Urbanus, son of Hermas, had also heard of the Armenian caravan. His father maintained a rented room in Jerusalem from which he conducted most of his business. Since the room often contained considerable amounts of denarii, Eh-Ret, a Nubian slave, stood guard at the door while customers came and went. In addition to being a large, powerful man, Eh-Ret was also friend to young Urbanus. Often he entertained the boy with stories of his homeland in the desert south of the land of Egypt.

"My people are archers," he told the boy. "By the time the testicles of our sons descend, they are able to split a grape at twenty paces." The eyes of the boy widened. He had never held a bow, let alone actually used one. "When I was fifteen, I killed a lion with my bow. Shot him in the eye as he was killing a goat. See, I still wear his fang." He touched the polished, gold encrusted lion's tooth suspended from a gold necklace around his neck. Urbanus listened, entranced.

"Even girls?" he asked.

"What?"

"Can girls kill lions, too?"

"Why do you ask such a thing? Women do not touch the bow. This is a man's skill. In Nubia, women are not persons. They are women." Eh-Ret said this without emotion, as though it were the natural order of things.

"But you marry them. They are the mothers of your children."

"I've had many wives," said Eh-Ret irritably, "and even more children. Some are older than you. Warriors."

Urbanus thought about that. He knew the Romans sometimes had more than one wife. Almost all of the Roman men had other women with whom they dallied, to the sometimes not so quiet chagrin of the women to whom they were married.

"Do you ever divorce?" The boy's curiosity seemed inexhaustible.

"We do not divorce our wives," said the Nubian. "We care for them as long as they live. If we tire of them, we simply get another wife." Eh-Ret was smiling now. "But we do not send them away. That would be cruel. They would die of starvation."

The boy responded, "That is a very strange custom."

"If you lived among my people, you would think differently."

"If I lived among your people, I could split a grape at twenty paces," laughed Urbanus. "I could kill a lion!"

"You will kill, my little friend," spoke the slave. "In your time. In your place."

"You seek him who is born king of the Jews?" It was a statement couched as a question. Its irony was not lost on Herod. He hoped it was not lost on these opulently dressed intruders. He had asked the question with a smile, patronizingly, condescendingly, and if the feeling in his heart was known, contemptuously.

"We have followed his star from the east. We have been traveling for many months."

"How many months? Exactly when did the star appear to you?" Herod's desire for accuracy seemed odd to the astrologers. The star had been there for all to see. Surely, news of the phenomenon in the east had traveled this far. Of what was this Jewish king so curious?

"We are not certain of exactness, King Herod," this was a lie. These men could tell you to the portion of the hour when the orb was first seen. "After our first observation, there was some deliberation in the decision to follow it. That took time. Those chosen to journey took time. Preparation took time. We had no concept of how long we might be away, so we prepared for the worst. All of this took time. Now we have been traveling these many months in diminishing hope that we might ever reach our destination."

Herod was ignorant of the potential for precision from these magicians. Herod was ignorant of much. He did not trust them. Men such as Herod the Great were very frightened men. Nervous men, agitated by any possible--real or imagined--threat to their security and power. "It is said in our scriptures that a Messiah will be born, we know not when, in Bethlehem of Judea, a short distance from where we now stand. Perhaps you will investigate. And perhaps you will be kind to come back and inform me of this great event--should it actually have happened." A Messiah from such a place as Bethlehem! How utterly disinteresting! Herod paused; hoping yet not hoping the astrologers would surmise his incredulity. "Of course, I should wish to pay him homage as well. Of course ," he muttered quietly.

It was still there. Quiet. Pulsating. Magnificent. Returning to the caravan, the Magi moved south and west, following their obsession. Their hearts pounding in anticipation, the distance to Bethlehem seemed invisible. Its beams reaching for the ground, the star locked in stillness, as if to select the very dwelling of its resolve. At last, the caravan halted.

The house and the nearby structures bathed in light. The wise men did not call upon their wisdom to know that they had reached, at last, the end of their long trek. Even the camels seemed to know as they settled awkwardly to their bellies without being commanded to do so.

Men of erudition, men of fame, men whose wisdom had the ears of kings and princes, these were the men who entered the modest but well-appointed home in Bethlehem, viewed the babe suckling at the breast of his young mother and fell to their knees in worship. They had come a long distance; they had come anticipating this very moment. However rampant the stories of celestial omens regarding the birth of kings, never in recorded or oral history had it been seen or heard that a star--or whatever it was--would lead men such as them to the feet of a babe such as this.

They brought their treasures. A chest filled with the gold of the realm. For such a child, for such a king, it was no extravagance.

Frankincense. These were men of prayer. Scholars, some of whom had studied the Hebrew Scriptures. They knew the stories of the ancient kings of their country, Nebuchadnezzar, Darius the Mede and Cyrus the Great, Ahasuerus. All of the prophecies of Daniel had happened. This they accepted as fact. To each of them, this new king might well be a priest, a Messiah sent by the Hebrew God. Frankincense, a gift appropriate to that possibility.

The physician among them brought a tankard of the oil of myrrh, considered by Jews to be the balm of Gilead, an expensive perfume, used by kings and lovers. It had other uses, but these were not in the intentions of the Magi. To them myrrh was apropos owing to its value, in some cases, exceeding that of gold.

To the young family, these gifts were welcome. The financial benefit alone stunned them. The gold and myrrh were enough to sustain them through the next few years of their lives. Enough to establish Joseph in his trade. Being an anesthetic, myrrh would sooth the red rash so common to infants who frequently soiled their clothes. It was used in this manner by the very rich.

Bel-Tar slept fitfully that night. The visit with the child and his parents had left a penetrating impression in his Eastern mind. To some, it might have seemed anticlimactic to see a mere infant after so long a journey of anticipation. But for Bel-Tar, it was a most satisfying end to their trip. The baby had actually smiled at him and held his finger. And in those child-eyes, he had seen something that he had never seen in the eyes of such a small person. What it was exactly, he could not say; perhaps unusual intelligence, perhaps something deeper and more personal, perhaps; was it recognition? Whatever it was, it made him deliriously happy. It filled him with a triumph he could not form words to describe. He could see that the others were similarly affected.

Just when it seemed that slumber would claim him, a vision flooded his mind that compelled every particle of thought. An enraged Herod the Great in the presence of the child. The king meant to harm the child, not pay him homage. Herod? Pay homage to a child? Herod the Great . . . Pariah? Not likely. Instantly he knew, they must not report back to this monster, this sadist. Suddenly, every fiber in his body tingled with urgency. Sleep was now impossible. He thought of the king's guard coming to demand their presence. He could envision their being escorted back to the palace.

His senses gathering in alarm he went to each of his companions. "Arise," he demanded softly, shaking each one, "Awake, We must be off--now!"

Joseph's sleep was also troubled. He had slept through the noise of the departing caravan, but now his mind seemed alert to the nuances of the night. A creeping sense of dread paralyzed his breathing. Next to the sleeping young mother, the babe twisted and flailed.

"Joseph."

It was not a sound, yet his eyes fluttered as if he had heard something.

"Joseph, arise!" The voice was urgent, irresistible. Joseph could not yet open his eyes, yet he could hear and comprehend. "Herod is conspiring to kill your son. You must go away--far away. Far enough that the king will not attempt to follow you." Joseph listened to each syllable, the spit evaporating in his mouth. His limbs twitched. He tried to move, to get up; to run but he could not. In his dream, he poured all his energy into action, but felt as though locked in muck. "You must escape to Egypt!"

He awakened, his night clothing damp with perspiration. He glanced first at the child and then at Mary. Both were slumbering comfortably. He started to dismiss the nightmare . . . some intuition coerced him to investigate. His mind fell upon the caravan, the camels, the Magi. He arose and plodded his way to the door of the house. Peering outside into the small hours of the night, he could still smell the animals, but they were gone. No one was in sight. They had vanished.

You must escape to Egypt!

The urgency of the appeal, no; the authority of it frightened him. Why Egypt? Questioning confused him.

While Herod the king had assisted Julius Caesar in conquering the reaches of Egypt, his memory of Cleopatra's hatred held him from further adventures there. Though dead now these thirty years, yet she lived in the hearts of all Egyptians, however subjected to Roman rule. Herod also knew that he could not trifle with the Roman Empire, however secure his position in Israel.

Joseph, young peasant that he was, of course, knew none of this. He had no way of knowing that Herod would not dare follow them to Egypt. The agitation he felt bewildered him. Where did they go? He could not understand why the Magi would leave without telling him. The baby! He hurried back to where the child lay. The infant was asleep on his pallet next to his mother. Joseph considered the peaceful scene of child and mother and wondered how he could have been so fortunate. This beautiful and special Child, he thought. Herod seeks to destroy him? Why? The sense of dread had not left him. He moved closer to his wife. He was not sure if he should wake her or go back to sleep himself. He lay back down. His eyes open. He tried to close them. He tried to sleep. At length, he turned to Mary. Shaking her gently he said, "Awake, my darling."

Before the first rays of light tiptoed through the night, another caravan departed in the cool quiet of darkness. Against a backdrop of starlight, an ass carried a mother and child, an ass carried a father and an ass carried their provisions. Egypt awaited them, for the herald of holiness has spoken, "Out of Egypt have I called my Son."

Crashing against palace wall, dark liquid forming explosive patterns on stone, a wine goblet disintegrated into a thousand shards. The chief priest and other members of the Sanhedrin cowered. Slaves stood immobile, invisible, which was the way they wanted it. Filling his hands with folds of silk drapes, he yanked them from the wall, cascading around his feet soiled in spilled wine. Screaming incomprehensible epithets against the Magi, against God, against anything and anyone that entered his inflamed brain. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. Eyes bulged. Veins protruded. Sweat flowed. Herod the Great succumbed to madness.

"Sons of swine!" he screamed. "Dog vomit! Ass droppings!" On he railed. His mind searched in futility for the vilest names he could conceive. His vitriolic rampage knew no boundary. He could think of nothing that would sate his hurt, nothing that would absolve the insult. At length he fell silent, sitting on his throne, black clouds brooding in his eyes. No one spoke. No one moved. No one attempted to comfort him in the fear that he might suddenly resume venting his spleen. Nothing good could come of this. Herod was a tyrant of ungodly adolescent passions. This night, blood would be spilled.

"Leave me." It was a subdued, mumbled command, but a royal command nonetheless. The priests, his advisors, the slaves all left him alone. Herod brooded darkly. Hours paraded with little pomp and ceremony into the night all the way to the first grey light of dawn. The king slept not. His temples pounded with scheming outrage. His nostrils dilated, went dry and sent him into spasms of sneezing. His anxiety knew no respite. He screamed and his personal aide appeared.

"Fetch me the Captain of the Guard." His eyes were red, but not from weeping. His voice low, even, malicious. "Fetch him out of bed. Fetch him from the joint of his bitch's thighs! Fetch him before me this instant! Fetch him now!" The aging king, nearing 70. Labored breathing. The servant left quickly.

The young mother stirred from sleep softly, as if to touch the day with velvet. Noise outside. Horses. Chariots. Shouted commands. Soldiers. The door to their home succumbs to relentless pounding with a loud crash. Her husband's terrified eyes snap open. Cold military professionalism; eyes of steel match that of the steel drawn in his hand. Father sits erect in his bed. Soldier's eyes searching. Father's eyes fearing, glancing first at his wife, then at the sleeping form of his infant son. Soldier's eyes following father's fear. Bronzed, powerful hand takes hold of infant blanket and pulls. Naked child rolls to the floor, exposing male genitals. He awakes in whimpering infant wail, which becomes bloody gurgles as pointed steel is shoved through his heart. Mother's screams are heard in this house and throughout the dwellings of Bethlehem.