A marble terrace ran along the base of the cube’s seaside wall, where, in his healthier days, Herod had taken to sunning himself with select members of his harem. A wide marble staircase descended gracefully from this terrace all the way to the sea, where it met with a long wooden dock. Its planks were the first things to greet Herod and his guests when they arrived by boat from the north. Today, however, they were crowded with Roman warships, bobbing on the sizable waves that had been kicked up by the growing storm.
The Roman Navy had sailed south down Judea’s coast to join up with its army. The fleet was led by a legendary admiral named Lucius Arruntius, who’d been instrumental in helping his friend Augustus win sole dominion over the empire. The emperor had dispatched his most trusted admiral to keep watch over his prized magus and his promising, but untested, young officer, Pontius Pilate.
As Balthazar was pulled toward the distant palace, his wrists bound with rope, he could make out the tops of several ships bobbing up and down, their naked masts swaying like reeds in the breeze. The rain was coming harder now — each droplet providing welcome relief from the scrapes and barbs that marked his flesh. On reaching the palace grounds, he was dragged unceremoniously away from the main procession and through a small side entrance. And what had been a gray, rainy sky was suddenly an inky black passage whose darkness was permeated only by the flickering light of torches on the wall. He was in a dungeon. Never to see the sky again.
He was brought to the center of a large, dark cell, rainwater seeping through tiny cracks in the ceiling and falling to the stone floor in drops that echoed against the smooth walls of the dungeon. A rope was tied around each of his wrists and both ropes tied to a large wooden beam that ran from wall to wall above his head. When these ropes were pulled taut, Balthazar was forced to hang by his wrists, his toes dangling less than an inch above the floor. His ankles were bound together and a cloth tied around his waist — the sole concession to his modesty.
Or more likely, theirs.
In contrast to the cool droplets falling from the sky outside, the dungeon was hot. Unbearably hot. A fire raged in a brick oven that was built into one of the cell’s walls. Various metal instruments had already been lined up in its flames, each on its way to glowing red-hot. Balthazar supposed they were metal pokers, brands and the like, though he couldn’t tell, as only the wooden handles were visible from where he hung.
Whatever they are, I’m not going to like them at all. Not one bit.
Nor would he like any of the sharp instruments that had been neatly laid out on a small table against the wall, not far from the glow of the oven. He couldn’t see exactly what these were, either, but the setting reminded him of a physician’s table — with scalpels and clamps and scissors all lying neatly in a row, meticulously sharpened and ready for action. A bowl of water and a cloth had been placed beside them.
“What is it the fishermen say?” asked a familiar, gravelly voice.
The cell door swung open, and the guards made way as Herod entered.
“‘The harder the fight, the sweeter the catch’?”
Herod was followed closely by a strange little man in black robes. Balthazar hated the little man at once, mostly because he suspected that he was about to use those sharp instruments to do terrible things to him. But also — and there was no way to be sure of this — because he suspected that the little man had played a role in making those corpses rise from their tombs and attack him.
The magus dipped his hands in the bowl and washed them before taking stock of the various instruments on the table before him. He made sure Balthazar had a clear view of it all, fully aware that anticipation was the most painful part of any torture. He examined the small knives and other instruments, so sharp that you could almost hear them sing. A chair was brought in for Herod, who took his seat a few feet away from the condemned. A small table was hurriedly placed beside this chair, and an assortment of orange slices and dates arranged on it. He was close enough to see every drop of blood but far enough away to avoid getting any on him. The old king reminded Balthazar of a spectator at a chariot race.
“Whatever you do to me,” said Balthazar, “it won’t get you any closer to them.”
“And what would I hope to get from you?” asked Herod. “The knowledge that your friends are headed to Egypt? Of course they are. They’re running for their lives as we speak, because they believe they’ll be safe once they cross the border. But they’re mistaken, you see. Egypt may be the end of my domain, but our Roman friends have dominion over the world.”
Balthazar could only glare back at him, fantasizing about getting his hands around that decaying little windpipe.
“I’m not interested in what you know,” said Herod. “I’m interested in watching you scream.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”
“We’ll see,” said Herod with a smile. He could see the beads of sweat running down Balthazar’s face. The trembling in his fingers. Maybe it was exhaustion, but Herod thought it more likely that the mighty Antioch Ghost was quietly terrified.
“You look frightened already,” said Herod.
“And you look like a diseased dog, with Rome’s leash around its neck.”
Over by the door, Pilate struggled to suppress a laugh. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Herod glared back at Balthazar for a moment, then laughed. If he’d heard such a thing yesterday, he might’ve let it anger him. Even wound him. But that was before everything had changed. Before his body and his future had been pulled out of the ashes. Today, he saw Balthazar’s words for what they were: the desperate swings of a dying man.
The magus chose his instrument — a scalpel — and came forward. Balthazar prepared himself for what was coming. There was a place inside. A place to which he could retreat. A place where Abdi was waiting for him. Where his mother and sisters were waiting to welcome him. And Sela. She was there, all golden and forever. Wildly welcoming and naked beneath the surface of the Orontes.
Pilate remained close to the door. He wasn’t much for torture and wanted to be near the exit in case he began to feel sick. In his experience, the practice only succeeded in extracting lies. It was for the pleasure of the torturer more than pain of the tortured.
“Take your time,” said Herod as the magus stepped close to Balthazar, his blade glistening in the torchlight.
There was no need to be hasty. The public already thought the Antioch Ghost was dead. With no risk of provoking sympathy for their prisoner, they were free to be as cruel and as meticulous as they pleased.
The magus began his work, taking the knife to Balthazar’s side. He’d decided to start by stripping away the victim’s flesh, a little at a time. Later, they would move on to other, less surgical methods of inflicting pain. He liked to begin with the flanks — the strips of flesh that ran from the bottom of the armpits to the waist. They were rich with nerves. Excruciating when sliced open and peeled away. But removing them wasn’t fatal. Others preferred to start with the face and work their way down. And while removing the face was painful and shocking, it was too often deadly.
Prolonging death was akin to prolonging an orgasm. The closer you could bring the victim to the finish line without crossing it, the better it was. The trick was to take it slow. To give the victim time to recover from the shock, to keep him conscious and keep enough blood in his body to keep it alive for days on end. That was the trick. That was good torture.