Unholy Night (2 page)

I
t had all seemed so perfect. All the enticements had been there: a loosely guarded stash of expensive items, a corrupt nobleman, a populace being taken advantage of by the Romans. A more direct route to Balthazar’s heart couldn’t have been charted by a mapmaker.

Location had been another enticement. The city of Tel Arad was more than fifty miles south of Jerusalem. And the farther you were from Jerusalem, the less likely you were to encounter troops, whether they were King Herod’s Judean troops or Rome’s elite soldiers. And while Tel Arad still paled in comparison to Judea’s great city, it was home to a new, impressive temple of its own. To the noncriminal, that may have seemed like a trivial detail. But to Balthazar, it was everything. Temples meant travelers and money changers. They meant that a man with a strange appearance or accent was less likely to draw attention and that someone looking to trade stolen goods for gold and silver coins could do so with ease. Temples were a thief’s best friend.

Tel Arad had been settled thousands of years earlier, destroyed and rebuilt more times than any of the locals cared to remember. And for thousands of years, it had never grown beyond the rank of “desolate village.” But times had changed. Empires had sprung up on either side of the once-forgotten settlement and transformed it into a thriving center of trade. Suddenly Ted Arad was the central point between Roman goods heading east and Arabian goods heading west toward Egypt, the Mediterranean, and, ultimately, Rome—and its status had been steadily upgraded to “small city.”

The strongest sign of its growing importance had come only a year earlier, when Rome had decided to dispatch a governor—Decimus Petronius Verres—to look after the little city. Officially, Decimus was there to make sure Tel Arad adhered to the traditions and upheld the virtues of Roman life. Unofficially, and more importantly, he was there to put troublemakers to death and make sure the locals paid their taxes on time.

Decimus, for his part, had been crushed when he learned of the assignment. It had been presented as an “honor,” of course. He’d been “handpicked by Augustus
himself
to represent the empire in the East.” But Decimus knew what it really was: a castration. A punishment for taking sides against the emperor one too many times in the senate.

He’d privately sobbed when he’d heard the news. How could they do this to him? For one thing, the desert was no place for a Roman, especially one of his considerable weight and fair complexion. For another, he had been perfectly happy where he was: safely, quietly ensconced in the suburbs of Rome, surrounded by the trappings of reasonable, if not exorbitant wealth. He was in his fifties—far too old to be picking up his entire life and traipsing around in the heat. Rome was the center of the world. Home to all the entertainment and enticement a man could want. The desert, by contrast, was a death sentence. But the emperor had spoken. And castration or not, Decimus had no choice but to go.

Even the exiled members of Roman nobility weren’t expected to travel without the comforts of home. Shortly after his arrival in Tel Arad, Decimus ordered a walled compound built to his exact specifications—a scaled-up, fortified replica of the villa he owned in Rome. The same painter was brought in to re-create his favorite frescos, the same artisans to lay the mosaics on his floors tile by tile. The same formal garden and fountains dominated the courtyard at its center. The same slaves had made the journey to serve Decimus by day and the same concubines to serve him by 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.

Three nights and three trips around the bazaar later, Flavia snuck Balthazar into the compound and into her bedchamber…just as he’d known she would.