Seth Grahame-Smith - Unholy Night

Mariamne… oh, what a beauty she’d been. Oh, how Herod had loved her. And oh, what a shame that he’d been forced to have her executed. And the man he’d suspected her of having an affair with. And her brother. And the two sons she’d borne him, lest they grow up to resent their father for having their mother executed. Mind you, it hadn’t given Herod pleasure to do this. Ordering one’s own children put to death was one of the more unsavory of a king’s duties. But, as Herod was fond of telling his remaining sons, “Emotion is emotion, and politics is politics, and one has nothing to do with the other.”

Now all that remained of Herod’s favorite wife was a guard tower bearing her name above the north gate. The gate through which Balthazar was unceremoniously led into Herod’s Palace for the first and last time in his life. Backward. Covered in his own blood and vomit.

Thirty-three years later, another man would be paraded through the same gate to face another Herod — also covered in his own blood, and also on the way to his death.

Once Captain Peter and his men were inside the palace walls, Balthazar was finally untethered from his chaperone and lowered to the ground, still slightly dizzy and very thirsty. It took a moment to steady himself, especially since his hands were still tied behind his back.

After gaining his balance, Balthazar turned away from the north gate… and found himself transported to another world. A world almost as surreal and infinite as the one he’d flown through in his dreams. It was a world of lush green and cool marble. A world of polished bronze fountains and meticulously groomed dogs. It was, simply, paradise on earth. The Garden of Eden, rediscovered at last.

Inside the rectangular outer walls, the interior grounds were divided down the middle into two smaller, perfectly symmetrical rectangles — each half mirroring the other down to the smallest detail. And while outsiders probably imagined Herod’s Palace as a single structure behind those walls, just as Balthazar had, there were actually two identical, sprawling palaces inside — both facing each other across a vast rectangular courtyard.

Running down both sides of the courtyard, covered walkways and rows of neatly planted trees offered shade in the hottest months. And when those weren’t enough, a pair of circular pools — each fed by identical bronze fountains — stood ready to provide relief from the heat.

Balthazar knew at once why Herod had built two identical palaces. One of them undoubtedly contained his throne room, where he held court, threw official banquets, and greeted foreign dignitaries. And where he dreams up new atrocities to commit against his people and lives in fear of a man 1,000 miles away. This palace was distinguished by the courtiers, military officers, and wise men — a title that covered a broad range of functions, from advisor to physician, but that usually referred to priests — milling about in front of it.

Across the courtyard, some 300 feet away, the other palace served as Herod’s private residence, with apartments for his wives, his sons and their wives, heated baths, and a personal harem of some forty women — all of whom he’d “recruited” from the local population and not one of whom was older than sixteen. This palace was distinguished by the hordes of children playing and young women sunning themselves in front. Two palaces. One business and one pleasure.

You had to give the man credit. He was one hell of a builder.

Predictably, Balthazar was led toward the business palace by his soldier escorts. But business aside, there was scarcely a doubt in his mind that Herod was going to take plenty of pleasure in killing him.

Balthazar had assumed he would be led straight into the throne room. Paraded before Herod for a minute or two, mocked, perhaps tortured, depending on the king’s mood, and executed for the amusement of all. Quick and easy.

But the king was a busy man, and even a prisoner of Balthazar’s stature had to wait for an appointment. Here he was in an antechamber, almost an hour after arriving at the palace, sitting on a stone bench just outside the closed doors of the throne room. Judean soldiers sat on either side of him, their captain pacing nervously nearby, silently rehearsing his presentational speech. And designing the new house you’re going to build with all that money, you self-righteous —

“This again!” someone screamed.

The gravelly, muffled voice had come from the other side of the throne room doors.

Herod.

It had to be. Who else would scream like that in a throne room?

It was funny — the two of them shared so much history, caused each other so much grief. Yet they’d never seen each other in person. Balthazar had no idea what his nemesis looked like. Sure, there was the familiar profile stamped on all those coins — and the mosaics and the carvings and the statues. But in Balthazar’s experience, those likenesses tended to be a bit flattering when compared to the real things.

Even through the closed doors, Balthazar and the Judean soldiers — who did their best not to look like they were listening — could make out every word:

“Thirty years!” the gravelly voice continued. “For thirty years I’ve built this city into what it is! I’ve shepherded Judea into a new age! But no matter what I do — no matter how many glorious monuments I build to honor their God — I’m still forced to listen to this ! This nonsense! This treason!”

“And when the Great Temple has been rebuilt,” said a calmer voice, quoting the prophecies, “when the city of David has been overrun and the ruins of Judea born anew, the Messiah shall appear — born of a virgin in the town of Bethlehem.”

“Yes… I’ve heard it all before.”

“And with him the dead shall rise, and the plagues of old retur — ”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

“The plagues of old return to smite the nonbelievers. The kings of the earth shall be rendered powerless, and a voice shall be heard, the voice of mothers weeping for their children, because they are no more.”

“I said ENOUGH!”

A short silence followed the outburst. Then, in a more conversational tone, the gravelly voice continued. “If I heeded the warnings of every screaming prophet in this city, I would drive myself mad in an hour’s time. I will not cower before old superstitions.”

“All the same, Your Highness, never have there been so many signs from so many prophecies: the temple rebuilt, the cities of Judea born anew, the crowds in Jerusalem for the census. All that remains to be seen is a light in the east.”

“And what would you have me do? Would you have me go and tell Augustus that he should fear a child who may or may not exist? That Rome should recall its mighty armies from Gaul and Germania and lay siege to the town of Bethlehem? Do you have any idea what a fool he would think me?”

“The prophecy is clear, Your Highness. The Messiah shall topple all the kingdoms of the world. Even yours.”

There was a loud crash. The sound of something being knocked (or more likely kicked ) over. Something metal. From the sound of the impact and the resulting smaller clangs, Balthazar guessed it was a table, from which several chalices and serving platters had fallen.

A considerably longer silence followed. Balthazar caught a few of the Judean soldiers trading nervous glances.

When Herod finally spoke again, it was to issue an order:

“There will be no more talk of Messiahs.”