Balthazar saw Peter’s face sink at the realization that he was being brushed aside. He could see the visions of promotions and slaves and reward money burning away before the captain’s eyes. It almost made his current predicament worth it.
As Peter sulked away, Herod considered Balthazar from his throne. Studied him with those yellow eyes.
In Balthazar’s experience, men of power were either cats or dogs. Dogs were simple. Direct. If you wronged a dog, it barked, sank its teeth into you, and shook you until you were dead. But cats… cats were devious. Cats liked to toy with their prey before eating it.
“The Antioch Ghost,” Herod shouted, opening his arms wide and walking down the steps from his throne. “You do me a great honor by gracing my humble palace.”
Cat.
Herod continued down the steps until he was close enough to put a hand on Balthazar’s shoulder. So close that Balthazar could smell the decay coming off of him. The rot of fungus and boils. The smell of death. Balthazar suddenly had a vision of Herod traipsing through his harem at night, pressing his naked, diseased flesh against that of his concubines. Forcing his decaying self on girls a quarter his age. He nearly retched again.
“Here we are at last. The two most famous men in all of Judea.”
Balthazar looked straight ahead. Not at Herod, not past him, but through him. Just as he’d refused to give the Judean troops the satisfaction of seeing him squirm, he wasn’t about to give their king the satisfaction of an answer — even if he was a little flattered at having his fame compared to Herod’s.
“Although, how famous can a man be if he doesn’t even have a name?” Herod stepped back and admired his prize for a moment. “Please,” he said. “I must know. I must know the true name of the man who’s taken up so much of my time these many years. Whose name I have — I admit — often cursed from this very chamber.”
Not a word from Balthazar. Not so much as a quiver of his cracked lips.
“Yes,” said Herod after a few silent moments. “Well… I suppose a man has to take something to his grave.”
Herod backed away and began to pace, much to the relief of Balthazar’s nostrils.
“You know,” he continued, “some of my advisors say that I should have you put to death immediately. Right now, in this very room. They tell me that a public execution is too risky. That you have too many admirers among the people.”
Balthazar couldn’t help but feel a little rush of pride. People love a celebrity.
“But I told them no! ‘You overestimate the public!’ I said. For the one thing the people love more than an outlaw is seeing him punished!”
Sadly, Balthazar suspected he was right. But he said nothing.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to give you the execution you deserve. The horrid, excruciating death you’ve been begging me to give you for years. And despite what my advisors think, I can tell you with absolute certainty that your suffering will please the people of Judea almost as much as it will please me.”
No… it’s too perfect. I have to say it.
“You mean it’ll please your Roman masters.”
A hush blanketed the room. Balthazar saw Herod’s priests trading nervous looks.
Here it comes… here comes the punch in my insolent face. Though I doubt this one will have as much behind it as the captain’s did.
But Herod simply broke into laugher. His rotting teeth exposed. His foul breath attacking Balthazar’s senses once again.
“You see?” said Herod. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. That’s a response worthy of the Antioch Ghost.”
And before the conversation had even really begun, it was over. Herod turned away and slowly, frailly climbed the steps to his throne. His advisors stepped forward with the next items of business, and Balthazar was ushered out the same way he came.
The king was a busy man.
VI
Balthazar had to admit, Herod’s dungeons were among the nicest he’d seen. The sand-colored walls and floors were smooth and dry, and at ten feet by ten feet, the cells were on the larger side. But the real attention-getting amenities were the small, iron-barred windows on the east-facing walls of each cell. Windows… in a dungeon. What a world this is.
He was led down a corridor by no less than six torch-wielding palace guards and pushed into a cell at the far end, where he was slightly disappointed to see two other prisoners sitting on the floor against the opposite wall. He’d assumed that a guest of his stature would be afforded private quarters. One was an African, lean and muscular, with a permanent scowl and a bald head. The other looked Greek, though it was hard to tell through his thick brown beard. Whatever his nationality, he was round and short. From the looks of them, they’d been through ordeals of their own.
“The Mighty Herod will hear your last request,” said the chief guard.
Balthazar thought about it for a moment. In truth, there was nothing on earth he wanted more than food — any food — and water. But a plan was a plan.
“I’d like a priest,” he said. The guard made no effort to hide his surprise, and the other prisoners exchanged bewildered looks behind him. “I’d like a priest to come and offer me comfort before they take us. One for me” — Balthazar turned and examined his cellmates — “and one for each of them.”
“Save your priests the trouble,” said the African, in an accent Balthazar was almost positive was Ethiopian. “My friend and I are comfortable enough.”
“Please… I insist,” said Balthazar. Then, turning back to the guards, “Three priests. One to comfort each of us.”
The chief guard considered this request for a moment. “Suit yourself,” he said, and removed the binds from Balthazar’s wrists, which felt almost as good as a drink of water would have. And with that, the guards were gone, taking the light of their torches with them. The door was shut and locked, and Balthazar was suddenly alone in the dark with a pair of strangers. Nothing but a few feet of cell and a few slivers of moonlight between them. He swung his arms in circles, trying to loosen his aching shoulders, trying to get the blood back in his wrists.
“Congratulations,” said the African. “You are, perhaps, the dumbest man I have ever met.”
“You’re probably right. But it’ll save time if you call me Balthazar.”
“Gaspar,” he said. “And this is my partner, Melchyor of Samos — the finest swordsman in the empire.”
Balthazar had listened to his share of dungeon boasts. Criminals were a bragging breed, especially around other criminals. But that was among the more ridiculous he’d heard. Gaspar’s round little companion didn’t look like he could lift a sword, let alone kill something with it. But as he was too weak for the usual verbal jousting that went on in these cells, Balthazar chose to ignore it.
“And you?” he asked Gaspar. “I suppose you have some extraordinary talent, too?”
“My only talent is being smart enough to partner with the best swordsman in the empire.”
“He must not be that good,” said Balthazar, “if the two of you ended up in here.”
“We were captured trying to steal a golden censer from the Soreg,” said Gaspar. “Turns out I don’t make a very convincing Jew.”
“We’re to be put to death in the morning,” said Melchyor, in a way that suggested he didn’t fully understand the implications of what that meant.
“What a coincidence. I’m to be put to death in the morning, too.”
“And you?” said Gaspar. “What did you do to end up as a guest of Herod the Great?”