Unholy Night

by Seth Grahame-Smith

  Thinking they’re safe.

  Pilate had watched, his spies scattered among the masses, his men perched on rooftops. He’d watched all those who rode into Hebron from the north, until at last he’d spotted three exhausted camels making their way through the north gate, three swordsmen, a couple, and their child on their backs. He’d watched as the Antioch Ghost and his companions had split up, the Ghost and his fellow thieves to the bazaar and the couple and child to the Cave of the Patriarchs. And while this split had been unexpected, it was manageable. Pilate dealt in the unexpected. He watched from a second-floor window overlooking the Street of Palms…knowing that he and fate would soon find each other, one way or another.

  Joseph had paid his respects, braving the throngs to lay a hand on the monument that covered the Cave of the Patriarchs. He’d stopped only long enough to say a quiet prayer for the dead, while Mary waited with the baby nearby. His prayer finished, he’d taken her hand and led her back the way they’d come.

  All in all, it hadn’t been the experience he’d hoped for. The site had been too crowded. The monument too plain. And when he’d finally worked his way close enough to feel the stone against his palm and send his thoughts to God, Joseph had felt rushed. Unable to concentrate. Not because of the noise of his fellow pilgrims or the worries of recent days. It was something else. Even now, as they pushed their way through the crowds, Joseph felt the presence of something sinister outside the walls of his mind, and he didn’t know why.

  He and Mary fought the current of bodies until they reached the Street of Palms, walking south down its center, toward where they’d tied up their camels. They would reach the south gate in plenty of time to meet the others.

  And then Joseph beheld a miracle…his heart full to bursting.

  The palm trees that lined the street were bowing their heads. Bowing in reverence as they passed. Could it be? Do they bow for us? Joseph turned to Mary, wondering if she saw it too—but her eyes were fixed squarely on the child below. The child, thought Joseph. They bow for the child! Before he could fully grasp what he was seeing, a passage suddenly unveiled itself in his mind. A passage from the Scriptures. A prophecy of the coming of the Messiah:

  The trumpeting of angels shall herald his coming. His name shall be praised from the mountaintops, and the heavens and the earth shall bow before him…

  And here it was. The prophecy realized. Here was nature, bowing before an infant. Here was a vindication of everything he believed, and a total destruction of the armies of doubt that had laid siege outside his mind. The visions, the rescue from Herod’s men, the stream in the desert, and now this? Now trees bowing their heads? No, there could be no doubt! His son was indeed the Messiah! God be praised!

  And then the arrows came.

  They came from the tops of the bowing palms. Descending from the heavens—so numerous, so dense that their black bodies looked like a swarm of insects flying in formation. Insects that had caught sight of them, of he and Mary and the baby, and begun their attack. And in the seconds that those arrows hung in the air, Joseph’s eyes drifted back to their source. Only then did he see why the palm trees really bowed. Not in reverence to their newborn king, but because they were laden with archers. Assassins, who’d climbed to the tops of the trees and lain in wait.

  An ambush.

  Joseph stood in awe of the sight. A sight Mary was still blissfully unaware of.

  This can’t be. Why would God take us this far, only to strike us down?

  Joseph was frozen, waiting for God to tell him what to do. Waiting for him to provide, as he always had. But doubt was rattling its sabers once again, louder than it ever had. He and his young wife would die where they stood. Their child—their ordinary, insignificant child—would die beside them. Right here on this street, only yards from where Abraham and Sarah had been laid to rest. Only, their bodies would have no shrines built above them. No pilgrims would come to pay tribute to their legacy, because they would have none. They would be filled with arrows, and forgotten.

  “GET DOWN!”

  Joseph suddenly felt his body bolt sideways as it was struck by some unseen force. Only later would he piece together what had happened in those next few seconds: how Balthazar had tackled the three of them just before the arrows arrived. How Melchyor had come running behind him, how he’d swung his sword and cut several arrows out of the air before they could reach their targets.

  The baby was screaming, but Mary couldn’t find breath to comfort it. She and Joseph lay on their sides, face to frightened face, still unsure of who or what had brought them to the ground. Unaware that Roman soldiers had begun to pour in from the side streets where they’d been hiding, swords drawn. They heard screams go up along the street as the veil of confusion lifted, and the people of Hebron began to understand. As mothers grabbed their children and hurried them away from the path of the arrows, and as fathers met the advancing Roman soldiers with their fists.

  Balthazar and Melchyor were quick to their feet and pulled the others up with them. Balthazar kept one hand clenched around a piece of Mary’s robes, determined not to lose hold of her in the panic, for there was a good chance she and the baby would be trampled if he did. With the other, he held his sword and readied himself for whatever came his way in front, while Melchyor did the same and covered their backs.

  Gaspar watched his fellow fugitives from a distance, reluctant to join them. He could easily slip away in this commotion. He could run away and no one would care. But what about Melchyor? Poor, helpless Melchyor would be lost without him. No, Gaspar wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened. Besides, there was no honor in betraying a loyal friend. But there’s no honor in throwing your life away either. Look, Gaspar—look at how many soldiers come from the side streets…

  Nearby in the bazaar, commerce ground to a halt as word spread that something big was happening on the Street of Palms. Curious customers began to walk, then run in the direction of the screams coming from just beyond the market. Merchants gathered their wares and closed their stands, wary of the looting that often followed this sort of excitement.

  They’d seen it before. Arguments among the religious pilgrims had spilled into the streets; animals had thrown off their riders and trampled unlucky bystanders. In a small city, chaos was the order of the day. Most of the few dozen men making their way from the bazaar expected to find a familiar disturbance waiting for them on the Street of Palms. Instead, they were greeted by a sight they never could’ve fathomed:

  The Roman Army had declared war on Hebron.

  At least, that’s the way it looked. There were Roman archers shooting at unarmed citizens from treetops, Roman soldiers bludgeoning the fathers who fought to protect their women, and women using their bodies to shield their children. A mighty army, attacking the good and gentle people of Hebron. Specifically, it looked like they were after a few helpless souls at the center of the fray, including a young woman and an infant. The men of the bazaar took this all in for a moment. There was an unwritten rule in occupied Judea: “Fighting the Romans only brings more Romans.” It was best to let them go about their business and move on. But this wouldn’t stand. The men rushed into the chaos of the street, determined to help their brothers and sisters drive back the aggressors. They picked up stones and flung them at the treetop archers, pelted and punched the soldiers as they advanced deeper into the riot.

  Balthazar was fighting his way forward, dragging Mary along, when a lone soldier broke through the riot and came at them, sword held high. Balthazar swung and hit the side of the soldier’s helmet with a clang, stunning him just long enough to swing again. The second strike found the soldier’s jaw, leaving a deep, bloody gash clean through his right cheek, deep enough to take a piece of tongue with it. The resulting spray struck Mary’s face. She gasped but resisted the urge to bring her hands up and wipe it away. She simply held on to the baby as the red droplets ran down her cheeks. Balthazar turned and caught a glimpse of her shocked face,
just long enough for a thought to flash in and out of his mind:

  Tears of blood.

  No sooner had the first soldier fallen than two more came on his heels, side by side. Balthazar couldn’t fight both of them off, not with one hand behind his back, pulling Mary along. He wouldn’t be able to block both of their blades. Balthazar saw exactly how this would play out: He would raise his sword to meet the attack, blocking the first soldier’s blade. Then, as he held it there in the air, the second soldier would run him through his belly. Unless, by some miracle, they both swung their swords at the same time.

  But there would be no miracle. The first soldier raised his sword and brought it down on Balthazar’s head. Balthazar, naturally, raised his own sword to block it, even though he knew this would leave him exposed. Their blades met in the air with a clang, and Balthazar held it there with all of his strength, fully expecting that the other soldier would run him through at any moment. But the second attack never came. Only when Balthazar looked down did he realize why: the second soldier was too busy grabbing at his own belly, trying in vain to catch the blood pouring out of it.

  Gaspar had attacked him from the side.

  Now, with one soldier bleeding and the other disoriented, Gaspar attacked again, running Balthazar’s soldier through his middle and joining his fellow fugitives in pressing forward. Balthazar wondered what had taken Gaspar so long, why he hadn’t run with them when the arrows had started flying. But those questions could wait. For now, they fought through the chaos around them: the Street of Palms a mess of soldiers, angry men, and panicked women. Balthazar and Melchyor took the front; Joseph and Gaspar took the rear, all of them protecting Mary and the baby in the middle.

  The camels.

  “The camels!” he yelled to the others.

  Balthazar knew it was their only chance: to fight their way to where the camels were tied up and ride off into the desert. But even if they could reach the animals, he knew the plan was almost certainly doomed to fail. He had seen how many Romans there were waiting beyond those walls. He’d seen their horses. Still, a long shot was better than no shot.

  Mary glanced to the side as Balthazar pulled her along. She caught a glimpse of a young father—Joseph’s age—fighting with a Roman soldier, grabbing on to the sides of his helmet with both hands and trying to bring him to the ground. She saw the young mother—my age—cowering behind him, protecting two small children with her body. Mary watched in horror as the soldier brought his sword down on the man’s forearm, splaying it open and exposing the bone beneath. He cried out and grabbed the wound with his other hand, freeing the soldier, who struck him again, this time in the skull. The blade burrowed deep into his brain, and a spout of dark blood shot into the air above his head, pumped out by the racing heart that would soon beat its last. His young wife screamed twice—first at the sight of her husband’s body hitting the ground, and then as the soldier raised his sword a third time. The young mother held a defensive hand out in front of her body, only to have it split in half as the sword came down between her outstretched fingers. Mary turned away. She couldn’t bear any more.

  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 lo
ng, 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?