Henry Bedford-Jones

Assassination at Christmas

Warsaw 2022

Contents

Assassination at Christmas

Assassination at Christmas

Steel clashed and bugles blared in the Antioch of December 362...
and the strange Sphinx Emerald flashed again to potent life.

“FEAR,” Philip thoughtfully observed, “is the keynote of everything here in this room, in this city of Antioch, in this part of the world. Insensate panic–”

“At this season? At Christmas itself?” broke in Lady Glendufa. “But that is wrong. It is wicked!” Her challenging eyes swept the circle of faces. “Nothing will happen. We’re wasting our time. Nothing can happen, I tell you!”

Philip shrugged, seeing how the others exchanged glances.

“Anything canhappen, Glendufa. Fear is contagious. We fear them, and perhaps they fear us. Reason says it’s preposterous, but we won’t believe reason. We’re afraid. We trust neither our rulers nor ourselves. We’re afraid, afraid–”

“And why not?” quavered a voice, with excited thrust. “Everything’s been overthrown. Around us is pagan, heathen Asia: Soldiers gathering by the thousand. Force that hates us, would love to destroy us. We may well seek some protection–”

A sound crept into the room and hushed the words. The score of people sitting here in conference shivered at it; hands jerked; eyes rolled. Voices screamed thinly like the yapping of wild beasts. Steel clashed; a tumultuous uproar resounded along the city streets and ended in a distant bugle-blare.

“The soldiers are out,” growled old farmer Paulus, gnarled hands clenching, shaggy whiskers bristling. “There’ll be looting and killing and burning all over the place!”

In a leap of voices others spoke their fears.

Philip glanced at them curiously. Himself a Roman, he had served in the cavalry. Here in Antioch, third greatest city of the Empire and capital of Syria, he found everything strange. Take these Galileans, for example–first named Christians here in Antioch, they still called themselves Galileans–what a queer company they made! The bishop, Meletius, was a good but inefficient fellow. Nearly all the others present belonged to the Gothic colony planted here by Constantine. They had relatives in the Legions, and consequently were the most influential of the community, since the whole army of the eastern provinces was gathering here to march into Parthia in the spring. This Christmas season of the year 362 was one of terror and fear and increasing panic on all sides.

Glendufa was quite calm, he noted; she was always calm, perfectly poised. Her husband was a centurion in the 59th Legion, now in camp just down the river. The Emperor himself was living in the old Roman fortress that dominated the city. No Christmas festival for him or his court! Uncle Constantine had made the empire Christian; his nephew Julian had reversed this, proclaiming tolerance for all religious sects–and thereby loosing the hounds of terror.

Julian was newly come to power; no one was sure of his intent; religious hatreds blazed on all sides. The Christians feared a new persecution; the pagans bitterly feared a Christian revolt–and now blood was running in the streets!

Startled movement swept the room as pounding footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door was flung open. In upon the company broke a deacon, stammering, panting and white-faced. Voices blabbed at him. He threw out both hands.

“No, no danger! There’s fighting in the streets, yes. Food riots, that’s all.”

A surge of relief. From Philip came a strong, hearty laugh.

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