In that vulnerable moment, Sela thrust her knife into his kidney. She was surprised how easily it went in and how quickly the sentry went down, screaming out and clutching at the wound. She looked down at the two soldiers she’d just sent to the ground, then spun around and saw the third, red-faced and about to pass out for lack of oxygen. Joseph remained on the sentry’s back, choking him with all his might, even as he thrashed and pulled at the carpenter’s hair.
“Run, Mary!” he said. “RUN!”
Sela froze, not knowing whether she should help Joseph or speed Mary and the baby away. She looked down at the bloody knife in her hand and thought about charging at the sentry Joseph was choking. But if I missed? And why is Mary just standing there, looking at me and pointing?
“Sela!” cried Mary. “Behind y — ”
Sela’s eyes crossed, and the sound of rain and waves grew suddenly distant. She stood perfectly upright as the whole world tilted on its axis, bringing her face to the ground with a thud. She’d been struck on the head. She knew this somehow, even though the pain had yet to register, and her hair had yet to become matted with the blood that poured from her skull. A pair of sandals came into view, jumping over her and half running, half limping toward Joseph. Though Sela couldn’t see his face, the limp told her that the sandals belonged to the first soldier. The one she’d rendered childless.
Despite his injury, it seemed he’d summoned the strength to rise, clobber the back of her skull, and rush to the aid of his fellow Roman. She watched as he tackled Joseph, bringing all three men to the ground. She watched as he pummeled the carpenter with a series of punches. And as Sela watched these sideways events transpire, helpless to affect their outcome, another pair of sandals came into view — droplets of blood and rainwater running down their owner’s legs and ankles.
Stabbed Kidney… it’s the one with the stabbed kidney.
Sela also saw the bottom of a wooden club. It disappeared from her field of view as the sentry raised it high. A moment later, everything went dark.
VI
Adbi’s pendant hung from a weathered neck. The red, leathery neck of a man who’d spent many a carefree day in the sun. A man who’d been permitted to grow old. The hairs on his chest were white, as was his beard. Both stood in stark contrast to the burned pigment of the skin beneath. The admiral — the centurion — had changed drastically in the past nine years. But the eyes were the same. The ones that’d been seared into Balthazar’s mind that day in the forum. The ones that had kept him company under the dark desert skies for all those years as he’d searched the empire for the man in front of him and for the pendant, still hanging there, as it had around Abdi’s neck.
Give me this, O Lord… give me this. Let me see my enemy’s face again. Let me strike him down for what he’s done. Let me do this before my life on this earth is ended. Let me do this, whatever awaits me across the gulf of death. No matter the consequences of time or punishment.
God had delivered him to Balthazar, as Mary said he might. Only he hadn’t delivered him to kill. God had delivered the centurion to taunt Balthazar. To further punish him for all the terrible things he’d done in his life. All the futures and fortunes he’d stolen.
And I deserve to be taunted.
The admiral, however, had no idea who the dirty, bloody beast hanging before him was. He looked Syrian. Like one of the little street rats in Antioch. The thieving little pieces of garbage I had to suffer. Whose stench I can still smell. He didn’t like the way this particular rat was looking at him. Like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s going to kill me. And why do his eyes go to my pendant so often?
This likely would’ve remained a mystery to the admiral had Balthazar’s anger not driven him to bite down on his lip. Bite down so hard that a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. And as it did, the admiral saw it. The little scar on Balthazar’s right cheek. That distinctive little scar in the shape of an “X.”
The scar I gave him…
“GLORY!” cried Herod, the magus at his side.
It wasn’t the perfect word by any means, but it was the first one that jumped off his tongue. He looked down at the baby lying on the table, naked and crying out for his mother in the center of a crowded throne room. The fugitives had been captured sneaking around outside in the rain. It was too good to be true. Herod had expected to endure one final push in this great chase. One last obstacle from the meddling Hebrew God. Instead, the Hebrew God’s little messenger — this so-called Messiah — had walked right to his back door and offered himself up.
“Glory to the people of Judea! Glory to Rome and her emperor!”
Pilate watched the wretched old king celebrate, the infant’s mother and father in chains, in tears — held by Roman guards near the throne room’s entrance. There was another woman with them, also in chains. Probably the same one who harbored them in Beersheba. From the looks of it, she’d been beaten to within an inch of her life. His sentries had done well, and they were being treated by the king’s personal physicians. He was told two would live, though one — the one who’d been stabbed — would likely die of infection. At least he’ll die a hero.
Herod reached down and slid his fingers under the infant’s back. My fingers… no longer blistered. No longer twisted and aching. He picked the child up and held him aloft for all to see. Held him as a temple priest holds an offering to heaven.
And I’ll burn him as an offering, he thought. I’ll burn a god… hear his screams. I’ll watch his flesh melt away and his bones blacken.
He wanted the Hebrew God to get a good look at this. If this baby was destined to topple the kingdoms of the world — if it was truly, as the Jews said, the “son of God” — then what did that make the king who held him in his hands? He walked around the room, displaying the child for the assembled courtesans and officers.
Yes, a man could be bigger than a god. Here was proof. Here was a king holding a god in his hands. My hands… which move without pain for the first time in years. He handed the child to a Roman guard.
“Take him to the dungeon and wait for us… I want to put him in the oven myself.”
These words brought screams of anguished protest from Mary and Joseph, which did nothing to dissuade Herod but did remind him: “Kill the male,” he said before walking toward the door. Then, almost an afterthought, he turned back and gave a nod to the guards.
“Do with the women what you will.”
The admiral could’ve laughed at the wonder of it. If the man before him was the Antioch Ghost, and the Antioch Ghost was the little rat he’d cut in the forum all those years ago, then —
Then I made him… I made the Antioch Ghost.
“He was your… brother,” said the admiral. “The boy in the forum… ”
There was no condescension in the way the admiral said this. On the contrary, there seemed to be genuine sympathy behind the words. A sadness. The admiral was, in fact, touched by what was happening before him. He was overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions, sadness among them. He marveled at the fates. Of all the dungeons in the world, he’d been sent to this one. Sent to face a monster that he created.