“Is it as bright as the full moon?” Melchior asked.
Balthasar gazed. “Very nearly, I think. Much brighter than it was only two nights ago.”
“Then we leave tomorrow.”
“I agree,” Balthasar said.
Caspar asked, “Have we all our gifts?”
Melchior said, “I have thought long about the question, and as my gift I bring gold, the purest that I could find, as is proper for a gift to a great king.”
Balthasar murmured in reply, “That is well done. There will be need of gold, whoever his family might be. I bring a cask of myrrh. It’s very costly. In my country people burn it as an offering to the gods. It is said to have a calming effect on a troubled spirit. It is, I think, fit as a gift to a great healer of souls.”
“And I bring frankincense, a resin more costly than gold.” Caspar said. “If the family is in need, they can trade it for whatever they desire. No merchant would refuse even a fly’s weight of it.”
In the silver light of the star, Balthasar looked impressed. “I know of it. It’s surpassingly rare. In my land, doctors prescribe it as a medicine for the relief of pain.”
Caspar, whose face was normally expressive of enjoyment, nodded and looked solemn. “There will be much pain in his life, as there is in the life of every great man,” he said. “And he will take upon himself the pain of the world. Frankincense cannot ease that, but perhaps it may hearten him to know that there is an end to every pain, and that those who care will offer what relief they may.”
Balthasar was silent before asking, “With all these riches, do we travel with a strong guard?”
Caspar said, “With only two men. With Agios here and with the giant Krampus.”
“Giant?”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Melchior said. “But he is taller than most, and very strong. You have not seen him yet. Don’t let his looks startle you. He’s loyal to Agios, and I think with him we need no stronger guard.”
“May it be so,” Balthasar said.
Melchior said, “I’ll have my men prepare our animals. Let us get what sleep we can. We will set off in the afternoon and will travel mostly by night, for the star will be our guide. Agios, tell Krampus.”
“I will,” Agios said. “He will need no camel or horse, though. He prefers to walk.”
“That will slow us.”
“No,” Agios said. “He is untiring.”
“Very well.”
And with that they all separated. Agios checked on Krampus: He slept soundly, out on the terrace. He had turned and the light of the new star fell full in his face, softening his grotesque features, making him look at peace and—well, not exactly normal, but certainly no monster. What had warped and twisted him, beyond Roman cruelty? Agios did not know, but reflected that the deformity had not reached Krampus’s heart. For that he was grateful.
The journey was nothing like those Agios had experienced before. The caravan was slow and lumbering, and the long ride on horseback to Megisthes was exhausting. Now Caspar, Balthasar, and Melchior rode on camels, and four more camels bore the loads of their provisions and gifts. Sturdy mules carried tents and awnings. Agios rode the same horse he had left the caravan with, a fine stallion that kept pace with the camels even on trackless, rocky expanses. Krampus walked beside Agios, alert, head back, always sniffing the air.
The route took them across a desert landscape called Nafud: expanses of tawny-red sand broken by outcrops of wind-eroded red rock, with no shade, no trees, no plant life at all except for tough, low-growing spindly brush, allium and crucifer, and scorpion senna and germander.
The group traveled in the late afternoons and well into the night, sometimes past sunrise. As the sun climbed to the zenith, its heat became like a weight on their shoulders, and as the air danced and shimmered, the land looked no more solid than the sea. In the ovenlike heat they spread awnings and rested in the meager shade. At these times Caspar himself continued to teach Agios how to read, and soon Melchior and Balthasar also began to offer instruction. “You have a real gift for languages,” Melchior once told him admiringly. When they grew tired of teaching and reading, they all snatched what sleep they could.
One night as they threaded their way along the winding floor of a dry wadi, Krampus suddenly grunted. “What is it?” Agios asked.
“Someone,” Krampus muttered, and in the pale light filtering down from the starry sky Agios saw him gesture.
“Let me ride ahead,” Agios said to Caspar. “Wait until I know it’s safe.”
He urged his mount forward, peering into the darkness. A deeper shadow moved toward him. “What do you have worth taking?” asked a harsh voice.
“Nothing,” Agios said. “And if you try to take anything, you’ll regret it.”
He felt the press of a spear against his back. A second bandit, who had waited still and unseen in the darkness.
“I think not,” the first said.
Agios sighed and reached to his belt. “All I have are these,” he said, taking out a ball of wool.
The first bandit came close enough to snatch it from his grasp. “Foolishness!”
“It’s what the wool is wrapped around that is valuable,” Agios said. He saw the man fumble with the wound skein. “I wouldn’t unwrap it,” he said, and averted his eyes.
The flash of brilliant fire came, spooking the bandit’s horse and making the man shriek. Agios spun, grabbed the second robber’s spear, and yanked.
The first man rolled on the ground, moaning, his robes smoldering with red writhing sparks. The second one tried to draw a sword—but Krampus had run up and grasped his arm.
No other robbers appeared. The travelers caught up with them. Caspar saw to it that both men had been disarmed. The one who had been burned wept and said, “I’m blind!”
“Your eyes may heal in time,” Caspar said. “You and your friend will have to walk for help. We’ll leave you enough water for one day.”
“Not enough!” the man said, his voice jagged with fear.
“I told you not to unwrap it,” Agios said. The scholars rode on, leading the robbers’ two horses, leaving the bandits behind in the dark. Miles later, at dawn, Caspar let the horses go. “Maybe they’ll find their way back to their riders,” he said. “I do not like to leave the men with no hope of living.”
Agios began to doubt they themselves would survive the journey, but then one morning they came within sight of a green spot in the sand, an oasis where a spring bubbled into a round pool perhaps fifteen cubits across. Four goatherds had built a stone shelter there and stared in wonder as the five men and their animals staggered in from the desert.
The men and animals drank. Agios had not realized how thirsty he had been. He swallowed and swallowed, and all at once his whole body began to sweat. Krampus drank even more deeply, his throat bobbing as he gulped.
They bought goat’s flesh from the herdsmen and cooked it over a fire of dried dung. Agios was sure it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
That night, Melchior seemed restless. Agios found him past midnight, a little way from their camp, on top of a stony outcrop. He stood gazing at the sky as though he could not tear himself away from the sight of the star.
In the dry desert air it flared brighter than ever. “It is even more brilliant than the full moon,” Melchior murmured as Agios joined him. “Look, I can read by its light.” He held up a thin scroll and turned to let the star’s illumination fall on the parchment.
In his own language, Melchior read aloud, “I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Scepter shall rise out of Israel.” He translated.
“Star of Jacob? I don’t understand,” Agios said. “Does it mean that star?”
“Perhaps,” Melchior said softly. “These are the words of Balaam, a man of the old time. Some say he was a magician, others a prophet.” He sighed. “I’ve long searched for the star, through weary nights of standi
ng on the tower platform there in the east and gazing to the west. A good way westward from my kingdom is the land of the Israelites. I think this must be the star I’ve waited for so long.”
“You are very eager to follow it.”
“And afraid,” Melchior said.
“What? What is there to fear?”
“A great change is coming, Agios. In change there is always fear.”
Always afterward, Agios remembered that leg of their journey, taken at night across a desert visible in the light of the moon and of the star. It seemed like a dream, even while he lived it. It was as though every man and woman and child, every animal but the ones they rode, had died and emptied the earth of life.
Balthasar knew ways that none of the others did. He led them into a ravine. At the bottom a shallow stream ran, nowhere more than ankle-deep, but it flowed northwest. Now they traveled by daylight, for the narrow gorge shielded them from the sun except for a few hours on either side of noon.
The water was bitter and faintly salty, but it could be drunk, and they followed the stream until it emptied into a larger river. They began to run into tiny villages, mere temporary gatherings of herdsmen and hunters. The people stared at the strangers—and gasped at the sight of Krampus, whose smile always looked more like a threatening scowl. Finally the travelers came to a land more forgiving—still an arid country, but one where enough water fell from the sky or flowed through the streams to support farms and small towns.
Passing through ranges of low, dust-colored hills, they journeyed through a countryside where palm trees grew, where dates and other fruits would be abundant in season. They did not linger, but hurried on their way.
One morning an expanse of gleaming water appeared ahead, not a river but a great lake or sea. “It is salty,” Balthasar told them. “Deadly to drink, saltier than the great Mediterranean. They call it the Dead Sea. We will skirt the northern edge, and we will be in Judea. Jerusalem should be only a few days’ travel now. Herod is king there, the second Herod, son of the man who died some years ago. He rules the land of Judea.”
“Under the Romans,” Melchior said.
“Yes, the Romans are his masters,” Balthasar agreed. “However, I have heard he is a proud man, so we will not mention that to him. In his court we may find wise men who can counsel us. After all, we don’t yet know just where we will find the new king.”
Roman soldiers stopped them often, always making Krampus restless and anxious. Melchior had letters of passage, and after some delay, an occasional bribe, and some bureaucratic grumbling, the soldiers always allowed the party to go on. They headed across salt pans and waste places, now and then coming to settlements or seeing shepherds tending their flocks.
Finally they arrived in the city, not the largest Agios had ever seen, but one teeming with life. That afternoon they found a place to stay at an inn with spacious stables for the animals. The precious gifts they stored in one room, and Krampus settled by the one door leading into it. On a wax tablet Melchior wrote an appeal for an audience with Herod, and Agios found a Roman soldier, a centurion, who for a small silver piece was willing to take the letter to the palace. “Don’t expect a quick answer, though,” the man warned Agios. “The king has a thousand things on his mind.”
And so they waited for three days before a summons came: Herod would see Melchior, Caspar, and Balthasar, but they must come alone and unarmed.
Melchior asked if they might bring their translator. Agios glanced quickly at Melchior. Is that what the scholars were calling him now? Their translator? Agios was no such thing, even though he had gained a passable command of a handful of languages. The soldier didn’t know if Agios would be allowed to enter, but told him to come along. If the king refused, he would have to wait at the palace gate, that was all.
Agios had spent most of his time sitting next to Krampus and idly carving. He told Krampus to stay on guard, promising to return soon. “Soon?” the big man asked anxiously.
“Don’t worry,” Agios told him. “Stay here. No one will bother you.”
Krampus dropped his gaze. “Roman soldiers,” he muttered. “Whips. Chains.”
It’s the most he’s ever spoken all at once, Agios thought, and the words are fear and bitterness. He asked softly, “Do you trust me?”
Krampus nodded.
“Then do as I ask, my friend. I will return.”
“Friend,” Krampus said in a voice that broke Agios’s heart. He went to his pack and brought back a handful of his carvings. Krampus smiled at last, and Agios left him, taking with him a bag of the little figures he had made on the long journey.
As they walked through the teeming streets, every time he saw a young boy or girl, Agios would reach into the bag and leave the gift so the child could easily find it. On a low fence, perched on the edge of a basket, tossed in the path. Some were representations of things he had seen in the desert: a scorpion, a lizard, a kind of hawk-billed bird. Others were more familiar animals: camels, lambs, even dogs and cats. Though small, the carvings were wonderfully detailed.
Often before Agios had gone three steps the children discovered the gifts with delight. Agios pretended that he didn’t notice.
Melchior turned and said, “Agios, hurry! You’re falling behind.”
“Coming,” Agios said, and he quickened his pace.
Caspar quietly said, “You stand apart from mankind, but I think your heart softens toward children.”
Agios said gruffly, “I once had a son.” His tone was so rough that none of the men asked anything more.
They ran into more delay at the palace gate as the request to bring their translator with them was sent in to Herod. Agios imagined the process: The gate captain reported to his commander. The commander went to the guardsman in charge of the inner gate. That guardsman went to the commander of the king’s personal guard. That man asked the king’s advisor. The advisor asked the king. The king pondered and gave his answer, and then the whole thing had to be repeated in reverse. When men ruled over men, time was wasted and misspent.
After perhaps an hour the answer came: Agios might enter with the others.
A guard led them through corridors lined with pillars and hung with tapestries. In an inner sanctum lighted by a skylight, Herod sat upon a throne raised on a dais. It looked like gold, but Agios thought it was probably made of gilded wood. He had ordered three seats, low, to be placed before the throne, and on these he invited his royal visitors to sit. Agios, being a commoner, stood behind Melchior.
While each of the scholars briefly introduced himself, Agios studied Herod’s features. He was a gaunt man, not old—surely not much more than thirty—but high-cheeked and with deep-set eyes that added at least a decade to his appearance. His hair was short and brushed forward in the Roman fashion. When the others had all spoken their greetings and introductions, Herod said quietly, “Welcome to you, travelers. I am Herod, tetrarch of Judea. Why have you come, men of the East?”
Melchior became the spokesman: “Your Majesty, we are men who study prophecy and the stars. Our researches have shown that a great event is to take place in your kingdom—may already have taken place, in fact. We have come from far away to witness a moment that will change the world.”
“And what is that?” Herod asked. He had a smooth voice, low and confident.
“My lord,” Melchior said, “a great king is to be born in Judea. One day he will be known as King of Kings, ruler of all good men. We have come to witness his coming, and we wish to worship him.”
Herod stared. “Men are not to be worshipped,” he said sharply, then caught himself, and his voice took on its oily smoothness again: “Unless, of course, they’re great men, like Julius Caesar, the father of the great emperor of Rome.”
Melchior continued: “Sire, the prophecies tell us that this child will become greater than any king or emperor the world has ever known. He will lift men’s spirits and will save their souls. That is why we come to worship him.”
Herod stroked his chin with long, twitching fingers. “Indeed? Tell me how you know these things.”
Agios understood most of the words but could make little of the discussion that followed. Melchior spoke of ancient writings, read some of them aloud to Herod, then talked of signs and wonders he and the others had witnessed. He mentioned the progression of the stars in the heavens through the year, told of how the planets wandered and changed position from night to night, and spoke of the extraordinary star that did not follow any rules. Herod listened attentively.
When Melchior fell silent, Herod asked, “Do you know where to find this young king?”
Melchior admitted, “No, sire. Because of the prophecies we’ve read, we know he is to spring from Galilee, and that is all.”
“Oh, Galilee.” Herod sounded amused. “It’s a big enough place to make your search difficult. And it may disappoint you. Do you know that Galilee is where many pretenders have sprung up, many so-called magicians and prophets? You will not find a true king in Galilee.”
Caspar, who could not follow the conversation easily, looked to Agios, who bent toward him and quietly explained what he had understood. Caspar said, “Tell the king that we have seen evidence. Speak of the star.”
Agios asked for permission to speak, and when Herod granted it, he translated Caspar’s words: “In the East we have seen his star. It is a wondrous sign, one that no human could imitate or cause to appear. It is surely the work of God. That is why we have come to worship the King of Kings.”
“The star again?” Herod asked. He summoned one of his servants and had a whispered talk with him. While the travelers waited uneasily, Herod called in a white-bearded elderly man and murmured questions that the old man answered. At length Herod waved him away.
Then he said, “I have heard something of a new star, a strange star, from this man, one of my many scholars. I will consult them. You may have a meal and wait while I confer with them. I don’t wish you to leave the palace yet, for this news interests me. My servants will attend you while I speak to my astrologers.”