Immortal (15 page)

Krampus watched him and then said, “My father—I not know. Dead. My mother bake bread. To sell, to live. One day Romans come. They—” He broke off with a sob.

“You don't have to talk about it,” Agios said.

Krampus wiped his tears with his big palm. “They—hold her down, tear off clothes. They—hurt her. And kill her. And take me from her. I would have—” he mimed stabbing. “They beat me. Every day. Then—” he imitated pulling an oar. “Chains. Slave. I want to die. Try to die. Then you come.” His big hands fumbled in the air. “Don't know the words. You—me—we sorrow. But easier together.”

He had never spoken so much all at one time. Agios repeated, “Easier together.” Somehow it felt true.

And so as far as it could, Agios's grief slackened. A day even came when he renewed his trips to Memphis—half a day there, half a day back—and his trading. He heard nothing of Herod's being punished for his murder of the children. Perhaps the Romans did not care enough about these people on the fringes of their empire to concern themselves with such a small matter as the deaths of children.

One late afternoon as Agios was returning from Memphis and nearing their cave, he heard Krampus shouting from near the river. Agios ran there, and when he saw what was going on, fury rose within him.

Three laughing young boatmen ware dancing around Krampus, shouting at him, making fun of his ugliness. They held boat poles, ten feet long, and kept swinging them, sweeping Krampus's legs from under him, or running up and prodding him with them, wielding the poles like blunt spears. A shattered earthenware jug told Agios that Krampus had just come to the river for water. The boatmen must have pulled over for a meal or a rest—their reed boat had been moored to a palm tree on the bank.

Agios shouted, and they spun to face him. Krampus, bloody and scratched, scrambled away on all fours before rising to his feet. One of the three dodged toward him, raising his boat pole, and Krampus roared in anger.

“Leave him alone!” Agios bellowed. “He wasn't hurting you!”

“Look how ugly he is,” another one of the three men jeered. “He's hurting our eyes!”

Snarling, Agios strode forward. The three turned on him, menacing him with their poles. “Back away, old man!” the one who seemed to be their leader warned.

When Agios didn't retreat, the three charged him. Agios ducked a blow—the boy swinging the pole gasped at his unexpected speed—then snatched up a fist-sized rock and sent it whistling into the second one's stomach, sending him flailing backward until he fell into the river.

He had dropped his pole, and Agios grabbed it. He parried a blow from the third, then cracked him over the head. Now only one boy stood, and he looked fearful and uncertain.

“Stop!” Krampus begged. “Not kill.”

“They might have killed you!” Agios roared, his voice furious.

“Not evil for evil,” Krampus said.

The three had retreated a few steps. Agios drew his bronze knife and strode to the tethered boat. With one swipe he cut the rope, then used the pole to send the craft into the river, where the current took it. “If you want it, go get it!” Agios said. “And never come here again.”

The three boys cursed, but went splashing into the river, half-wading and half-swimming. Agios threw the pole after them. “Probably the boat belongs to their father,” he growled. “They'll be in trouble if they don't—”

He broke off as he realized that Krampus had fallen to his knees, head bent, one fist against the rocky ground and the other hand clutched over his chest.

“Krampus!” Agios caught him about the shoulders and lowered him carefully to the sand. The muscles in Krampus's arms were hard as stones, his knuckles white in their iron grip. “Where are you injured?”

But Krampus couldn't respond. He gasped for breath. His eyes were wide and full of panic, his mouth open in a grimace of pain and fear. Frantic, Agios ran his fingertips over his friend's body, assessing the scratches and bruises that the boys from the boat had inflicted. The wounds were nothing that could cause such distress. The big man's lips were turning blue, and as Agios watched he squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear escaped and slid down his broad cheek.

Gripped by dread, Agios knelt beside Krampus. “Help my friend,” he said—though the boatmen were gone, far out in the river, and no one else was around to hear. “Don't let my friend die.”

I'm . . . praying
, Agios thought. He had seen the three kings pray often, but it wasn't something he had ever done before, and he didn't know to which god he was muttering. “Hear me,” he murmured. “If there is anything good and holy in the light that led us to the place where Jesus lay in his mother's arms, let it help us now.”

Then he felt a hand cover his own. His eyes flew open to find Krampus staring at him. His hand trembled, but there was a small smile on his tear-stained face.

“What happened?” Agios croaked.

Krampus took Agios's hand and held it over his chest. His heart was pounding furiously. But even as he feared for his friend's life, Agios could feel the beats beginning to slow. He kept his hand over the place until the pace nearly matched his own and the color began to seep back into Krampus's pale cheeks.

“Has this happened before?” Agios asked.

Krampus nodded. “When . . . sometimes. When Romans beat me,” he whispered.

“Are you better? Are you well?” But of course he wasn't well. Why hadn't Agios realized it before? Whatever had touched Krampus's body and face had clearly marked him inside, too. Who could know how Krampus suffered? How broken he really was?

“I'm sorry,” Agios said, because there was nothing else to say.

“Better,” Krampus grunted. Carefully, Krampus sat up and Agios helped him to his feet. Together they hobbled back to their cave, where Agios bandaged Krampus's cuts. There was nothing he could do for the wound in his heart.

So Agios and Krampus lived day to day, month to month, year to year, almost like a man and his over-large, ungainly son. From then on, though, when Agios made his trips into Memphis he cautioned Krampus to remain alone and quiet in the cave—and he made sure that the water urns were filled before he left.

On rare occasions, no more than once a year if that, messengers came and found Agios, bringing letters from Caspar or from Melchior, inscribed on tablets of wax in the Roman way. They wrote simply, for though Caspar had taught Agios the art of reading and writing, his grasp of educated language was weak. Melchior told him of how Balthasar fared. All three men held within them an eagerness to share word of the holy child born to become the King of Kings—but all agreed to hold back from telling the world of their secret, because, as Melchior wrote, “His time has not yet come, but I pray that I live to see it.”

Then one day, a message arrived that turned their simple world upside down.

Herod is dead
, Melchior had written.
I am sending word to Joseph that it is safe for him, Mary, and Jesus to return to their homeland now. My friend, will you accompany them home?

It didn't even cross Agios's mind to say no.

They had little to pack. Agios had carved dozens of tiny figures over the years. They all fit in one large goatskin sack. When they went into the town to sell their herd, Agios carried the sack slung over his shoulder, and as they traveled, every time they saw a child, he left one of the little carvings for him or her to find. Krampus once tried to retrieve one of the carvings from a jeering ten-year-old, pointing and saying, “Bad boy!”

His voice scared the boy, who ran away. “What did he do?” Agios asked.

“Laugh at me,” growled Krampus. For all his size and fierce appearance, he really was like a child, with feelings that could easily be hurt.

With a sudden inspiration, Agios handed Krampus the little baby he had sculpted. “Here,” he said. “This one is yours. You keep it forever.”

Krampus stooped over and cradled the tiny figurine in his huge palm. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.” He looked up. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Oh.”

“I didn't mean to make you sad,” Agios said gently.

“Him,”
Krampus said. “It is him. I see.” He raised his cupped palm and held the little carving close to his heart. “He take Krampus home.”

Agios shook his head. Krampus had ways of thinking that—well, that no one could really follow. At least, he couldn't.

They finished their business, Agios gave away all of his little toys, and they bought a camel. Instead of taking passage by boat—Agios worried about what Krampus would do if people made fun of him when they couldn't get away—they took the road that led north near the banks of the river.

In the marketplaces of Memphis Agios asked about news from Judea. What Melchior had written was true: Herod had died of an agonizing illness, people said, and because he had executed his oldest son before that, there was no clear successor to the throne. Instead, Herod's kingdom was split into three parts, each ruled by one of his surviving sons—Archelaus over Judea. The name meant nothing to Agios.

He and Krampus searched for Joseph and learned where he now lived. Agios did not approach him, but watched until he was sure, and then he told Krampus, “Melchior said in his message that they will leave soon. We'll go and make sure they are safe.”

“We will see Jesus?” Krampus asked, his face shining.

“From a distance,” Agios said.

Preparations for the move took some time. Joseph and Mary had celebrated Passover before all the purchases could be made. This time Joseph bought a horse for himself, a fine Arabian animal that seemed to have great stamina. Mary, it appeared, would ride the same placid donkey as before. They had kept the animal, and once before Agios had seen Mary walking beside it with Jesus, now four years old, mounted upon its back, clinging to its mane.

Agios had long since sold his mule, but he bought another, a strong animal though not as obedient as the first, as he and Krampus discovered the day after they set out. They had gone a distance of nearly twenty miles, all of it at a steady walk interrupted by a few periods of rest, when the mule decided that his workday was over. No amount of persuasion could change the animal's mind, so Agios and Krampus camped while Joseph and Mary went ahead.

However, Agios had begun to relax a little. He realized that Melchior must have again arranged for Joseph to find friends along the way—he and Krampus had seen the little family stop at a house, and Agios knew that others waited to help them with food and shelter, just as they had years ago. And of course Herod was dead now. They did not need to be as closely guarded as before.

The way back was a slow trip for Agios and Krampus—a full month from Alexandria up the Sea Road into Judea and then into Galilee. As before, Agios always rode a little ahead or a little behind Joseph and Mary, though with his mule's stubbornness sometimes interrupting the trip, sometimes he did not see them for a day at a time. Mary and the boy had to rest often, though, and Agios always had a good sense of whether the family was ahead or behind him, so he and Krampus matched their pace and they always saw the family again eventually, somewhere in the distance.

Once a week, beginning at sunset on Friday and until sunset on Saturday, the family had to pause. A Jewish merchant had explained the Sabbath to Agios already, back in Egypt. No devout Hebrew could work or travel on that day. If they were near a temple, the family went there. If no temple was available, they prayed where they were.

When at last they passed into Galilee, walking steadily north, Agios thought it a good country, a flat plain with mountains to the west and more distant ones off to the east. Broad fields of young rye and barley stood lush and green, and the olive groves were heavy with their ripening fruit. Years ago, when they had passed through similar countryside on their search for the King of Kings, Melchior had remarked to Agios and his friends, “This is a blessed land.”

That was easy enough to believe when Agios saw the bounty of the fields and felt the friendliness of the people. Easy enough until he thought of the senseless murder of innocent children whose only offense was having been born in or near Bethlehem. A people who would consent to such insane laws made him doubt they were men at all.

And that led him to wonder: Melchior, Balthasar, and Caspar had assured him that this child was to be a King of Kings, someone whose name would go forth through the whole world. But—a son of a carpenter?

Was the boy fated to become a warrior at the head of a conquering army? Was he to be a killer of men? How else could such a boy become a king?

Agios even began to doubt his memories. The star—did that really happen? The talk of angelic messengers—whom he'd never seen—could such visions only be dreams and delusions?

He did not speak of his misgivings, and Krampus seemed to have perfect faith. He often spent the evenings just staring in rapt devotion at the little carving Agios had given him. At such times his face was so peaceful, so joyful, that it was almost transfigured, almost handsome.