All Young Children to Slay
by Rob Morris
Coventry Carol
Lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
O sisters too, how may we do,
For to preserve this day.
This poor youngling for whom we sing
By, by, lully, lullay.
Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day.
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children to slay.
That woe is me, poor Child for Thee!
And ever morn and day,
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Being a tale of the final ride of the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse, a tale rich with evil and betrayal - and great good hope.
You crave of me a tale, you say?
There are only seven, you know.
Seven stories, from which all others derive.
Shall I speak upon the Hidden Prince, and the great three-skulled dragon he must lay low?
But no, that is a tale for summer nights, when the heart needs chills.
Shall I speak upon The Trickster, a common healer who unseated mighty kings, applying only his barbed tongue? But no, that story is best told complete, and I have not time.
Shall I speak upon The Four Mounted Gods, then?
Yes, you say? An expected answer, for who among us has not felt their sting, though even at a great remove? Mighty were The Horsemen, and only a fool would say that they were mere legendary, unless he lived in a time unguessable.
But what story to tell? If I say that Pestilence was wild, Death quick, Famine hungry, and war marauding, then what have I told you that a thousand like me could not, and some better, for I mislike needless viscera.
There is one story, mind you, that no one knows. That no one has dared to tell. In which Pestilence And Death Are humbled by cradle and manger. In which The Mounted Gods are made merely men of might. In which The One God triumphs over the many. In which four becomes three, three one, and one none.
Would You Know More?
Hear Then, The Fall Of The Gods.
It began when a mortal who aspired to godhood was made meat, and he was called Julius.
44 BC, MAGNA ROMA
"And You As Well, Brother Brutus?"
"We, Mighty Caesar--Are Not Brothers!"
But is it not so that all empires fall in such a manner, with one brother holding the hilt firmly of the dagger that the other finds in the small of his back?
Pestilence spoke to Death in that manner he knew, which made everything seem merest common sense, like the wearing of sandals, or the drawing of a sword to fight.
"Ho, Brother! Those Romans, who thought themselves like unto us, now tear each other to shreds. Hubris, it seems, is our fifth rider. If only this age of men and their empires could be closed, then the world would be as we four remember it."
But Death was inscrutable, and was known by all to give few answers, even to the one he loved best of all--if indeed, he loved any at all.
"Rome, Brother, has Death aplenty. I would give it more, though, to push these foolish men over, and back to the mud that was our first gift to them."
Pestilence was a crafter of frames. That one, of the eye that continued, was not one for the music but for the shaping of the spheres that music resounded from.
Death was the master musician, and the sonorous tunes he crafted were so deep and complex, Pestilence himself was ensorceled by them.
"Then, Brother Death, we four shall ride for Rome, and raze it, as we did in times of those tiny Etruscan tyrants, Romulus and Remus."
Deep now was the tune, and subtle its tones.
"No, Brother Pestilence. They shall hear the hooves of The Mounted Gods, and move away. Let I who am Mounted Death clear away these Cassiuses, these Antonies, and these Octavians. Without them, there is no Rome, merely a poor mud-village on a hill."
Pestilence commended his brother mightily.
"It shall be as it was. Those Syrians, and those Assyrians, those Arabs and those Jews, those Hittites and Phoenicians, those men of Indus, and those men of Cathay---all will loudly proclaim their empires are dust, once Rome is ground to pepper. Return to me, Brother."
"I shall do as I always, Pestilence. As I always."
And so he did. Two score would pass, and a frantic Pestilence found that he had only two brothers, not three. Had Death met Death? Could this be so?
4 BC - JUDAEA
"Hear me, O Herod. I am captain of your guards, and shall not raise power Against swaddling babes In my own land, nor any of my men with me. The Romans who created your throne say likewise, for we must live here. Forget you the Three Astrologers. You are king, now. No mere babe may upset a true king's throne, after all."
Cruel Herod then butchered the captain of his own guards, and cried out in a fury.
"That child must die! To do this, I need not an army of spears, but three gods on horseback. They will do this for me--for only Herod may truly increase their number by one. Only I may end their search for Death."
So it came that the cruel student called upon his three crueler teachers, all to slaughter one innocent, and to give them back their once and true completeness.
There was nowhere the Mounted Gods did not search, looking as they did for vanished Death.
"For I am Pestilence, and have searched all the Northlands. Much death have I brought, but no Death have I found. Yet Death may not die, so where will his sword drink of next?"
"For I am Famine, and have searched all the lands of the East. I have eaten flesh of many men, as I rode. Hour upon hour, I greedily depeopled Cathay. But as I ate dead flesh, no Death have I found. And I would know my brother's taste."
"For I am War, and have offered the peoples of the South respite from my wrath, but that they yield up Death. For my generous offer, I had no takers, nor even fakers. So my respite was not, and I returned many towns to the animals who they were taken from."
That Pestilence then cried out in a fury, and this was at his loss, and that such as he could know loss. For it was as an alien thing to him, the disease that dread Pestilence was not proof against.
"Oh, You Horsemen! We shall find Death again, if we must fight all the many worlds to know his place of keeping! We shall ride together, or separately, if need be."
For two score the Mounted Gods rode, and they searched through the briars, and they searched through the brambles, and they searched in the bushes where a rabbit could not go. They rode so hard even fabled Cerebrus could not catch them. They rode up from Messina to the port of Baltic Seas.
But Death was dead, or Death was hiding. Death, Pestilence was fair sure, could do neither.
And still they rode, their search yielding oh so much Death, but simply not the right kind or manner. For when it comes to true Death, ken well that there can be only one.
Where, then, was Death?
That fearsome foe of Life, that render of flesh and hope, that robber of maidenheads and of a groom's three close friends, as well, was not kinging over blue-backed primitives, in Britannia's wild lands. Nor was he in fabled Benin, where scholars from Africa brought their learning, where a god might learn to be a higher god. Nor was he enjoying the flesh and food of shining Illyricum, star of the Near East, and the peaceful, lamb-like peoples of Serbia, Bosnia, and Macedon.
No, Death dwelt in the houses of Israel, in Judaea, whose people were so often conquered, the Mounted Gods had often passed it by, for where then was sport?
There came to this place a wealthy old man, of generous bent, and he was told by his God, That God Who Is That He Is, to observe a man casting away a mask. But this was no man, but rather Death itself, who wished to be Death no more.
"You old man--for you have seen my face, as my helm fell away, and you must die."
The old man was not afraid of Death's power, having been promised protection from it.
"You older man--for I offer you my house, and title to it all. Will you dwell as my son, and call me Father? When I should pass--my lands, with walls thick enough to trick the gods—shall be yours, handed over at the point of a quill, and not a sword. For quills are rarely questioned."
"Why, then, I shall give you a son, til that day comes when you die, nor shall I hasten that Death at all, lest my inheritance be questioned."
"I shall not die, my son--til I have beheld Immanuel."
"Who, then, is this Immanuel, Father? If an assassin, I should strike him down, to keep my legacy honest and free from taint."
Once-Death was true in his words, but his new father said not who Immanuel was. In their new home, Once-Death read and studied, a craft Pestilence then greatly misliked.
In his first ten years, Once-Death cursed the old man for holding all the servants unto himself.
In his second ten years, Once-Death was glad the servants attended the old man, for surely he needed that attendance.
In his third ten years, Once-Death grew mightily angry with the servants, whose laziness brought his father to suffer.
Came the second score, Once-Death would come to his father's bedside three times daily, cleaning him, feeding him, and doing that thing which Once-Death loved better than killing. For in his chores, he had found a new life, and in that a reason to keep breathing good air. For the new was Once-Death's true love, since he found it so rarely.
"I like not how the servants treat you, Father. So I must needs see to you myself."
Through eyes that were quick leaving him, the old man looked up at his heir.
"Watch you over my son."
"Father, I need no such one to watch over me."
"It was not a prayer I offered, heir. But my wishes, such as you shall see made flesh."
Now, there were three men who frequented The old man's house. The dark one, Once-Death knew, was Prince Melchior Of Abyssinia. A star-seer, by trade. To the old man he presented a swaddling babe.
"This child, lord of the houses, is the child of Youssef Of Nazareth And Miryem Bat-Joachim. We would deign ask you to lend him his name."
The old man roared to life one final time, and spoke with thunder in his heart.
"Fear not my passing, for the angels above have decreed that this augurs a good time of great joy. Let this babe's name be my own, and in Israel, let him be called for Yeshua Of Nazareth, who is born here in the City Of David, and he is Immanuel, foretold of Isaiah! Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna--Y'sma Israel--The Lord Is One."
Once-Death was trapped, for how could he avenge his once-father on a swaddling babe guilty of cooing and being adored?
"They shall all dwell safely in the house that is now mine. Pray leave me, you people, for I must mourn my sire."
Once-Death was thrown badly to learn that his tears were not false.
"What child is this, this Yeshua of Nazareth, who gives my new father lasting peace while taking him from me, as well?"
A mystery pondered sure by others, who were wicked and just and perhaps beyond either.
War turned to Famine, and for once his words contained no venom, merely wonder.
"Espy you, brother, what I espy? A Star, I say, over Bethlehem way. It causes me to be ill at ease. I would see it pass away."
Famine turned to Pestilence, and for once his words were free of grins, and smiles, and giggles, and laughs.
"Ken you brother, that thing which I ken? A song, I fear, rises in the night. It shall even challenge your blight."
Pestilence cried out at the cold night sky, his words the same as they ever were.
"Listen to the words of the Master Of The Night! We make for greedy Herod's, where I think we shall be asked by that little king to put out that light. Gladly shall I do this--for I fear that light has overtaken and conquered Death!"
Into the courtyard of Herod rode the three mounted gods, who the little king would soon promise to make four again.
Who would leave a life behind? Who would leave the company of The Gods, to walk unsteadily as a man among men? Why would Death choose Life? Would you know this?
Was it the tender, fatherly love the old wealthy man had given unto Once-Death? I say you are wrong, if think you that. For tenderness was not so alien to the heart that was Death's. The Quarrelsome Girl, later Goddess Of The Voice, lived for a time merely to glimpse that tenderness. Yet still was her face sore and red, and her killings frequent.
Was it the Prince Of Peace, then a babe in swaddling clothes, slayer of the darkness, Yeshua Immanuel, foretold of Isaiah?
I say that you are wrong, if think you this, for Once-Death had no cause to think him but a babe. The world Once-Death saw was peopled with posturing Anointed Ones, using with abandon their believers' backsides and their protectors' purses.
What, then, caused Once-Death to swear that he would keep this babe and his kin well and safe?
Was it change, the fervent desire of Once-Death to wound that eternal beast whose name is Dread Sameness?
I say that you are right, if think you this. For life atop Olympus had long bored this Hades to tears. For Pestilence became more virulent, and Famine hungered more, and War grew ever more savage. But how, then, can Death become more Death?
"I am now Master of this house, and I shall be so forever. What child is this, who cries not, and is said to be scion of The One whom I say is not there? Shall he dwell in my house, and with him Youssef And Miryam?"
Once-Death cared not if Young Mother Miryam was untouched in maidenhead, nor if she had delivered without pain. In fact, he doubted these things greatly. Yet he heard then her words with interest.
"Him who gave me child, you Master of this great house, said clearly that for a time, we shall have no home, nor those who give us safety. How stands your offer of hospitality?"
"Why, Woman--it stands fully and it stands true. In this place of comfort and learning and wealth shall we stay so long as we are all quick. For only three may drive us off, and those three are dead to me, who once called himself Death. Why, these walls are so very thick, even those who are as I am may not know me, here."
But Once-Death, Who Knew His Words To Be Hollow, yet knew not at all how very very hollow they were to prove.
The Mounted Gods all laughed at the great king, Herod of Judaea.
He was said to be crafty, and a man even the Emperor in Rome never turned his back on.
Still the Mounted Gods did laugh, and laugh.
He was the survivor of his family's rages, and the slayer of his own children, when they mispleased him.
Yet still did the Mounted Gods strong laughter shake his palace.
Finally, Herod queried his divine guests, his anger barely contained, even at Pestilence, and it was known that anger at Pestilence was never long held, unless one wished to also hold one's head in their own hands.
"Why do you assault me so? For I am Herod, King of The Chosen. A mighty King Of Kings am I."
Pestilence ate of swine-flesh, in a land where no swine were, and this was the law of The One. He batted Herod down with aught save raised eyebrow.
"We assault you, because you are barely chosen, and barely a king. This, then, is why we assault you."
Herod, never mindful of his place, queried the Mounted Gods again.
"Why do you assault me so? For I am Herod, a creature of craft and cunning, well-regarded by my allies in Rome."
War threw down whole rolling wheels of cheese, and with it he ate sides of meat and this meat was red, this in a place The One had forbidden such a union.
"We Assault You, For I Am Not A Thinker, but I thnk true that I am far craftier than you, and feared by your masters in Rome who laugh at the little king."
A man learns no more as a king than he does as a man. How true of wicked Herod this was.
"Why do you assault me so, when I offer you caged sport, the free reign to slaughter in my lands, as we did together when I was called your learner?"
Famine ate the roasted flesh of Herod's own children, and in no land is this taken as good.
"We seek us free, not caged sport. You do not grant those things which we take. You were not called our learner. You were our hostage, a shield against your father's archers. And your traitorous children had little lean and much fat. I am an gourmand, but not a warlock, to make use of dumb children's fat."
Herod then clapped his meaty hands four times, and a great platter was brought out. With his own hands he unsealed the platter, and threw out a pale, skulled mask. And all gasped to see this thing.
"Why do you assault me so--when I give you Death?"
Pestilence saw the mask, and knew sure it was his lost brother's.
"We should not assault mighty King Herod, craftiest of monarchs, once our learner like that son of Pharoah, Tak Ne the sword-builder. For he shall now tell us of Death, and where he dwells."
A lie told to men besmalls one. A lie told to gods destroys all that a man might build. Now, Herod sought to destroy all that he had built.
"Death dwells in the towns and cities of my land, making sport of my soldiers. Death says he must now be Life, and so has said he is champion of newborn babes. Only when they are harmed grievously is he drawn out."
Pestilence had thought that certainly Death had gone mad, and now he knew this sure. His quest, thought he, was all but done.
"Brothers, mount your horses. Brothers, draw your swords. We shall kill all the mountain's people, and the valley folk below. For in this kingdom, lies a treasure, greater still than tons of gold. We shall make our path clear, and into it toss merrily those broken babes that shall yield up Death. For without Death, we shall never be four again!"
As the Mounted Gods took their steeds, and prepared to meet again their brother, only wicked smiling Herod knew that Pestilence spoke truth.
For they would truly never be four again. This was truly the final ride of those who had stood as mounted gods. Nor would it go forgotten.
With what unease arose quickly Once-Death? What, then, could so affright such as he? That one who need not look under his bed for fiends, knowing that he was far more terrible than what could be seen in mired imaginings.
"Whose voice speaks to me? Brother, Is It You? But No--I am as I always am, a man alone, and before that a child alone, born along the summer sun's waking. But sure Pestilence seeks me. He would have me return to a life of Death, as Death. But Pestilence, that life was passing into dust, e'en as when we claimed it our own. I know you, you mounted thunderbolt. Your search shall be ceaseless. I cannot best you. Then, I must hide. Hide--when there is no place to do so, and this is known."
Master of his house and all its domains, Once-Death rose and sought the warmed sleeping chamber of tiny Yeshua, also called Immanuel, The Anointed One foretold of Isaiah. The servants, being servants, were dismissed, and Once-Death drew out his thirsty sword. That weapon that sought one more than its five hundred score.
"You Child. You Child Of The One, if One there is. You have brought about this change. Or perhaps it is that you shall bring about this change, which is not yet. Must I, merely to move on from a way that horrifies and bores me with blood and sameness, watch the world warp like badly made wood? Men shall still be men, but still the change I have bought into affrights me. Must it be Death or The Child? The Cipher or The One? I Would Live. I Would Live, And Live, And Live Further Still. I care not to be The Oldest or The Last, but that I endure. I think that the world you may bring down from the Greater Yerushalayim will bode ill for my endurance. So, You Child, I bear you no ill will. And if I slay you, and if The One is true, then I am slain. But I reject you, and withdraw all my protection. For hospitality I have given, and that satisfies all laws. I shall wake those who brought you to me, and bid them leave."
Grand Master of that which was not expected, Once-Death was himself thrown off his careful mark by a voice that was The Voice. The Voice Of The One.
"Protect You My Son. Say That You Shall Do This."
Once-Death did not, it was known, fear voices any more than did Pestilence, when he briefly regained the captivity of The Quarrelsome Girl.
"I say you no. And again no, for fear your Voice will carry and mine will not. My life and my path are as crystal, and I shall hide myself away til Pestilence is been eradicated."
The One's great hand drew footsteps in the air.
"For Pestilence serves The Throne-Seeker, that Rebel and Liar, whose Beauty Burned and Is Yet Ever Chilled Through. His path will have him find yours, He shall see clearly your footsteps, unless they are subsumed in steps larger than your own. Protect You My Son."
What choice had Once-Death? For certain, he had no choice at all. His steps needed a great hand to erase them, as he went. For Pestilence was yet Pestilence, and his search would be unyielding, the same as it ever was.
"Oh, You One, if One there is, and if One you are. I shall protect your begotten son til I see life leave him, and I shall fight mightily to delay my successor's task. But then does my path become my own, outside of Pestilence's scarred eye."
So it came that to win freedom from Pestilence, Once-Death struck a bargain with The One. But the cost would be mighty, and Once-Death would be freshly encumbered with his own lost soul. Though given his due, Once-Death would yet wonder at the price of his dealings, which was to again possess a true soul.
Out from the great western Hill Of Meggido, thunder was felt in the heart of all Chosen. Three Mounted Gods rode out from that first and last staging area, but surely they were something else, The Chosen mused. Surely they were more than three.
The frenzied cries filled the night air, thicker than broth, full of salt and fury like was never heard. The battle cries fair drowned out those who did not stop to pray. The chief separation between believer and infidel being comfort as their brains were scattered like fertilizer.
"Now, You Mounted Gods! Now left is War, crafter of the fight! Now is Famine, hungry to my right! Now is Pestilence--Master Of The Night!!!!"
But his poem knew no end, for he could not cry out, as he wished to, about The Destroyer Of The Light. For Death had not yet emerged.
"You Mounted Gods, my Brothers. Why I say, why then, should only tender babes know our good ministrations? Since we are as those reborn at Death's return, let us have this be a truer ride than we have had since the days of that Quarrelsome Girl! Fret not that we lead to grave those some call Chosen. For think you of those Etruscans, wiped away when first we who were four saw Rome. Who remembers those Etruscans? Who will remember The Chosen?"
War nodded, and Famine hoped that melon of a head would merely fall off, but that it was shaken hard enough.
"Pestilence speaks for War. I would have province over those who run from you two. Let those who think that they are beyond the reach of Pestilence and the maw of Famine find that War blocks their way, at the Last."
Famine nodded, and War hoped that a good stiff wind would blow that thin frame to the places where air begins, that he may feed on nothing else.
"Pestilence speaks for Famine. I would have province over hearths and homes. Those babes that Herod proclaims are Death's special ones now will scream mightily as they are spitted and roasted. And I shall share my meal with my Brother, when he returns."
Pestilence nodded, and no ill thought dared cross the tiny minds of the other two.
"Pestilence only speaks for Pestilence. I have province over that I will, and province over Chaos, as well. Now ride, you Mounted Gods. For we will not be three ere long."
And Pestilence rode. Each town was the same, in those lands of Judaea and Galilee, but The Master Of The Night created terror fresh and anew with each hoofbeat, and with each lifting of the spur, and of the shoe.
He raised his arms, and the upward strokes of his sword and dagger gutted eight grown men at once, some as they fled, some as they ran at him, as fools in both instances will do.
He lowered his arms, and the downward strokes were like lightning. Several women, their babes feeding yet, were struck straight through the breastbone from behind, and cleaved in twain so quickly that they were all kneeling in The One's Heaven before they knew sure that they were dead.
His feet kicked out, and split wide the skulls of learned teachers, their scrolls and tablets in hand. And if, as jesters are wont to say, there are five missing Commandments, it was on this occasion they were lost, and not on Sinai, so very long ago.
His feet pulled back, and seized under his calves the stupid cmall children who had come to gawk. But then, such is the fate of those younglings as ignore their Dams' testimony about playing with fire, whether open or embodied in Pestilence.
In many a village, Pestilence believed he would find Death, for he came upon many a midwifing field, where girls became mothers, crying infants became calm, and objects of sexual adoration became a babe's only sustenance.
When he saw these fields, Pestilence merely rode. He rode north, and then south, then in all other directions, and sure he knew all other directions.
His hands were clean.
His feet were clean.
His horse's hooves were painted red and brown, and yet there was no paint on them, after those midwifing fields were made boneyards. And when Pestilence cried out, his triumph was not unheard.
Once-Death heard him. He remembered His bargain, well-struck. His servants he called.
"Pack you a great many mules, and awaken Youssef, and Miryam. They and we and Yeshua must now flee into Egypt. This place is not safe, nor will it know safety, or grow safer."
Now alone while the flight prepared, Once-Death spoke to the holder of his bargain.
"Erase my footsteps, as I go, You One. For as I walk safely, so walks your Son."
With those made-silent footsteps counting more than wealth or comfort, Once-Death left his Heart-Father's home, forever, a day ahead of those he once called brothers. But he would endure, for that was his bargain, and his nature. He saw Youssef emerge, and speak at him.
"Protect You My Son?"
Once-Death walked past him, feeling ever more trapped by the agreement he so needed to keep his Once-Godly head.
"As I have agreed, Nazarene. Even such as I am so bound, when the words are plain, and the prize plainer still."
Collecting what few treasures he could, Once-Death was well inside before Youssef Of Nazareth grasped hard at his chest. Though he seemed well enough, this then was only seeming, not truth.
"The Son, not of my loins, but of my heart, will know fierce protection. It is as The One has said."
For a whole fortnight it lasted, and neither the sons of Shem nor the sons of Aeneas, who left burning Troy to make Rome and Etruria, were of a mind or a spirit to stop them, for interlopers go where they will, and The Mounted Gods had slain whole armies of interlopers, in their long Demon's Ride.
They were without let, but sure not without net, and that net was called War, and he wielded a great hammer, a source of great humor to Famine, in some way. With this hammer, he smashed and pulped and powdered those who fled to merest dust, many not seeing the great hammer fall before their minds left with their heads.
"Oh, you fools, who are truly fools greater than I have been named. With full health, you may avoid the withering gaze of Pestilence. With a full belly, you may run quick enough so that you do not fill instead the bottomless belly of hateful Famine. But I fill up everywhere else, and I am in the skies that rumble, and the ground that shakes, and in the vase you throw in venomed spite at that one you love best of all. Do you yet see, now, as you are pounded to be made flat, that there is no escape from War?"
Fools though they were, many would try to run, and War would let them be. His time of mounted godhood had shown him well to choose his prey well. He picked not the strongest, or the quickest, but rather that One who others surely prayed would get them gone quickly enough. But since their prayers were not given unto War, they mattered nothing. War saw now his selected runner, and overcame him.
"Ho, You Boy! Your One has failed you. War has you now, and since you are so small, I will pulp you between my bared hands. What beggings will I hear, ere that happens?"
The boy did not kick or scream, as was their wont. He merely asked a single boon of War.
"Sir, I beg nothing for myself. But my friends are Innocents, and deserve life. Grant them this."
War smiled, for the beggings always yielded up so very much hidden treasure, of all kinds.
"Where, then, are your friends?"
The boy pointed, and War saw only an Ox, Lamb, And Mule.
"They are my only friends, sir. Never have they betrayed me, or laughed at me, or called me stupid. I beg again for their lives."
War remembered well his first brothers, those wee beasts, who as the boy said, never gave insult or cajole or threat. He nodded.
"It shall be so. I have no quarrel with them, and they may go. But not until after I have looked over their sacks they carry for you."
As War expected, there was aught of value or interest in the boy's things--save two oddities.
"You Boy--what are these bowls, sealed over as they are with tight animal skins?"
"Why, Sir, those are my sounders. When I play them, great contenment arises and is known to all who hear."
War handed the boy his sounders.
"You will now play them for me, or I will not spare your friends."
The boy complained not, for he loved his sounders, and to play them was his life, soon to be over.
War heard a sound not of him, nor ever made by him, nor heard around him. The sounders drew out a compelling sound, that ate and ate into his empty soul.
In short, War on that dark fortnight first heard of Peace.
As the selfish giant collapsed in agony and ecstasy both, The Little Sounder Boy gathered his friends, and his things, and made good his escape. A prayer he offered up as he went.
"Oh, you One. As you have protected me, protect you also the wondrous Child, birthed in the caves and brought to that manger, where the horse-handlers sleep, on that night of the star. Before he smiled at me, my soul was as lost as that poor giant's."
He who had played his best for The Child was not heard from again, but this was a happy obscurity, not a dim one.
As the half-month dragged long through darkness, one man found himself not so lucky as the boy.
He was a learner of Q'abala, which aided him not at all as Famine entered his home, and took away his family through the meals of a single day. Bound, he watched as his wife, and her daughters slowly vanished into pots and pans and into a seeming infinite gullet. And when Famine was finished his meal, and the sick smell of human bones being boiled for soup suffused his nose, the learner stared out at the axe Famine wielded, and weeped to see tufts of red and golden hair upon it. His little hearts were not of his own useless loins, but he loved them twice as much for that. Now those hearts had been butchered in front of him.
Famine called over the other two Mounted Gods, when his hungry mind better knew his captive.
"For he is a Kabbalic Sorcerer, and may for us divine Death's true location."
War grinned, to see this thing done at last.
"For he is a Kabbalic Sorcerer, and should divine for us Death's true location."
Pestilence grabbed him up by his long hair, and sneered as he had not in centuries.
"You Sorcerer. I offer you back your short-lived breath, but that you tell me where dwells my Brother, who is Death."
The Sorcerer was long past bargains. Had but a one of his sweet girls lived, this might have been not so. But Famine was wont to lick his lips, every so often, and this further hardened the man's heart.
"He Is Not Your Brother. You know him not at all. Hear now your fates. Famine will find his hunger ended by a span over a river. War will find the only true peace after a betrayal. You Pestilence, you will cry out that you are Omega, ere the fall of the great foe, and then of the greatest foe. Nothing else have I for you butchers. The Lord Is One."
Pestilence gently placed the Sorcerer down, and wiped then his own scarred eye.
"You Sorcerer--you have brought me to tears. This is unheard of, and unprecedented, as well."
A sword then pierced the Sorcerer's heart, but it did not break his odd pendant, which hid well the feel that one undying has for another. So it was that Pestilence did not know that in casting this one down, he was truly raising this one up.
"Sorcerer--it is unfit and hardly meet that one such as I be brought to tears. So here in the street your carcass stays to rot. Burn in your Sheol, as rotters do, in these lands of Shem."
And as The Mounted Gods were well away, The Dead One rose up, and heard cries anew.
"Oh, we are cursed! A dead thing rises up! Touch It Not!"
"Oh, but I am not dead! My poor kin are, but by The Will Of The One, I have endured."
"Oh, but you are dead! The One does not raise dead things up. That is the work of The Wicked He Of Babylon, that Fallen office seeker. You are of him, now."
So it was that, as the banishment crowd grew greater, the Dead-No-More one proclaimed his hate.
"That Child--the one for whom, it is said, The Horsemen searched, is now my enemy, he and all his Clan with him. If this poor Jew is made to wander, he wanders to wait for the day when that Child is a man, and may be whipped like a dog!"
Far and wide would travel this solitary Wandering Jew, til hate had left his heart. In an age unguessed at, he would serve to heal the minds of famed healers, and it was said of these healers that they did provide the best care anywhere.
At last the ride was done, but no Death had been found, save for that they had carried with them. Herod awaited them in his great courtyard.
"Are you those mounted ones, those mighty ones, returned from your hunt?"
Famine answered.
"We are those marauders of a grim fortnight, and much flesh of men passed my lips."
"Are you truly those Mounted Ones, those savage ones, who laid so many low?"
War answered.
"We are those reavers, and slayers, two weeks gone, now returned, and my armor has powder in it that was once many tens of thousands of human bones."
"Are you those perfect fiends, who took from the struck-stupid their worthless lives?"
Pestilence answered.
"We are those perfect fiends, those Mounted Gods, so spoken and sung of, and it was we who conducted The Slaughter Of The Innocents, yet found Death's hiding place not."
Then, in a flash, the courtyard was lit up. Treacherous Herod smiled, for here were his angry people, and here were his Roman soldiers. The blessed steeds of the Mounted Gods were run through, and they were brought down, held by the long spears of Rome.
"You see, my people? Herod has brought you those confessed fiends, and now they shall be punished by your King, who knows the secret of their deaths. For am I not The Anointed One, foretold of Isaiah?"
A bolt of lightning answered the blasphemous traitor and liar, and Herod was no more. Knowing their fates, War and Famine tossed their hammer and their axe to Pestilence.
"Brother! Ride you from this place of our doom! Seek The Child, and swear that you will destroy him!"
"Aye, Brother! For if The Child is destroyed, surely you will find Death, and The Mounted Gods be restored at his whim."
With three good weapons and a heart now close to shattering, Pestilence escaped the long spears, and took to away on a Roman's horse.
He saw the long spears puncture his brothers, and imagined that their heads would soon visit the pikes atop dead Herod's Palace.
"Yes--we three should have sought The Child. The Child is the key. Faithless Herod spoke true, that once. But I shall draw empty blood, for, Death or no, The Mounted Gods are done."
A horrid truth emerged from his lips, and his mouth, and his tongue.
"I who was Mighty Pestilence am now remade as Pestilence-No-More. BROTHER DEATH!! WHERE DWELL YOU?"
Death And Pestilence, now as such no longer, would meet in a day's time, but this was no banding of brothers. That which was lost would not be found again.
He who was Pestilence was so no longer. The Mounted Gods rode no longer. Two were now thought slain, by those sons of Rome, with their spears so long and their shields so thick. Pestilence was now Once-Pestilence, and mightily did this aggrieve a soul that some would know great surprise, to find it existed.
For the armor he wore was not cruelty. That cruelty was his longsword. His armor was not terror, for that terror was his dagger. Once-Pestilence had but one suit of armor. It was thick, leathern, and offered him great comfort. For the armor of Once-Pestilence was Brotherhood.
At some level unguessed at and well hidden, he cared not if they all did monkish work, bringing alms to the poor. For even in such a life, they would ride together, and gods were known to offer the occasional kindness, when a humour would find them.
"Brother, I ride for you! Do you ride now with that Child, that Prince Of Light? Why, Death? How has a babe of mewling and cooing drawn you to his side? Is it that odd taste in you as let Quarrelsome Cass keep her foolish head? Oh, let it not be so. I have fought down that sore instinct in you. I have been guardian over your thoughts, since that day you were first made my brother. Oh, say, do you remember those eves spent ravaging the village green? Do not say you do not remember. For if you proclaim that you do not remember, how can I go on? What, then, is Pestilence, if Death does not follow?"
In Judaea, the dead were being carefully lain away, by such as dealt with the dead. For one may not touch a dead thing, or a thing feared to be dead, and yet remain clean. What, then, becomes of one who was dead, but has walked as one alive?
"For I am Soolaimon-Ben-Moshe, who has been your Master Of Kaballa. I have cast the spells in The One's Name, that acted as guarantor of your food stores. I would dwell in my house, once more, lonely thing though it is made."
But the last ride of the Mounted Gods had hardened all hearts, and ended all mercy, even for the innocent. Him who would one day be called Freedman, and reason out the human heart, saw his words fall flat upon the cold ground.
"For you are surely a dead thing, borne back of your own sorcery. The One punished us, for your magicks, and for believing that Immanuel had come early. Immanuel is not yet, and you are no more. We say that you have no place in all the Houses Of Israel. Tarry you And wander, til a union of false god and man brings you low."
This Jew would now wander, as said before. But ere he left and again proclaimed his hate of The One Child, he turned and saw they who were Once-Famine and Once-War. The dead man who was not dead turned back to the teacher, who had banished him.
"Teacher, you learned Rebbe. You have said that I am a dead thing. I say to you that this is not so. But if I am dead, then I claim the fates of these two, who rode with my vanished slayer. In this thing, you may not refuse me."
The Teacher was glad that the dead one was still a creature of knowledge and respect. He knew well that this would not remain so, as the dead one's brain rotted out from his heart's ceased pumping. This was wrong at its core, but even a teacher knows not all.
"You who were, you have that right. What will you do with such fiends? What death is well enough for such as we to wish forth upon, but not so well for such as they to endure?"
For a bare moment, The Wanderer forgot The Child. He spent that power as he knew that he ought not to, for The One had always directed against prayers or intonings spoken against any other, for their judgement was his, and his alone. But The Sorcerer thought certain that The One had surely forsaken him, and felt bound to obey The One no longer.
"You who were War, and who crafted War, and who conducted War, and brought War forth to all the lands and seas, shall now dwell in a place where you may not ever make War. There, War shall be as nothing."
Once-War vanished into air many times thinner than he himself could ever be. He awakened in a great pit in lands that would be called Rus, where no one else was or could find, and some would look.
"Oh, Despair, our lost sister, has come back for her due. I am as nothing, aye, and less than nothing. For what is War when there is no Famine to spur it, no Pestilence to spread in it, and no Death to strike the iron anew?"
Once-Famine was struck through well and repeatedly with the long spears, and The Wanderer grabbed up his hair as he fell.
"You gaping, hungry, maw. You ate my wife's heart. You grinned, as the limbs of my daughters passed down your miserable throat. Tell me, Once-Famine? Would you have your miserable belly always full with salty stuff like blood? I rather think you would."
The Sorcerer cast Once-Famine down. Since he had no beauty, he lost nothing as he fell. So he was placed by magick where his belly would always know stuff far saltier than mere blood. In the great sea as lies between Europa and Aegyptus, lay a great stone between the places where the pools whirled and the places where the pools churned. At the bottom of this Middle Sea, stuck between The Scylla and Charybdis, lay this great stone. 'Neath this great stone lay he who had been Famine. His lungs full up with salty water, Once-Famine Was stuck twixt Scylla The Rock And Charybdis, That Hard Place.
His task all done, The Dead One left, awaiting the day that Child would fall. For on that day, his whip would wait to meet that Son Of Man's back.
Ignorant of this, Once-Pestilence still rode. He could feel that his Brother rode now with The Child, and wondered anew how that Prince Of Peace had conquered Death itself.
"Were you grown to be a man, I would find a tall tree, You Child, and bind you to it. I would let that tall wood stand then as a dread symbol of your seeming victory over Death. Or--is that victory made all a real one, after all? If so, then The One God triumphs at last o'er we many."
Atop his horse, who had no name, Once-Pestilence shook his head and bellowed anew with red rage.
"No! No I say, and let it be said to all that I, Master Of The Night, said no! My brother but awaits me 'round a near corner. There shall I stab his heart for the pain he has brought to mine, and offer greetings. Then I shall quickly compel him to destroy whatever foolish champion he has found. For heroes always die, and this is known. Do you hear me, You One? Your heroes always die! All your things do. But The Pestilence persists, for he is made of another."
O'er a rise he went, and then did his exhausted horse die. But this mattered not. No, it mattered nothing at all. For below him, in sight, was Once-Death. On donkeys backs they rode, he and The One's Chosen family and Only Begotten Son, or so it was said. Once-Pestilence cared not. He would cry out, and Once-Death would do the bidding of his voice. He always did. Grinning, he looked down.
"HAIL AND WELL MET, BROTHER!"
Once-Death held the sleeping Child. He loved it not as yet, but knew that he wished more than life as Death, and that little Yeshua was that path out. He looked up, and warned Once-Pestilence away, no matter the cost.
"Only three times shall I say this, Once-Pestilence. Mark me well, and believe me in times to come, as well. I have no gentle words for you. Farewell, and seek me no more. For these words I say truly."
The pursuer saw the hate in his quarry's eyes, and knew fear for the first time. The fear of the unknown future. The one that Once-Pestilence had called his armor now stripped him bare naked with the harshest words he knew how to speak.
"WE ARE NOT BROTHERS!!!!!"
Then did A heart truly break. It literally tore apart. Once-Pestilence collapsed on the ridge, dead and cold. The only thing he truly possessed was now not his at all. He was not a weeper, no, he was not one for tears, though. And when he arose, he yelled out.
"Oh, you Child! It is clear as crystal now that you have ensorceled my Brother, for never would he truly say such a thing. You are but a babe, but your fate will be such as that of no man, so shall I bring you to pain, and misery! I away for you now!"
With quickness, a figure alone blocked the path of Pestilence-No-More. He was but a boy, not aged at all as yet, to look at him.
"I would swear that I know you, Boy. What are you called?"
Sword in hand, the Boy showed that he had no fear.
"I am Ebeniel, also called The Rock. I am to be set against the Dragon, who has two more heads than you. You have known me. One day long agone, you and your Brothers offered me a place in your band. But you were cruel, and I knew your life would pass, as it has. Now, I say that you shall not gain The Child."
"I have known you, Ebeniel. For it was you who first ensorceled my Brother. Feh! I shall destroy you, and then The Child."
"No, sir. Rather you shall try."
"Boy! Know that gainst such as I, you may not prevail any at all."
"Hear me, O Pestilence! My father has ever instructed thus: There is no situation in which one may not prevail."
"Boy, know that I am surely your superior, this in all things."
"Then know sir, that I mock well the superior man. You are as a poor, poor archer. Though the fetid landscape is littered with your slain, ne'er shall your blade meet my flesh!"
The battle was not long, for a boy is A boy, after all, and Pestilence-No-More had awesome strength and vitality, such as many had felt as they were crushed flat. When the Boy's sword was gone, he was slashed on each rear shoulder. The Boy collapsed in agony, as well he might.
"What sport, you Boy! I laugh now as your spine's bones protrude from the deep wounds I have favored you with. Why, they ooze out as I have never seen bones do before--and I have watched bones aplenty, as is known to all. I am a crafter of bones, and with bones. When Cassandra, that Quarrelsome Girl came among us, I had her people as skeletons, ere she awoke. Die now, you foolish boy!"
Yet this was not to be so. The Boy's outstretched hands knocked away the sword of Pestilence as it came down. Swiftly, he regained his own. It was then that Ebeniel was truly known to Pestilence-No-More.
The Boy's sword lighted like a noisome field of battle. His eyes showed flames like comets of portent. Most striking of all, those protruding, wounded bones drew in stray feathers from all over the world. Growing downed as they touched those bones, The feathers became great and mighty wings. The simple peasant's raiments became golden armor. Ebeniel, that brave and foolish boy, was gone.
Pestilence-No-More took in this sight of Ebeniel-Remade. The sword Of lights was twirled.
"Ho, you, who were Pestilence, for I am no mere boy. I Am Ebeniel, Brother To Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, and Brother to Our Father's only begotten Son. Rock to Redeemer, I have come. As for Old Three-Skull, so for you. You shall not pass, you shall not gain Immanuel."
While Death-No-More made flight for Egypt, Pestilence-No-More faced unfettered battle with an Archangel, on those plains of Sinai.
He was yet a man of might, with Lebanon Cedars for legs and great crashing cliffs for arms. His chest was still that enough to call over those fair faces which would care not about tiny scars or large crimes. But he was no more a god, merely a powerful man, and the world has never wanted for those. Though he would live One-Hundred Score more, at the least, his time of worship was done. Though horses he rode, and horses he owned, no more was he a Horseman. Though called a plague, no more was he Pestilence.
An ArchAngel, set above all but the highest hosts, now spoke to him, and called him by a name thought dead since that day the Scourge Of Babylon, whose names are legion, struck down The First Champion. That Champion was ripped of knowledge and self and he was given unto The Pestilence as Brother, and his Brother's name was Death. But Death was dead, and now so was Pestilence, though it was that both yet endured.
The man in the great pit was merely called Silas, now, and Silas he would remain. The fiend at the bottom of the Great Middle Sea was only Caspian.
The ArchAngel, who was called Ebeniel, spoke the secret name that was no secret and yet was never spoken by living man.
"Stand away, Kronos. You shall not gain The Child. For I am as a Rock, and The One has set me to shatter The Dragon's Teeth. Though fearsome, you are not as fearsome as that Dragon, and you have two less heads, it is known."
But that Kronos, named for he who unmanned the heavens themselves, stood his ground And was prepared to pass through wings like arched gates.
"You Angel! You who have lay over Creation, and created. I shall make a present of you to your Father, who has said that He Is That He Is. I shall include in your innards the wee thing that is my target. If a humor finds me, perhaps I shall even slay your Dragon, and wear his teeth around my neck."
"I think not that you shall wear such A trophy, for that Dragon is as big as half the world. More, you shall not gain my Only Begotten brother."
The challenge being well and truly given and just as well answered, The song of swords began. He, Kronos, parried each blow of the Star-Sword, and the battle was as no other, save for one that the ArchAngel had known, in a time before time. For three days did it rage, and through three nights as well.
And when it was done an angel had fallen.
Deeply did the sword of Kronos drink, and the Holy Blood ate up this sword.
"Oh, you Angel! For I have truly slain you, though its high cost was a good sword. Scattered, all
about this sand, I see..."
There was no trace of that Angel, anywhere. Kronos stared out at a huge boulder, and behind it were snow capped peaks of mountains.
"I would swear that my foe fell before me. His wings I lopped off, his arms I chopped off, and his legs I topped off. And where then, is his head?"
Then, that boulder became a head, in that vast distance. Those mountains behind it became a body, and those snow-capped peaks became wings again. For Ebeniel had not fallen to Kronos, and his size was a great matter. His voice shook the Sinai as no other, save that of The One, when were given The Laws unto Moshe.
"Ho, you Kronos! For my body is that which I wish it. Do you see now? Have your eyes shot with blood now cleared?"
Kronos went to bended knee, though not for his head, no never for his head.
"Ere you act to destroy me, send me to my Brother, that I may look him in his eyes once more. I shall not gain The Child, I do see that now. Nor do I seek him. But you have such power to let my Brother view my destruction. I ask this small thing of you. Give me back my Brother."
The Angel's eyes cried clouds at this request, but his head like a small city showed that his was not to grant this.
"I cannot. Such as you may not pass, where The Child has, so closely. Your request touches my heart, and the Heart Of The One. But you shall not have it."
Kronos stood up from his knees, and raged.
"Am I so fell a thing in The One's eyes, then? I do not ask for The Son Of His Loins, which are His Words Alone. I only ask for the Brother of my heart. Be he traitor, cypher, or madman, I have discovered that I love him still. Before I enter Tartarus, I would expunge myself of my last weakness thus. How can you refuse me, you who have power over All? I ask not for the seat of Rome. Only for my Brother, once more. That Death shall see my Death. How petty is The One that he shall refuse me in this?"
The Archangel Ebeniel wept again.
"You remind us of our lost Morningstar, that Brother who cared nothing for us. But unlike he whose beauty was lost as he fell, you still love your Brother well but not wisely, for his is a heart that shifts with each beat. So The One grants you three boons, in his refusal."
"I want not his boons, but I do accept them, for I have nothing now. You Angel, what are those boons?"
The ArchAngel raised up the sword that would one day raise him up for battle with that Old Dragon, ThreeSkull by name, Eld Destroyer Of Worlds.
"First, we grant that your life shall continue, for Death would be a joyous respite from the misery that now punishes you better than Fallen Morningstar could. Second, we vouchsafe that you will one day find he who was your Brother, then twice wish that you had not. Third, we tell you that you shall not be slain by your Brother, but that your Brother will kill your Brother. Your slayer will be The Champion."
Kronos almost staggered, to hear so great a riddle. It was nonsense, surely, or his ears failed him.
"You Angel! Took you my blows harder than even you might bear? If my Brother will not slay me, then he cannot slay my Brother, for that Brother is me. The others enjoy the company of Roman pikes, their bodies absent them in some pit. Also, my Brother was that Champion, til I bested him. For you have already said that he will not be my slayer. Is your boon to grant me no worries, but to trick me into your service with words? For I shall not enter. Far easier for you to get a camel threaded through a needle, than to enservice me."
The Angel, that Ebeniel, said aught more. Instead, his mountainous wings but fluttered, and Kronos found himself cast away from those Holy Lands.
He would land in a place of deep forest greens, where Teutons angry with Rome and its Long spears would find a leader, and that leader would call himself Hermann, and be a Pestilence to the Rome that had surely slain his Brothers, Silas who was War, and Caspian who was Famine. For Death the search would never stop, but for now it lay still, and quiet.
Now in Egypt, that Ebeniel watched as Tak Ne, once a bound learner to The Mounted Gods, buried a man on his estates. He was not a god, nor a believer in them. But less you gained his head, he would yet live. This Tak Ne, whose name would in Iberia-Not-Yet be called Ramirez, looked at he who was Death, and knew he was long-lived. Death had always gone masked round his student, so Tak Ne knew him not truly, though. That overtall Egyptian asked the man of memories his name and his game in that place, and the name of the poor man, expired from the long, arduous trip.
"Why, you proud and wealthy and generous sponsor, that man was my Father, so long lived. This woman is my wife, Miryem, whose Child was not made by way of her maidenhead's crushing, For my marriage of her guarantees that she is yet still marriageable. That Child Of My Heart is called Yeshua, and by some Immanuel. Cruel Herod's kin would strike us down, from where we came. Have we a place here?"
The Egyptian smiled.
"For I knew Moshe, when he left this place, and I knew those seekers of Canaan, and I wished them well. I knew Akhen-Aton, who also spoke of The One. if This Child is The One's Word made flesh, then he and his have all my protection, and all my fierce hospitality. But you, sir, have not told me your name or your place, in the world you fled. I would hear it now."
The man who once was Death stared over at the grave, and remembered his word given to the one who fell on the trip. His name would one day again be Methos, and quite soon, within a fraction of his lifespan. But now, he took another name, one both of Canaan and of later canons.
"I am but a humble Nazarene, a carpenter by trade, Great Tak Ne. My name in Israel is Youssef, and I shall teach my son that trade when he is grown, and what wonders with wood will he fashion?"
Humble listeners, we end our endless tale here. But what of The Child, and his Father and Mother? What of Pestilence, now Kronos, then Hermann Of Teutonia? And what of perfidious Rome? What of Death, now Methos, then Youssef Of Nazareth?
Though the fate of all is thought well known, as we have seen here, that is not so in the slightest. Our next tale begins as hope twice and ends with two betrayals. Hearts are revived, and hearts are hardened. Before history may be as we have known it, it must become as we have never known it, in all our born days.
This teller of tales must now seek Ebeniel, as he chases his Dragon across the stars in a pyloned silver chariot, a bold Enterprise that shall carry many a night's work. But those who were Mounted Gods shall be spoken of again. When that day comes round, rest ye and be assured, you shall know more.
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Historical Notes On AYCTS
Since I am at heart a history lover, let me expound a bit on themes and history depicted in 'All Young Children To Slay'.
The Horsemen - Could they have existed? Yes. Many biblical names, places, and sayings had other origins. Jesus may have popularized and doctrinized the phrase 'Render Unto Caesar', but it is probable that he did not invent it, as many Jewish leaders of the day had to contend with the dichotomy of the Roman Occupation and their faiths. So the Horsemen, as described later in Revelations, could have been based on marauders who perhaps haunted The Israelites on their journey from Egypt. The ancient world knew many such bands.
The Slaughter Of The Innocents - Did it occur? Most historians say no. Herod was certainly cruel enough to order it. But such an undertaking would have depopulated Judaea, a generation later, as a whole group of young men never grew up. Also, it was likely that Herod's armies would have objected to this, both because of the cruelty involved, and fear of reprisals. Taken a step further, one wonders whether even a cruel king would want to rule in a land where he was so hated. Tyrants govern by cracking a few heads once in a while, to remind people. But all Judaeans, and many others, would have resented Herod so greatly for this, he would have had to rely upon brute force almost exclusively, and that has definite limits. In that light, Rome would have to unseat him, to maintain their suzerainity.
But the possibility of the Slaughter being truth should not be entirely discounted. History has a way of allowing things, even very horrid things, to be forgotten or made legend. The Romans and their allies wrote the histories then. The Romans invented fascism, and cooking those books would not be unheard of, especially if we think of the revisionism of modern fascists towards the Holocaust. Also, there has been a tendency on the part of some Biblical historians to quickly declare certain canon descriptions and histories entirely false, merely because they seem outlandish. Case in point: The legendary Port Of Caesarea in Israel. Many had once thought it to be much smaller than its biblical description. Recent excavations, though, indicate that the accounts were much closer to reality than previously thought. Again, the odds seem to say that it did not occur. But it remains possible it did. Herod - A true historical figure, liked by no one at all. Part of this could have been the Roman distaste for 'Oriental dictators' as the rulers of the East were known. But he seems to have been a petty and cruel figure, the embodiment of Teddy Roosevelt's saying about an unsavory ally. "Yes, he's an SOB. But he's OUR SOB!" Like many a ruler of his day, there were intrigues that led to the execution of many of his children. In Rome, this was hardly unheard of. Perhaps not surprisingly, some historians depict a friendship between Herod's surviving grandson, Herod Agrippa, and the eventual survivor of his generation of Roman nobles, Emperor Claudius.
As depicted in Robert Graves' classic 'Claudius' series, Herod Agrippa died of a mysterious illness after claiming divinity. In Graves' story, he actually claimed to be The Messiah. In my story, I made it so that his far worse grandfather died after this bit of hubris. Given his common role as slayer and betrayer, it is easy to see how a Methos-less Kronos would fall for his cunning and conspiracy.
The Holy Family - Yeshua, Youssef and Miryam (Jesus, Joseph, and Mary) seem all to be both historical and canonical figures. Due to problems with the dating of ancient and modern calendars, Christ would likely have been born in the years counted to 6-4 BC. As a kind BABE Forum resident pointed out, the Child Jesus was likely as much as three years old before the flight into Egypt, the Adoration Of The Magi (Likely a very large group of astrologers of noble Eastern blood). For my story, I chose to compress the events into the space of about a month.
Mary's virginity, aside from The Birth, is not the issue some might think. Joseph was likely a much older cousin of the young, by our standards, girl, and married her upon the passage of her parents, Anna and Joachim.
This would be a maintenance marriage only, with Joseph guaranteeing to future husbands that she was untouched. By the laws of the day, he would be permitted to legally seek other company. A huge controversy exists as to whether or not that virginity was maintained after The Birth. To the eyes of many, Mary would no longer be marriageable, unless one believed that her son was the son of God, and at the time, only a handful did, such as St. Elizabeth, mother of John The Baptist. Lastly, being of King David's House would be the reason Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem, since the Roman Census required people to be counted in their ancestral cities and towns.
Methos' adoptive Father - Some have said I write too friendly a Methos. I treat his love for the old man described within as being something almost alien to him. With no Kronos to impress, and no need to keep with a life that now bored and disturbed him, he ate up the relative newness of caring for another. The tears he sheds at the old man's passing shall tie in with other tears in the sequel story to better explain modern Methos, who now knows not to get too close to people--when that works. As witnessed with Macleod, it doesn't always. So the old man is not an aberration, merely part of Methos' path. The old father I based on a biblical old man, a learned Rabbi, whom God had promised that he would live to see The Messiah. I made him a wealthy but devout man because it was hard to picture nihilistic Methos, even in hiding, doing temple work and getting nothing for it.
The Wandering Jew - This version of the story of the man who must wander the Earth til Christ's return has several elements. While Joe Dawson wondered whether Christ was an Immortal, a notion Duncan dismissed on faith in 'Little Tin God', a more likely candidate for Immortality was the so-called Wandering Jew. In 1987, Mike Barr and Jim Aparo crafted a wonderful origin for the DC Comics' character, 'The Phantom Stranger', in which he was a man embittered by his family's murder by Herod's soldiers. Whipping the man he blamed, Jesus, on his way to the Crucifixion, he was cursed to wander the Earth til The Second Coming.