Seth Grahame-Smith - Unholy Night

The finished compound was an impressive sight. A gleaming symbol of Roman superiority hidden from the public behind ten-foot walls. It sat atop a hill overlooking the northwest quarter of the little city, looking down on the temple and the bazaar below, where, as Decimus said, “the braying of animals, paying of merchants, and praying of men join together in a relentless chorus that deprives me of even a moment’s peace.”

But it wasn’t all bad in Tel Arad. It had taken some time, but Decimus had warmed to his new city. Not because of its cultural riches or natural beauty — it had neither. Not because of the local women — he’d imported his own. No, he’d taken a shine to his new home because it was, politely speaking, a garbage heap.

In Rome, there was always someone more powerful, someone who had to be placated or paid off. Things like treason and treachery bore very real, very severe consequences. Rome was a city of laws. But the desert was lawless. In Tel Arad, Decimus was the only one who had to be placated. His pocket was the only one that needed to be lined. He was the law. It was a role he’d never had the opportunity to play in Rome, and it was one he found himself relishing more by the day.

As the governor of this godforsaken little sandpit, he had the power — indeed, the responsibility — to make sure the Arabian goods on their way to the West were up to “Roman standards,” a term that had a very loose and ever-changing definition but that could be more or less summed up as: “things Decimus didn’t feel like keeping for himself.”

He deputized a group of local men to serve as his “inspectors,” then turned them loose on the bazaar, where they conducted so-called quality checks at will. These inspectors targeted everything from jewelry to pottery to fabric to food. And if an item appeared to be of “lesser quality” or was “suspected of being a forgery”? It was confiscated and brought back to the governor’s compound for further inspection. There, Decimus had the final say on whether the item would be returned or whether it would be held indefinitely, in a room he’d specially built for the purpose. In the six months since the inspections had begun, not a single merchant could recall having an item returned. And if they complained? If they caused even the slightest trouble? Decimus made sure they never set foot in his bazaar again.

Now he was the one with the power to exile.

With that many stolen valuables stockpiled in one place, it hadn’t been long before Balthazar had caught wind of it. The rumors had reached him through the usual channels, and they’d been conveyed with the usual hyperbolic flair:

“Never has there been such a thieving Roman! He sits atop a pile of riches that would make the gods envious!”

And while these rumors usually amounted to nothing, even the remote possibility of stealing a little stolen treasure, and embarrassing a Roman governor in the process, warranted a firsthand look. And so Balthazar had set out from Damascus, where he’d been chasing another rumor. The one he’d been chasing for years. The only one that really matters. He’d ridden south through Bosra, avoiding the roads as much as possible. And on the fifth night of his journey, he’d seen the torches of Tel Arad burning in the distance and the grand white walls of the governor’s compound above them.

The next day, he’d asked around the bazaar, hoping to verify some of the stories that had reached him up north. To his surprise, not only did they check out, but also the value of the confiscated goods was far greater than he’d imagined. Gold chalices, silver bracelets, rare perfumes and spices — all of it taken by this “Decimus.” All of it locked away behind his walls.

It seemed that this was one of those rare instances where the truth was even bigger than the legend.

Balthazar had his motive. Now all he needed was an opportunity. He surveyed the governor’s compound from afar, taking note of how many guards there were, when and how they patrolled the grounds, what kind of weapons they carried. Although Tel Arad was a Roman province, and its locals paid Roman taxes, the Roman Army couldn’t be bothered to come this far east — not to babysit a governor who’d fallen out of the emperor’s favor, anyway. Decimus had been forced to settle for a handful of soldiers from the less-impressive Judean Army, on loan from Herod the Great, to guard his compound. The Judean troops may not have been as professional or well equipped as their Roman counterparts, but they were nothing to take lightly. Storming the compound alone was out of the question.

Balthazar needed a way in. A way through its defenses. Two days after arriving in Tel Arad, he found one.

Her name was Flavia.

At seventeen, she should have been in Rome, enjoying the trappings of wealth and youth in the world’s great city, living it up with the other sons and daughters of the ruling class. Instead, her father had dragged her to the desert of the Eastern Empire and left her to wither in the heat. With nothing to do. No one to talk to but concubines and slaves.

Balthazar had watched her for three days. Every morning, she walked down the hill from her father’s compound, accompanied by a pair of Judean soldiers. For the next few hours, she wandered up and down the network of crowded streets that made up the bazaar, buying everything from silks to harps to figs, either unaware or undeterred by the fact that any of these goods could be had for free back at her father’s compound. Then, at midday, she climbed the hill and disappeared behind the compound’s walls, not to be seen again until the following day.

When Balthazar finally made his move, he’d done so using the oldest, easiest trick in the book. So easy, that he was almost ashamed of himself.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Flavia turned, as did the soldiers at her side. She was a curly haired blonde — a rarity in this part of the world — with a full figure, a pretty face, and a lightly freckled nose, also a rarity. Not his type, but not bad at all.

“I believe you dropped this.”

He offered his closed hand, which was promptly grabbed by one of the bodyguards. Balthazar smiled and opened his fingers, revealing a beaded bracelet inside. The bracelet Flavia’s mother had given to her before she died.

The bracelet that Balthazar had stolen off of her wrist moments before.

Flavia studied it in disbelief. They always do . She wondered how on earth she could’ve dropped something so dear to her. Shooing her guards aside, she thanked Balthazar profusely and introduced herself with an extended hand. “Flavia,” she said.

“Sargon,” Balthazar replied, taking it.

“Sargon… would you care to join me for a walk around the bazaar?”

Now I hesitate… my face flushed with modesty. Yes, I’ll join you for a walk around the bazaar. But I’m going to make you believe it was the furthest thing from my mind…

“Come,” she said, sensing his hesitation. “Let me buy you something. A reward for your good deed.”

“Oh, well… I don’t know… ”

Of course I do. But now I hesitate some more. Not too long — not long enough for you to lose interest. Just long enough for you to believe I’d say no. And then, the instant I see that belief in your eyes, I answer —

“I guess I can, but… your company is the only reward I need.”

And you silently swoon… as I prepare to win you over with a lifetime’s worth of lies.

Flavia and “Sargon” walked for hours, telling each other everything. Two lonely spirits who’d finally — miraculously — found kinship in this faraway land. And though her bodyguards eyed this Sargon with suspicion, though they would’ve liked to rough him up and warn him off, they knew better than to cross the only daughter of Decimus Petronius Verres.