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 appetite 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.