion. But he could still rule from the shadows, as he did now—standing in the tower named for his dearly departed wife, watching as the hooded Gaspar and Melchyor were led onto the platform, fighting every step of the way. Trying to pull free, as if they’d be able to escape. As if they’d be able to run past dozens of guards and thousands of onlookers with hoods over their heads.

  Amazing, thought Herod, the things a man will do to preserve himself.

  The shorter of the two prisoners was dragged over to the block and forced to kneel in front of it. The stone had metal rings protruding from either side, through which a rope had been threaded. As soon as Melchyor’s hooded face hit the stone, the rope was laid across his shoulders. Guards on either side of the block then took the ends of the rope in their hands and pulled it taut, holding the prisoner’s body down despite his struggles.

  “And now,” said Antipas, “the Greek known as ‘Melchyor’ goes to his death!”

  The crowd went absolutely cold quiet. They wanted to hear this. Hear the familiar crack of a breaking neck and metal hitting stone. The executioner lifted his ax and held it aloft for several seconds, making the most of the moment. Then down it came. The crack of shattered vertebrae could be heard clear across the square, but not the clanging of the blade against the block.

  It hadn’t gone clean through.

  Quickly, as Melchyor’s body began to twitch and dark blood began to pour down the sides of the stone block, the ax was raised again and the job finished. The instant it was, Antipas pulled off Melchyor’s hood and lifted his head for the crowd to see—blood pouring down his forearm and onto the wooden planks.

  Herod had never seen this little Greek before. He was just a common criminal, and as such, he’d been taken straight to the dungeon. No audience with the king. Just a death sentence and a cell. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about him, although from this distance it was hard to tell. Besides, Herod had to admit, all Greeks look the same to me.

  It didn’t matter. Here he was, his mouth gagged and slack jawed, his eyes moving, taking in the exuberant faces with their fists raised in the air. Taking in the last few seconds they would ever see. Here he was, a reminder of Herod’s absolute authority. And the crowd couldn’t have been happier.

  When he sensed they’d had their fill, Antipas handed Melchyor’s head to a guard, who carried it off to be stuck on the end of a pike, where it would shrivel in the sun for the next month or more. It was Gaspar’s turn, and like his smaller companion, he wasn’t going to go quietly. It took four guards to force him to his knees and all the strength of the rope men to hold him down. The executioner was determined to strike a clean blow this time, and he did—straight through to the stone block, with enough force to split the wooden handle of his ax. Once again, Antipas removed the hood and lifted the head for all to see. Once again, the crowd cheered wildly.

  And when he felt they’d cheered long enough, Antipas handed the second head off and raised a hand in the air. The crowd fell silent. It was time.

  “And now,” said Antipas, “we come to the criminal known as ‘the Antioch Ghost.’ A criminal who’s long stolen from the innocent people of Judea, who’s murdered so many of her brave soldiers in cold blood. A criminal who’s deceived many of you into believing that he’s a giant! Tricked you into thinking he could never be captured! And yet, my father—our mighty king—has done just that!”

  A cheer went up, just as Antipas had intended it to.

  “Now we shall see that this ‘Ghost’ is nothing more than a man! Now we shall see what happens to the enemies of Judea and her people!”

  The cheering reached a fever pitch as the drums resumed, and the north gate swung open. Balthazar was marched out—a black hood over his head, his wrists bound behind him. As the guards led him into the center of the square, men and women stood on their toes and pushed each other aside, all trying to get a look at the legend. Those who did were almost universally disappointed by what they saw. This was no giant. This was just a man. A man who—like the late Gaspar and Melchyor—was struggling against his bonds. Trying to free himself, even now.

  Watching from his little window above, Herod could see Balthazar struggling, too, fighting the guards as he was led up the steps of the wooden platform. Nothing could’ve made him happier. Not only was the Antioch Ghost going to die, but also he was going to meet his death like a coward for all of Jerusalem to see!

  As if answering Herod’s thoughts, Balthazar did something completely unexpected and undignified as he took the platform. Something completely incongruous with the legend he’d cultivated, and far more embarrassing than struggling against his bonds.

  He pissed himself.

  Herod wouldn’t have known this had Antipas not noticed the dark circle on the front of the prisoner’s tan robes. Expanding. Working its way down his legs.

  “Look at him!” cried Antipas, pointing to the evidence. “Here is your mighty Antioch Ghost! The Scourge of Rome soils himself in the face of death!”

  Laughter and cheers erupted throughout the square. Insults came from every corner of the crowd. Herod couldn’t believe it. No…it’s too good to be true. His blackened teeth showed themselves once again. The legend of the Antioch Ghost would soon be as dead as the headless, piss-soaked body of the man himself.

  Like Gaspar and Melchyor, Balthazar had to be forced to kneel in front of the stone block. Unlike them, he was kneeling in his own urine. His face was forced down onto the cool stone block and the rope pulled taut across his back. It took all the strength of the men holding it to keep him in place.

  “And now,” cried Antipas, “we rid the earth of a demon!”

  The crowd fell silent again as the executioner raised his spare ax. After pausing a little longer than usual for dramatic effect, he let out a grunt of effort and brought it down on the squirming prisoner. But as the ax fell, Balthazar gave a final pull against the rope with all of his considerable might, lifting his hooded skull halfway up off the block, making the blade miss his neck.

  But there would be no dramatic escape for Balthazar today. For while the blade didn’t hit his neck, it did chop a sizable wedge into his brain.

  He was dead.

  So was the crowd. The cheering stopped. Exuberant faces turned quizzical—silently watching the spurts of blood that shot through the black hood. Watching the embarrassed executioner pull his ax out of Balthazar’s skull. This wasn’t the beheading they’d come for, the beheading they’d dropped everything to attend. This wasn’t the event they’d waited hours in the heat to witness. Their silence quickly gave way to boos.

  Herod was more disappointed than any of them. Even in his last moment, the Antioch Ghost had refused to cooperate. Even in death, he’d managed to embarrass the King of Judea. Managed to mock his power. But…at least he was dead. True, it hadn’t been the execution he’d hoped for, but it had been an execution nonetheless. The goal of ridding the earth of a demon had been achieved. And that, in the end, was all that really mattered.

  Antipas hurried onto the platform. Eager to win back some of the momentum, he ordered the executioner to finish the job—chopping the partially collapsed prisoner’s head off anyway. Hell-bent on redeeming himself, the executioner did the job in one blow, and the crowd cheered anew. Even Herod’s spirits were lifted by the sight of the Antioch Ghost’s head being finally and irrevocably separated from his body.

  Just as he had with Melchyor and Gaspar, Antipas pulled off the hood and held the head aloft for all to see.

  Only it wasn’t the Antioch Ghost’s head.

  Just as it hadn’t been Melchyor’s or Gaspar’s.

  The crowd kept cheering, and
Antipas kept smiling—​neither aware of what the Antioch Ghost actually looked like…or that this wasn’t, in fact, him.

  But Herod knew.

  From high up in his perch, he knew. He knew that the Antioch Ghost had beaten—no, humiliated—him. Humiliated him in front of his people. He felt such a rage crawling up his back, such an urge to scream. But he couldn’t find the voice. He was powerless. A powerless king, trapped in a tower named for the wife who’d humiliated him. Trapped in a body that humiliated him. He could only watch as his stupid, grinning son held the wrong head in the air.

  II

  Three wise men walked east across Jerusalem as the sun went down. Each with his head wrapped and his face covered. Each wearing the robes of a dead man.

  Once again, Balthazar had relied on religion to set him free. It had never occurred to the dungeon guards that anyone, even notorious murderers, would harm a priest. It hadn’t occurred to the guards to remain in the cell, to protect their king’s religious advisors while they offered comfort to the condemned. Nor had it occurred to the guards to get a good look at the three wise men when they knocked on the cell door and announced they were ready to come out—their head coverings reconfigured to hide their faces.

  The guards weren’t alone in their assumptions. It hadn’t occurred to Balthazar that three innocent men would pay for his freedom with their lives—struggling, screaming through their hoods and gags, and pissing themselves. His plan had merely called for overpowering the wise men, stealing their robes, binding and gagging them up with strips of fabric ripped from their own garments, and slipping out of the palace before anyone noticed the switch. He’d been sure that an alarm would go up when the guards reentered the cell and found the wise men bound, gagged, and half naked inside. Only it hadn’t occurred to Balthazar that they might not be the same guards.