B. James Wilson

Star of Wonder

by: B. James Wilson

The City of Ekbatana, in the Kingdom of Persia, 7 BC (AUC 747)

Each ascent to the high rocks above the ancient inscriptions of Xerxes and Darius had become an ordeal for Larvandad. His joints protested with every hand-hold, every footfall on the weathered stone. The muscles in his thighs burned as he pulled himself up the final ledge, his breath coming in labored gasps. But even as age claimed his body, this lofty perch remained sacred to him, the finest vantage in all Ekbatana for studying the celestial mysteries.

He was among the last. The Median Maji had once been numerous in Persia, but their ranks had thinned like morning mist in sunlight, and Larvandad felt the weight of that fading tradition in his bones.

For three consecutive nights he had climbed to this precipice, his weathered charts spread before him, mapping the heavens with the same meticulous care his masters had taught him decades ago. His attention remained fixed on a single anomaly, a brilliant new star that his colleague, Hornisdas of Arbela, had first observed and urgently reported.

The star’s appearance had been sudden, Hornisdas claimed, manifesting within the constellation Varak, the celestial goat. Even now, with the full moon’s radiance washing across the night sky, the star blazed with an intensity that defied explanation. Larvandad had never seen its equal.

Earlier in the month, when the moon was but a sliver and the star revealed its full glory against the darkness, Larvandad had dispatched his own urgent message to Gudapharasa, Guda, as his old friend preferred, in the distant city of Alexandria-Buscephalus. The journey was long but not insurmountable. A swift courier could complete it twice over in the time that had elapsed since Larvandad sent his plea for consultation.

Yet no response had come.

The silence gnawed at him. Had his message gone astray? Had some misfortune befallen Guda? Each night Larvandad climbed these rocks, hoping to find a messenger waiting below when he descended in the morning.

Now, as he studied the heavens once more, Larvandad realized with a sinking heart that Varak had already begun its descent toward the western horizon. In a matter of weeks, the constellation—and the mysterious star with it—would slip below the edge of the world, invisible until the wheel of seasons brought it round again.

And still, Guda’s response had not come.

Until, on a warm night in the month of Tammuz, the peace and quiet of Larvandad’s rural estate was disrupted by barking dogs, the braying of beasts of burden, and loud voices of strangers. Larvandad was forced to get up from his bed and investigate the moil that, as it turned out, accompanied the pre-dawn arrival of his friend, Guda, and with him, an entourage well-appointed for travel.

~ The City of Arbela, in Adiabene, Persia

Inside Queen Tsadan’s palace, Hornisdas, her majesty’s long-lived chief adviser, felt vindicated by the summons he’d received, ordering him to appear before her. He had been her closest adviser from the time she was a child, but since her conversion from Zarathustrianism to Judaism, he had been called upon less frequently to share his wisdom. By way of her conversion, the queen had adopted new advisers, men who regarded the Jewish prophets to be more authoritative than Zarathustra. Such conversions had become common among the literate of Adiabene. There were many enclaves of Jews remaining in the Persian Empire, leftovers from the days of their enslavement under King Cyrus.

In Arbela, the enclave of the Jews was led by one, Rabbi Yehudi ben Hannan. It was he who had taken the queen aside and taught her the ways of the Hebrew God and of Jewish law. It was he who convinced her to convert from the superior teachings of Zarathustra.

Yehudi ben Hannan had taught her to worship the “One True God”—the deity the rabbi invoked as “The Great I Am, The Living God of Israel.”

For Hornisdas, the queen’s conversion was a knife to the heart. He had guided Tsadan since childhood, whispering the wisdom of Zarathustra into her ear, teaching her to read the signs written in fire and stars. Now all those years of patient instruction had been swept aside by this Hebrew rabbi with his scrolls and his singular, jealous deity.

Betrayal, that was the only word for what he felt. He had been displaced by a young upstart bearing exotic teachings, and the queen had embraced this foreign god with the breathless enthusiasm of a child discovering treasure. To Hornisdas, watching from the margins of her favor, it seemed as though Tsadan had found one brilliant new coin and, dazzled by its shine, had cast aside the entire purse of ancient wisdom as though it were nothing but tarnished, dull and worthless metal.

The old ways, his ways, had not merely been questioned. They had been discarded.

This morning, as he made his way to the palace, Hornisdas felt a flutter of vindication in his chest. The queen’s summons could mean only one thing, she wanted to hear what he had learned about the mysterious star. Surely this was his moment to reclaim his place at her side.

Months had passed since that first sighting. The moment he’d confirmed the star’s sudden appearance, he had dispatched two urgent messages: one to Queen Tsadan herself, and another to his colleague Larvandad in Ekbatana. From the queen, at least, silence had been expected, she would wish to consult with him in person about such portentous matters. But from Larvandad? Nothing. Not a single word in all these months, despite the momentous nature of the discovery.

The silence troubled him, but Hornisdas had not been idle. Night after night, he had returned to his observations, consulting the ancient texts, casting divinations, tracing the star’s path through the greater tapestry of celestial signs. And gradually, inexorably, the truth had revealed itself.

This was no ordinary astronomical phenomenon. The star announced a birth, the birth of a king. But not merely another earthly ruler destined to rise and fall like all the rest. No, the heavens themselves proclaimed something far greater: a King who would rule over all Heaven and Earth, a monarch whose dominion would eclipse every throne that had come before.

It was the kind of revelation that should command a queen’s attention. The kind of cosmic knowledge that should remind Tsadan why she had once valued his counsel above all others. If the news was stunning enough, and surely it was, perhaps it would finally outshine the teachings of that Hebrew rabbi and his coterie of advisors. Perhaps the old ways still had power to inspire wonder. Perhaps Hornisdas himself might yet prove indispensable.

He clung to that hope as he approached the palace gates.

What made the discovery almost unbearably ironic was this: by every celestial sign and heavenly indication, this prophesied King would be born among the Hebrew people, the very nation whose God the queen had so recently embraced.

Hornisdas knew this with certainty. Throughout the entire month of Nisan, the brilliant star had held its position within Varak, the constellation of the goat. For generations beyond counting, the Maji had recognized Varak as the celestial marker of the Hebrews, their sign, their portion of the heavens. The star’s placement was unmistakable, undeniable.

He was still explaining these correlations to Queen Tsadan, warming to his subject, feeling the old excitement of interpretation coursing through him, when the chamber doors burst open. Her young son, Izates, rushed in with the breathless energy of youth, heedless of protocol. The boy crossed directly to his mother’s throne and bent to whisper in her ear.

Hornisdas fell silent mid-sentence, watching as the queen’s expression shifted, first surprise, then something that looked almost like delight. When Izates withdrew and hurried from the chamber with the same urgency he’d shown entering, Tsadan rose from her place. The movement was graceful but final, the unmistakable signal that their audience had concluded.

She looked down from her dais at Hornisdas with a smile that seemed to hold secrets.

“Your friends from the East have arrived,” she said, then she swept from the chamber.

Hornisdas felt his heart leap. Larvandad. Guda. After all these months of silence, they had come, and not merely sent word, but journeyed here themselves to Arbela. The magnitude of that commitment struck him immediately. Whatever they had discovered, it was significant enough to warrant traveling hundreds of miles to discuss it in person.

~

Later that day, gathered at the queen’s table, when the meal was over, Hornisdas was surprised to find that Larvandad and Guda were more anxious to discuss the meaning of his discovery, than to take rest. Concerned for their well-being, he asked, “But are you not exhausted from your journey?”
Guda answered, “I will speak only for myself, but it is I who have traveled farthest. I would like to hear what you have to say about this new star, tonight, right now. I can rest tomorrow.”

Hornisdas gave a nod, and the queen’s servants poured hot tea. When that was done, he opened the discussion by describing the sudden appearance of the star in the month of Nisan.

“It was dim at first, but as the month progressed, the star grew brighter and brighter.”

Larvandad responded, “I thought that also. I detected a growing brilliance, though the moonlight made it less noticeable for me.”

Guda also nodded his agreement. He asked, “Because it stood in Varak for the entire month of Nisan, you believe it foretells the birth of a king among the Hebrew people?”

“Not just any king,” Hornisdas explained, “The growing brilliance of the star, the whisperings of the gods, and the fact that it stood in Varak until the goat vanished below the horizon for another year. It all speaks of greatness.”

Larvandad added, “Certainly, if the star remains when Varak reappears, what you say will be confirmed.”

Guda said, “If we are correct that the star portends the birth of a king, then its standing so long in Varak must mean he will have a long reign.”
Hornisdas nodded his agreement and added, “Perhaps a lifetime, or longer. Perhaps the sign speaks of an eternal king.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Larvandad argued. “No kingdom lasts forever. In fact, a king who has sons is fortunate to live much beyond the age of their consent.”

He was quickly embarrassed by his impudence. Hornisdas turned to Queen Tsadan and her sons, who were in attendance, bowing low and apologizing for his guest, “He meant no offense, Your Highness.”
The queen only smiled and said, “None Taken, Old One.”

Her euphemism was an affectionate throwback to her youth when she called him by that name. It was her playful way of needling him.

Larvandad went on, “I simply mean that dynasties come and go, but there has never been a king that rules beyond a lifetime.”
“Still,” Hornisdas argued, “the star remains. It came in a manner like no other in memory, its brightness outshining even the Morning Star, surely the birth it portends is something extraordinary, a king more potent than any before him. It suggests, at the least, that the child will be a King of kings.”
Guda nodded in agreement and added, “If, as we agree, the sign portends the birth of a king then he will surely be a King like no other.”
Larvandad, having no argument, nodded quietly and sipped his tea.

In the silence that followed, Queen Tsadan leaned forward from her place, her gaze moving deliberately from one sage to another.

“Am I to understand, then, that you three are in agreement? That a great king has been born?”

The wise men exchanged glances, then nodded as one. Hornisdas spoke for them all, his voice carrying the weight of their collective certainty. “We are agreed on that much, My Queen.”

“Then we must know where.” Tsadan’s words were not a question but a command cloaked in courtesy. She looked at each of them in turn, waiting.

Guda shifted his weight but offered nothing. Larvandad stroked his beard, silent. The queen’s eyes finally settled on Hornisdas, and he felt the familiar pull of her expectation.

“My reading is that this great King has been born among the Hebrew people,” he said, conviction hardening his voice. “I am certain of it.”

Something flickered in the queen’s expression, was it satisfaction? Vindication? She rose from her place with sudden energy.

“Then we must go to him bearing gifts,” she declared. “We must pay homage to this newborn king.” She paused, turning back to them with an intensity that commanded their full attention. “But where, precisely? Do the signs reveal the location of his birth?”

The three Magi exchanged uncertain glances. Hornisdas felt the weight of inadequacy—they had mapped the heavens but not the earth. After a long moment, he ventured what seemed the only logical answer.

“We must travel to the land of the Hebrew people, My Queen. To Jerusalem, the city of their kings, the seat of their power. If such a birth has occurred, word of it will surely be found there.”

The queen’s face transformed. Her smile broke like dawn across her features, and Hornisdas realized with a start that he had just handed her exactly what she wanted. Tsadan had long sought a legitimate reason to visit the Holy City, to walk the streets where the Living God was worshiped, to see with her own eyes the great Temple of Solomon that the Hebrew scriptures described in such reverent detail.

“Yes,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “This star, this magnificent, heaven-sent sign, has given us every reason to make such a journey.”

She began to pace, her mind already racing ahead to logistics and preparations. The words tumbled out in a rush of enthusiasm.

“How long would such a journey take? We must begin making arrangements immediately, provisions, escorts, suitable gifts for a king. And we must time our arrival carefully.” She turned back to them, her eyes bright. “We should reach Jerusalem in time to witness the star rise again in the east, when Nisan comes round once more. If the star stood in Varak throughout that month last year, if there truly is a King, it will surely do so again.”

Hornisdas was caught up in her energy despite himself. After months of isolation and displacement, he was once again at the center of momentous events, his knowledge essential, his counsel valued.

Perhaps the old ways still mattered after all.

~

Many weeks into their thousand-mile journey, the caravan made camp in Palmyra. The night air carried the sweet, cloying scent of date palms, and a soft breeze moved through the oasis like a benediction after the day’s brutal heat. The three Maji sat in quiet discussion around a low fire, their voices rising and falling in the comfortable rhythm of old colleagues debating familiar mysteries.

Queen Tsadan’s voice cut through their conversation like a blade.

“Why do you speak of the stars as if they were living beings?”

Hornisdas recognized the challenge immediately, he’d heard that particular tone in her voice before. This was not idle curiosity. This was the queen testing the foundations of beliefs she had already rejected.

He chose his words carefully, keeping his voice level, respectful. “My Queen, we speak of the gods our fathers worshiped, the gods revealed to us through Zarathustra’s wisdom. The stars are not themselves divine, they are messengers, representatives of the celestial powers.”

“Representatives of idols, you mean.” Her response was swift, unsparing. “The stars you observe are no more alive than the stone images you bow before.”

The words hung in the night air. Guda stared into the fire. Larvandad’s hand froze halfway to his cup. Neither man spoke, not from confusion, but from the deeply ingrained deference owed to royalty. To contradict a queen, even one whose logic seemed flawed, was to risk her displeasure.

In the silence, Tsadan pressed her advantage. She gestured upward toward the vast canopy of stars wheeling overhead in their ancient patterns.

“There is only one God, Hornisdas. One Creator who made all of this, the stars, the earth beneath our feet, the very air we breathe. All of it.”

Hornisdas felt the old frustration rising in his throat, burning there like bile. How many times must he defend the traditions he himself had taught her? When she was a child, she sat at his feet and learned the names of stars, the movements of planets, the sacred patterns that governed all things. Now she wielded that very knowledge against him, as if he had been teaching her lies all along.

He drew a slow breath, forcing calm into his voice. “I am not saying the gods live within the stars themselves, My Queen. I am saying they use the celestial lights as a means of communication.”

“Communication with whom?” She leaned forward, her eyes catching the firelight. “Not with us.” She indicated herself, then her two sons, young Izates and Monobazus, sitting nearby, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

“Your gods do not speak to mere mortals, Old One. They speak only to you and your priestly brothers. That is why common people must come to the Magi, must pay for your interpretations, must trust that you are telling them the truth about what the heavens declare.”

The accusation struck home. Hornisdas heard it clearly now, this was about trust, about the very foundation of his authority. He could deny it, but that would be a lie. He could defend it, but that would confirm her critique of the priesthood’s elite position.

“I suppose,” he said finally, each word carefully measured, “that is true.”

For a moment he thought the discussion had ended. Then Tsadan shifted tactics with the swiftness of a cavalry charge.

“Tell me, Hornisdas, would you worship the gods of Rome?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere. Guda’s head snapped up, his face darkening. “Certainly not!” he said, his voice sharp with offense. Larvandad and Hornisdas nodded their agreement. No Persian of any dignity would bow before the crude deities of their Roman overlords.

Queen Tsadan smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

“And yet,” she said softly, “you do.”

Larvandad’s composure cracked. “In what manner do I worship Roman gods?” The insult in his voice was barely contained. “Explain yourself, My Queen.”

“The stars themselves,” Tsadan replied, her voice maddeningly calm. “You read the movements of planets and constellations, yes? You trace their paths, map their positions, divine their meanings?”

“Of course,” Larvandad said warily.

“And the Romans look at those same stars and see their own gods, Jupiter, Mars, Venus. The Greeks did the same before them. Even certain Hebrew astronomers assign their own meanings to the celestial patterns.” She paused, letting the logic sink in. “If the stars are messengers of the divine, whose gods are they serving? Yours? Rome’s? Greece’s? How do you know Ahura Mazda speaks through the wandering star you call Marduk when the Romans call that same light Jupiter and claim it speaks for their father of gods?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Hornisdas felt something cold settling in his chest. He was not ignorant of such arguments, they had troubled him for years, gnawing at the edges of his certainty during long nights of observation and prayer. He had consulted the Avesta, the sacred texts, searching for answers. He had debated with other Magi, seeking resolution, but had found none. The truth was, he had no answer for her. Not one that would satisfy the sharp logic she had learned from her Hebrew teachers.

Hornisdas rose abruptly, brushing dust and ash from his robes with sharp, angry movements. He needed to leave, to escape this conversation before it stripped away what little dignity remained to him.

“Where are you going, Old One?” Tsadan’s voice followed him, softer now.

He stopped but gave no response.

“Sit,” she commanded, patting the ground next to her.

“I have much more to say. You have not yet heard my own interpretation of this new star.”
Hornisdas hesitated but thought better of open defiance. He sat down next to her, and she smiled at him, squeezing his arm in a sign of affection, and saying, “I have no desire to hurt you, Old One. I only wish to share the truth with you, but sometimes the truth is a double-edged sword that both cuts and heals.”
He gave her a weak smile and Tsadan launched into her “truth” without delay.

“There is only one living God,” she said, speaking what she had learned from the Hebrew Rabbi and his scrolls.

“He is the God who created all things both before and since the beginning of time. You know Him as Ahura Mazda, but that is not His name. The gods you worship in stone and stars are not gods at all, but fallen angels, djinn, and evil spirits. They hate you, Hornisdas, as they hate the God who created you, for He created you in His own image. They seek nothing less than your utter destruction. They do not answer our prayers, as you well know.

“Instead, they send merciless curses upon us, then entertain themselves in watching us struggle against their power, only giving occasional relief when one bows to their will. The signs that you see in the stars do not come from fallen angels. The signs come from the One and Only God who created both the stars and the angels. He is the One who speaks to you saying thus:

“The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament shows His handiwork.”

Queen Tsadan swept her hand across the sky, indicating the multitude of stars that filled the darkness above them.She paused, staring up at the sky, then concluded, “The Prophet Isaiah long ago foretold the event that you have witnessed in the stars. He wrote, “For unto us a Child is born, Unto us a Son is given; And the government will be upon His shoulder. And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of His government and peace, There will be no end, Upon the throne of David and over His kingdom, To order it and establish it with judgment and justice, From that time forward, even forever more.””

Her words were met with a protracted silence, but after time had been adequate for thought, she said, “This same God has promised, through His prophets, to raise up a Savior among the Hebrew people. He promises that this ‘Son of David’ will be the Savior of the world.”

She paused and looked up, then said, “The star we seek is nothing less than a sign of God’s fulfillment of that long-standing promise.”
The three men sat silent, gazing at the stars above them. Queen Tsadan nodded to Izates who rose to his feet then turned to assist her. As she got up, the three Maji rose with her, and bowed in unison.
“I bid you good night, gentlemen,” she said, then her sons escorted her to her tent.
She had given them a great deal to ponder, but Larvandad and Guda retired to their separate tents, too worn to pursue the matter. Hornisdas sat down again, and, looking up at the stars, he implored his traditional gods, including Ahura Mazda, to bring clarity of mind to the night’s discussion.

~

Damascus, Syria, AUC 748, (The Year 6 BC)

Winter had overtaken them by the time the caravan reached Jobar, a small village that clung to the outskirts of Damascus like a child to its mother’s skirts. The cold had teeth now, sharp winds that cut through even the finest traveling cloaks and turned morning frost into patches of treacherous ice along the road.

Their approach had not gone unnoticed. Outriders from Damascus had spotted the caravan while it was still half a day’s journey from Palmyra, and word of Queen Tsadan’s progress had raced ahead on swift horses. By the time her entourage reached the gates of Jobar, a welcoming party stood waiting in the late afternoon chill.

Moses ben-Hamadi, Rabbi and custodian of the ancient synagogue known as Eliyahu Hanavi, stepped forward to greet them. His breath misted in the cold air as he bowed with practiced dignity. Behind him, servants stood ready with hot drinks and warm blankets. Everything had been prepared according to the detailed letters he’d received from his friend and colleague, Rabbi Yehudi ben Hannan of Arbela. The guest quarters had been swept and aired, braziers lit, provisions laid in. When Queen Tsadan’s personal entourage passed through Jobar’s gates, they found comfort waiting.

The larger portion of the caravan, the military escort, the merchants and tradesmen who had attached themselves along the way, and the hundreds of wandering families and fortune-seeking young men who swelled their numbers, continued onward. They would press on to Damascus proper, just a short distance ahead, entering through the Bab Sharqi, the East Gate that locals called the Gate of the Sun.

Evening fell swiftly in the mountains. Tsadan stood for a moment in the synagogue’s courtyard, watching her breath form ghostly clouds in the frigid air. The sun was setting behind the distant peaks, painting the sky in layers of transformation—first molten gold, then bright coral pink, finally deepening to a rich royal purple that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. The first stars were beginning to emerge, sharp and clear in the crystalline air of winter.

Inside the guest quarters, warmth embraced them. Braziers glowed in the corners, and thick carpets covered the stone floors. Servants brought tea, proper tea, hot and fragrant, sweetened with honey and spiced with cardamom. Tsadan settled onto cushions arranged around a low table, her sons on either side of her, the three Magi finding their places nearby.

Rabbi Moses ben-Hamadi poured the tea himself, an honor he reserved for distinguished guests. But as he served them, his movements carried an edge of tension, and when he spoke, frustration colored every word.

“Caesar Augustus has ordered a census,” he said without preamble, as if the news was too heavy to hold back any longer. “The edict requires every man in the empire to return to his place of birth to be counted and registered.”

He paused to sip his own tea, but seemed to take no pleasure in it.

“The result is chaos, absolute chaos in the streets,” he continued. “Damascus has swollen to twice its normal size. Every inn is overflowing. Families are sleeping in courtyards, in stables, anywhere they can find shelter. The roads are clogged with travelers. Tempers are short, supplies are running low, and petty crime has become a daily plague.”

His voice took on a bitter edge. “And where is Quirinius, the governor who must manage this disaster? Gone. Fled to his comfortable villa in Rome to wait out the madness he’s helped create.”

Moses set down his cup with more force than necessary, the small sound punctuating his disgust.

“Welcome to Damascus, Your Majesty,” he said dryly. “I apologize that you must see our city in such a state.”

Hornisdas responded, “That explains the many families and carts filled with household possessions on the road from Palmyra.”
Queen Tsadan said, “No doubt, the people must be counted so they can be further taxed by our overlords in Rome.”

She paused, then said, “At this moment, however, I am more concerned over the matter I wrote you about.”

Moses ben-Hamadi lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, a sharp, decisive sound in the quiet warmth of the guest quarters. A servant materialized at his elbow within seconds, bending close to receive whispered instructions. The man nodded once and disappeared through a doorway, his footsteps quick and purposeful on the stone floor.

The rabbi turned his attention fully to Queen Tsadan, his weathered face settling into an expression of satisfaction.

“The matter you wrote to me about is well in hand, My Queen. King Herod himself has extended an invitation, he requests the honor of your presence in Jerusalem for the celebration of Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights.” Moses paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, “I gave him no explanation for your journey beyond the desire to witness our holy days. I thought it prudent to withhold any mention of the star.”

Tsadan nodded her approval, but before she could speak, the servant reappeared bearing several small, scrolled documents tied with ribbon. He approached the queen with proper deference, bowing low as he presented them.

Moses gestured toward the scrolls as Tsadan accepted them.

“These are copies of the correspondence exchanged between myself and Nicolas of Damascus, King Herod’s personal scribe and trusted advisor. You will find that I have identified you, as you requested, by your Greek name: Queen Helena of Adiabene.”

Tsadan, henceforth to be known as Helena in all matters concerning Jerusalem, unrolled one of the scrolls briefly, her eyes scanning the elegant Greek script. Satisfied, she handed the documents to her elder son, Monobazus, who tucked them carefully into his traveling satchel.

“You have my gratitude, Rabbi Moses,” Helena said, with genuine warmth in her voice. “Your discretion regarding the star is wisely chosen. I prefer to reveal that matter myself, in my own time and manner.” She paused, glancing toward the nearest brazier where firelight danced and flickered. “If it is acceptable, we would like to celebrate Hanukkah with you, in Damascus, and stay through the winter months. The cold season is no time to be traveling these mountain roads.”

“You are most welcome to remain as long as you wish, My Queen.” Moses bowed from his seated position, the gesture conveying both respect and genuine pleasure.

The truth, which Moses kept diplomatically, was that the queen’s “generous contribution” to the synagogue’s treasury, delivered quietly before their tea, had been substantial enough to support not only her entourage but to fund repairs to the ancient building and provide for the community’s poor through the entire winter. Moses would have housed her for a year if she’d asked.

He shifted slightly, adopting the tone of casual conversation, though his question was anything but casual.

“Tell me, My Queen, what do you know of King Herod?”

Helena considered for a moment, turning her tea cup between her palms. “Very little, in truth. I know he is a client king, appointed by Rome to rule Judea. Caesar Augustus himself granted him the title, I believe, they are said to be friends, or as close to friends as an emperor and his servant can be.” She paused, then added, “I have heard much about his building projects. Even in Adiabene, we hear stories of his architectural genius, the ports, the fortresses, the Temple he has renovated in Jerusalem.”

“Genius he may indeed be,” Moses said, his voice dropping lower, taking on a more serious timbre. “But there is a darker aspect to the man that you should understand before you enter his domain, My Queen.”

He glanced meaningfully at the two young princes, Izates and Monobazus, who had been listening quietly to the conversation of their elders. Both boys looked back at him with intelligent, curious eyes.

“Perhaps,” Moses suggested carefully, “the hour has grown late, and the time has come for the children to seek their rest. What I have to tell you is better heard by adult ears alone.”

Helena caught the warning in his tone. She turned to her sons and nodded. “Go with the servants. They will show you to your quarters.”

The boys rose obediently, though Izates in particular seemed reluctant to miss what promised to be an interesting tale. The maids stepped forward to escort them, and within moments the room held only Helena, her three Magi, and Rabbi Moses ben-Hamadi.

When the door closed behind the departing children, the rabbi’s expression grew grave. Turning to Hornisdas, Moses said, “My apologies, gentlemen, might the queen and I have a private moment?”
At his request, Hornisdas, Larvandad, and Guda, got to their feet, and bowed politely. Hornisdas said, “Rest well My Queen,” and the three retired from the room.

The servants who remained kept to the shadows, silent as ghosts. In their presence, Moses ben-Hamadi’s entire demeanor shifted. The warmth drained from his face, replaced by something harder, more troubled. When he spoke again, his voice carried the gravity of a man delivering unwelcome truth.

“I will speak plainly, My Queen, for there is no gentle way to say this. King Herod has become infamous for his cruelties, not merely toward the people of Judea, though they suffer under his hand, but toward his own flesh and blood. His own family.”

Helena set down her tea cup, giving the rabbi her complete attention. The room seemed to grow colder despite the glowing braziers.

Moses drew a slow breath, as if steeling himself for what came next. “It would seem that Herod has been consumed by madness. He lives in constant terror that those closest to him are plotting to seize his throne. The fear has become an obsession, twisting his judgment, poisoning every relationship.”

He paused to sip his tea, but his hand trembled slightly, and Helena noticed. When he continued, his voice was quieter, as though the words themselves were dangerous.

“Two months ago, Herod accused his two eldest sons, Alexandros and Aristobulus, of conspiracy against him. He claimed they were scheming with foreign powers to overthrow his rule.” Moses’s jaw tightened. “The truth, My Queen, is far simpler and far more terrible. They were guilty of nothing except coming of age. They had reached the years when they might reasonably expect to succeed him. That alone was their crime. He had them tried in a sham proceeding, and then…” Moses’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Then he ordered them strangled to death. His own sons.”

The blood drained from Helena’s face. Her hand flew instinctively to her throat, as if feeling the phantom grip of an executioner’s garrot. Her eyes widened in horror, and for a moment she could not speak.

In the rushing silence of her thoughts, she heard Larvandad’s words from weeks ago, spoken almost carelessly around a campfire: “A king who has sons is fortunate to live much beyond their age of consent.”

At the time, she had thought it a cynical observation. Now she understood it as brutal truth.

She thought of her own sons, Monobazus, her eldest, already showing the intelligence and bearing of a future ruler. And young Izates, still a boy but growing swiftly toward manhood. What would become of them when the time came for succession? Would her own maternal love be enough to protect them from the corrupting paranoia that seemed to devour kings from within?

The terrible calculus of power laid itself bare before her: there could be no greater threat to a ruler’s life than the existence of an heir. The moment a son was named successor, he became a target for ambitious courtiers and a source of gnawing fear for the king himself. And if that son grew too popular, too capable, too ready to rule…

Helena understood now, with chilling clarity, that the instant a crown touched someone’s head, or even hovered within reach, their closest friends could transform into conspirators, their most trusted advisors into assassins waiting for the opportune moment.

She forced herself to remain composed, to keep her expression neutral despite the cold dread settling in her stomach. When she finally trusted herself to speak, she kept her voice steady, offering no comment that might reveal the depths of her fear.

But inside, a mother’s heart trembled.

~ Jerusalem – AUC 749, (The Year 5 BC)

When the month of Adar was nearly gone, and the winter with it, Helena and her entourage left Damascus behind and began their trek to Jerusalem. Though the Roman Kings Highway, as it was called, was better maintained than the roads in Adiabene, the land of Judea was rugged, with steep inclines and frequent switchbacks. In addition, the cobbled roads and rutted cart paths of the Decapolis were covered each morning with thick frost that caused the animals to slip and slide, slowing the pace of their journey. They came down from the high plains of the Decapolis, into the Jordan valley, at Jericho, with only a few days remaining before the first day of Nisan. After two days’ rest in Jericho, they began the final, arduous climb to the city of Jerusalem.

The arrival of such a large, armed caravan outside the East Gate caused quite a stir. So much so, that the captain of the guard sent a contingent of Roman soldiers to escort Queen Tsadan, (Helena), into the city.

Helena was awed by King Herod’s palace as she was awed by the city of Damascus the first time she’d seen it as a child. The palace was a massive complex, enclosed within thick walls that separated it from the rest of the city. Being Herod’s own design, it consisted of two great, matching buildings, mirrored across a vast courtyard that was enclosed on each side by long colonnades. The grandeur spoke well to the rumors of his architectural genius. One side of the palace was Herod’s private residence, the other was reserved for his guests. The guest palace also contained his throne room and a great hall for entertainment. Queen Helena, her sons, and her three wise men were taken to the guest house, where they were welcomed and given rest by Herod’s servants.
In the evening, Herod hosted a great gala, celebrating their arrival with feasting and entertainment. He invited Helena and her sons to sit at the head table with him, and with his latest wife, Cleopatra of Jerusalem. He was anxious to know the purpose of their visit, and though Queen Helena assured him that it was a matter of great importance, she excused herself from discussing it until she had rested from her long journey. Herod was most gracious in his understanding and, though he, himself, would be traveling the next day, he allowed that they could meet and discuss the matter upon his return. Helena was grateful, thanking him, then excusing herself from the banquet, to return early to her quarters in the guest palace.

~

The following morning, with King Herod still absent from the city, Helena made her way to the Temple. She had heard much of this monument to the Hebrew God, Herod’s most ambitious project, his attempt to win the loyalty of a people who would never fully accept him. But no description, no traveler’s account, had prepared her for the reality.

She had seen grandeur before. Damascus was larger than Jerusalem, wealthier by far, and its markets overflowed with the riches of a dozen nations. But this, this was something else entirely. The approach alone left her breathless. The stairway leading to the Temple Mount rose before her like a bridge suspended over the narrow, crowded streets below. Stone arches lifted the entire structure skyward, defying gravity in a way that spoke of Herod’s engineering genius. Each step carried her higher, lifting her not only above the city but somehow above the mundane world itself. When she passed beneath the southern colonnade, Helena stopped walking entirely. She could not help herself.

The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, impossibly high, impossibly graceful, supported by columns so massive that three men linking arms could not have encircled one. The proportions were perfect, creating a sense of infinite space that made her feel both infinitely small and somehow intimately held. Light flooded through the colonnades from the vast courtyard beyond, and as she stepped forward between the towering pillars, the Temple itself was revealed.

Helena’s breath caught in her throat.

The structure rose before her, dominating every sightline, dwarfing every other building in Jerusalem. Its walls gleamed brilliant white in the morning sun, limestone so pure it seemed to glow from within. And everywhere, catching and throwing back the light in dazzling points of fire, were bands and accents of gold. Not the dulled gold of ancient monuments, but bright, living metal that proclaimed the glory of the God who dwelt within.

Her legs would no longer hold her. Helena sank to her knees on the smooth stone pavement, barely aware of the other pilgrims moving past her. Tears streamed down her face as a presence, vast, holy, overwhelming, seemed to press in around her from all sides. This was not the cold grandeur of human architecture. This was sacred space, a threshold between earth and heaven.

She prayed aloud, her voice trembling, speaking in the Hebrew words Yehudi ben Hannan had taught her. The prayers felt inadequate, too small for what she felt, but she offered them anyway, her whole body bowing toward the Temple, toward the Holy of Holies that lay hidden in its heart.

Then she felt it, a gentle touch on her shoulder. Light as a bird’s wing, but unmistakably real.

Helena looked up, blinking away tears, and found herself gazing at a bent old woman who seemed to have materialized from the very stones of the Temple. The woman’s face was a landscape of wrinkles, her skin mottled and speckled like ancient parchment left too long in the sun. Her body curved forward under the weight of uncounted years, and her hands—resting now on Helena’s shoulder—were gnarled and spotted with age.

But her eyes. Her eyes were bright and clear, burning with an energy that belonged to youth, not to this fragile frame that housed them. They held Helena’s gaze with startling intensity.

The old woman spoke, her voice like wood being drawn across a carpenter’s rasp, harsh but not unkind. The words came in Aramaic, flowing and guttural. Helena recognized the language, had heard it spoken in the streets, but could neither speak it nor parse its meaning.

“Forgive me, grandmother,” Helena said in Greek, her voice still thick with emotion. “I do not speak your tongue.”

The old woman’s face split into a wide, toothless grin. When she spoke again, it was in flawless though raspy Greek.

“Ah! A visitor from distant lands.” Her eyes crinkled with delight. “You are new to the Temple, yes? I have spent many years here, and I have never seen your face. Is this your first time in the Lord’s house?”

Helena nodded slowly, still emerging from the fog of her prayers, still feeling the lingering weight of the Divine Presence pressing against her awareness. She tried to gather herself, to remember who and what she was.

“I am Helena,” she managed, her voice steadier now, “Queen of Adiabene, from the east.”

The old woman’s eyes widened. Immediately she began to bend further, to lower herself in obeisance, her ancient joints protesting the movement. But Helena reached out quickly and caught her arm, gently raising her back up.

“Please,” Helena said softly. “There is no need.”

The old woman straightened as much as her curved spine would allow, and that bright-eyed grin returned. She patted Helena’s hand where it still rested on her arm.

“I am Anna,” she said, her rough voice warming with affection. “A devotee of the Living God and a servant of this Temple. I have lived within these courts for more years than I care to count, waiting upon the Lord’s promises.”

Something in the way she said those last words “waiting upon the Lord’s promises” sent a shiver down Helena’s spine. This was no ordinary old woman. This was someone who had seen things, who knew things that others did not.

Helena found herself reluctant to release Anna’s arm, as if that fragile connection might somehow anchor her to whatever holy purpose had brought them both to this moment, in this place, under the shadow of God’s house.

Helena knew nothing of Anna, of her eighty years of Nazarite devotion to God, or that she was a well-known prophetess, but she sensed her gentle soul, and she befriended her on the spot.

She spent much of that day with the old woman, who gave her a royal tour, explaining the functions of the temple and the rules regarding the various areas set aside for special purposes. Anna explained, with apologies, that Helena would be required to remain in the outer court because, queen though she may be, she was also a Gentile. Helena smiled at her and explained proudly, “I am not a Gentile, but a Jew by conversion.”

~

Herod did not return that day, nor the next. In the evenings, Helena, along with her sons, dined with Herod’s wife, Cleopatra, and her son, Phillip. The boys got along famously and, as a result, the two women drew closer to one another. With full knowledge that Herod had his second wife and her sons executed, Helena was sensitive to the terror that underlined every careful word that Cleopatra spoke. As the evening wore on, however, too much wine loosened the woman’s tongue and a deeper picture of the man she had married began to emerge. When Helena, trying to keep the conversation on track, commented on the impressive beauty of King Herod’s Temple restoration, she added the words, “He must be deeply devoted to God.”
In response, Cleopatra laughed into her goblet. The wine splashed out, onto her face, her robe, and onto the fine white, linen cloth that covered the table. Then, thinking better of her display of disrespect, she pretended to be choking. She dismissed the boys then and waited for them to leave before commenting further. When they were gone, Cleopatra said, in a conspiratorial tone, “Obviously, you know nothing of his pagan cruelties.”
Helena declined to comment in return, but her brow posed the question she would have otherwise asked. Cleopatra gave no hesitation in answering Helena’s silence.

She explained, “Herod is a Jew by tradition only. He has no faith in the God of the Jews. His father was Idumean, a Moabite, forced at the point of a sword to convert to Judaism. Herod only pretends, in the same way his father did. He pretends to be a Jew in order to grasp the tenuous power Rome has entrusted to him. He builds temples to gain the trust of the Jewish leaders because he fears the influence they have in Rome.”

She took another long slug of wine from her goblet then went on. “He does the same for the Roman emperor, building cities, and Colosseums with great edifices, thinking himself to be Roman. In truth, he is neither Roman, nor Jew, but a pretender to both.”

She paused and took another drink, then said, “The pathetic fact is that, in the eyes of both the Romans and the Jews, he is nothing more than a dog.”
She lifted her goblet, as if offering a toast, swallowed the last of her wine, then laughed again, indicating to her servant that she wanted a refill.

“He doesn’t see it,” she went on to say, adding, “To his Roman masters, he’s a good dog, at least for the moment. To the Jews,” her face screwed up as if she’d swallowed bitter herbs. She complained, “Oh those fickle, treacherous Jews. To them he has never been anything more than a bastard mongrel.”

She took down the last slug of wine, then concluded with a metaphor, “He lives in the fear that one day he will unintentionally pee on the precious carpet of the Roman empire, and, in that moment, be branded a bad dog in the emperor’s eyes. Her words became slurred, “You see, Herod is a stubborn, arrogant man, a dog who can’t be housebroken, one who never learns his place.”
Again, Helena wisely chose not to comment. Instead, she changed the subject, telling Cleopatra about her visit to the Temple that morning. Afterward, in what turned out to be a grave error, she, also under the influence of too much wine, spoke briefly of the star that led her to Jerusalem in search of a newborn king. When the meal was finished, she returned to her quarters to rest, and to contemplate the disturbing things she had learned of her host.

~
When Herod returned, on the fourth day of Nisan, he called for Helena and her three Maji to appear before him in the throne room. She was surprised and a little disturbed that the summons was official, and not an invitation. The commander of Herod’s personal guard delivered it, and Helena, with her party, was escorted to the throne room that morning by Herod’s soldiers. She was again surprised to find a full council assembled there. The audience was formally attended by Herod’s own wisemen, by the leaders of the Sanhedrin, their advisers, and a multitude of scribes.
As Helena stood before him, Herod inquired, “The time has come for you to reveal to me the purpose of your visit.”

It was clear, by the tone of his question and the formality of the meeting, that he already knew the answer. She recalled her foolish remark to His wife, Cleopatra, during the meal that they shared in his absence. She hadn’t given enough thought to the woman’s fear and paranoia. Obviously, fearing that Helena might speak to Herod about her drunken remarks, Cleopatra struck a preemptive blow. Helena realized, now, that Herod must be feeling deceived. For that reason, she deferred her answer to Hornisdas with apologies. Not intending to throw him to the wolves, as Cleopatra had done her, but because he was not considered the deceiver, and he was the most knowledgeable among them of the announcing star.
Hornisdas stood before Herod, bowed humbly, introduced himself, including his credentials, then said to Herod and his council, “My King, in the month of Nisan, last, I discovered a new star that appeared in the sign of Varak, that is, according to Jewish tradition, “tleh”, the ram, or Aries. This new star very quickly grew to be the brightest star in the heavens. Not a wandering star, My King, but one that stood for the entire month of Nisan, in the sign of the Hebrew people.”

Hornisdas indicated Larvandad and Guda, saying, “My colleagues and I, after long observance, have determined that the star portends the birth of a king. As a result, we have come to inquire of him and to pay homage, with your permission of course, Sire.”

He bowed again and stepped back. Herod could not hide his concern. He was obviously stunned by the news. Helena observed perspiration on his brow and spasms of twitching under his left eye, a clear sign of his suppressed rage. For a long moment, he was speechless. Then, finally, he turned, angrily, to his royal advisers and asked, “Why have I not been told of this star?”
His advisers stood dumb, looking at one another, and whispering in consultation, after which the eldest among them, a Sadducee named Jannaeus, groveling before King Herod, took his feet and said, “We have made no such observation, My King.” Then, casting an angry glare at Hornisdas, he said, “We have our doubts about the authenticity of this man’s testimony.”
Herod turned back to Hornisdas and, in a gruff charge, asked, “Did you hear that? My wisemen have doubts about your claim. They say that you’re lying. What have you to say to them?”
Having no personal knowledge of Herod’s madness or his cruelties, Hornisdas rose confidently to his feet, familiar with the modes and necessity of philosophical debate. Then, bowing humbly to Herod first, then to his wisemen, he said, “With apologies, My King, we are certain of what we saw, and of our interpretation. We planned our journey to arrive in Jerusalem in time to see the star rise again in the east, as it did Nisan, last.”
Herod stiffened and said, “That being true, I too should also be able to observe this star, on this very night, should I not?”
Hornisdas consulted in whispers with Larvandad, who checked his calculations and nervously nodded the affirmative. He turned back to the king, and bowing again said, “Yes, My King. Aries should rise in the east near dawn. We are certain that the new star will rise with it.”

In his heart of hearts, he hoped it would be true, that the star would reappear. It was obvious by the tone of the meeting that lives were on the line and Hornisdas did not want those lives to be his or his colleagues.

~

In the hours before dawn, the roof of Herod’s guest palace became a theater of dread and anticipation. Queen Helena sat with Hornisdas and her fellow Magi on cushions arranged along the eastern parapet. Across from them, King Herod reclined on an ornate couch, wrapped in thick robes against the pre-dawn chill. His personal advisers clustered nearby—Jannaeus among them—their faces pale and drawn in the lamplight. Behind them all, a crowd of courtiers and curious nobles filled the remaining space, their whispered conversations dying to silence as the critical hour approached.

The night was crystalline and cold. Each breath formed ghostly clouds that dissipated into the darkness. A gentle breeze carried the intoxicating sweetness of jasmine from the palace gardens below, mingling incongruously with the metallic taste of fear that seemed to hang in the air.

Above them, the heavens displayed their ancient glory. Stars beyond counting blazed in the darkness, so many and so bright that they seemed to form a single shimmering tapestry draped across the dome of the sky. As they watched and waited, streaks of light occasionally tore across the black—falling stars that burned and vanished in the span of a heartbeat.

Helena noticed that each time one of these meteors flashed overhead, Herod’s advisers flinched as if they’d been struck. They saw omens in everything now. To them, every falling star was a portent, a harbinger of their own imminent fall from grace—or worse, their fall from life itself. They sat rigid and silent, scarcely breathing, trapped between hope that the foreign Magi were mistaken and terror that they were not.

The minutes crawled past with agonizing slowness. Every moment felt stretched thin, pulled taut like a rope about to snap. Helena could hear the rapid, shallow breathing of the man beside her—whether it was Hornisdas or Guda, she couldn’t tell in the darkness. They were all waiting for the same thing: the rising of Aries, the ram, from below the eastern horizon.

Herod’s advisers had already confirmed the timing. The constellation would indeed rise before dawn—they could not deny that basic astronomical fact. But they had staked their lives on their assurance to the king: when Aries appeared, it would be alone; no new star would accompany it. They assured him that the foreign Magi were frauds, madmen. There was nothing to fear.

Now, as the critical moment approached, those same advisers sat in sweating silence, no longer quite so certain of their own words.

The eastern horizon began to grow pale, not with the approaching sunrise yet, but with that subtle shift from absolute black to the deepest blue-gray. Helena leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the line where earth met sky.

Then, first one star of the constellation, then another, then the distinctive pattern of Aries itself, rising slowly above the distant hills. And with it, blazing like a torch in the darkness, a star that had no right to exist. Not merely present, but dominant, larger and brighter than it had been even in Nisan, outshining every other point of light in that entire quadrant of the sky.

“There,” Hornisdas said quietly, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. He extended his arm, pointing. “My King, I present to you the star that heralds the birth of the promised King.”

Herod leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. Behind him, his advisers seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Jannaeus broke the silence with a voice that sounded strangled, desperate. “That is Venus,” he announced flatly. “The Morning Star. There is nothing new in its appearance. It rises at this time of year, as it has since the creation of the world.”

He delivered the lie with as much confidence as he could muster, though he knew that Venus did not rise in that position, at that time, with that brightness. But what else could he do? His life hung on this moment.

“Nothing new at all,” Jannaeus repeated, louder this time, as if volume could make falsehood true.

For a few heartbeats, his gambit seemed to work. Several observers nodded, wanting to believe. Herod’s expression remained unreadable.

Then, as if the heavens themselves sought to pronounce judgment, another light appeared on the horizon—lower, to the south of Aries, unmistakable in its brilliance and position.

Venus. The actual Morning Star, rising exactly where it should be, nowhere near the mysterious star that blazed within Aries.

The two lights hung in the sky together, irrefutable proof that Jannaeus had just spoken a desperate, foolish lie in the presence of the king.

The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one dared even to look at Jannaeus, as if the taint of his failure might somehow spread to them by association.

Helena saw the old man’s shoulders sag, saw his head drop forward in the posture of absolute defeat. He knew what would come next. They all did.

Jannaeus and the others of Harod’s advisors stood silent, trembling for more than an hour, until the brightness of the rising sun overcame all but the wondrous new star. Stewing in his anger, Herod suddenly rose from his place. The twitching under his left eye was more pronounced than ever. To Queen Helena, he politely excused himself. Then, turning to his wisemen he said, in icy command, “Meet with me in chambers, gentlemen.”
On their way down from the roof, Helena, with Hornisdas, Larvandad, and Guda, heard Herod’s raging. His angry voice echoed through the vast, empty halls of the southern palace. Helena, knowing of Herod’s brutal nature, was grieved by the pleading tones of his advisers, especially the elder, Jannaeus, whose fate she thought was certain. As they passed on down the long hallway, Herod was demanding that Jannaeus tell him who this king, born to the Jews, could be. With their voices fading behind her, she could not quite hear the softer tones of Jannaeus’ answer, but she clearly heard Herod’s enraged response, “…and where is the Messiah to be born?”

~
Following a restless night, Helena rose late the next morning. She dressed hurriedly and returned to the temple to pray. Not long after her arrival, Anna found her on her knees in the Court of Gentiles. This time the old prophetess was accompanied by a man who seemed equal to her in age, if not older. She introduced him as a seer named Simeon. The man was barely able to walk. His hands were frail and knotted with crippling rheumatism. He spoke in a raspy whisper, but when Helena explained about the star and inquired as to where the Messiah was to be born, Simeon became animated. His voice grew strong as he declared, “I have seen Him.”
Anna added, “We have both seen Him, on the day of His dedication, here, in the Temple.”
Simeon nodded then said, retrospectively, “I have awaited His birth for most of my life and now, the Lord has graciously allowed me to see my Redeemer before I die.”
Helena could feel her heart, thumping with excitement. She asked, “When was it that you saw this child?”
Simeon gave thought, then answered, “It was in this very month, Nisan, just two seasons past,” he paused in thought then added, “I believe. My memory is not what it used to be.”
Helena asked, “And where might the child be found?”
It was Anna who gave answer this time.

“His young mother gave birth in Bethlehem, of David. You might find him there still.”

She paused. Her expression changed to one of grave concern, then she added, with a note of caution, “I saw in a vision that the child is in great danger.”
Danger?” Helena inquired.
Anna closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sky. Her mouth worked as if she were speaking to someone unseen. After a moment she said, “There is a great stirring in the darkness.”

She took a deep breath, eyes closed, her face to the heavens. After a moment’s pause, she announced, “The Prince of This World is preparing a wicked plan to murder the child. There is little time for Him to be rescued.”

A tear trickled down the old woman’s wrinkled cheek as she said, “I hear a great wailing of grief coming from Bethlehem.”
At that, the old woman’s eyes sprung wide and locked with Helena’s. She spoke with alarm in her voice, pointing her gnarled finger and saying, “It is you! You are the instrument of the child’s demise. You must pray! You must beg God to lift this burden from you!”
The old woman’s words left Helena shaken. She realized that, indeed, she had been an instrument of evil by revealing the birth of the heavenly king to a man who is insane with jealousy for his throne. In response, Helena fell to her knees praying fervently. Though they remained standing, bent and frail, Anna and Simeon prayed with her.

~

That evening Helena and her Maji were summoned once more to appear before Harod in an official forum. When they entered the room, he sat scowling upon his throne of judgment, surrounded by his advisers, though the elder, Jannaeus, was ominously missing. Helena and her entourage bowed respectfully then stood before Herod awaiting his word.

“We,” he began, feigning calm, “myself and my advisers, have had some long discussions regarding the birthplace of the Jewish Messiah, whom we believe must be the king you seek. We conclude that His birth was foretold, by the prophet Hosea, to take place in a small hamlet just south of Jerusalem, a place called Bethlehem.”

Herod indicated one of his scribes and the man stepped forward to read from an ornate scroll.

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
Though you are little among the thousands of Judah,
Yet out of you shall come forth to Me,
The One to be Ruler in Israel,
Whose goings forth are from of old,
From everlasting.”

The moment the scribe finished reading—” But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,” Helena’s heart lurched in her chest.

“Bethlehem.”

The name struck her like a physical blow. Anna, the old prophetess in the Temple had named that very place just yesterday.

The fine hairs on Helena’s arms and neck rose as if touched by a chill wind. She remembered the way Anna’s face had changed at the mention of the small town, the way her expression had twisted with anguish, the way her gnarled hands began to tremble. The old woman’s eyes had filled with tears as she spoke, her voice breaking:

“I warned her, that young girl, the child’s mother. I gave her the prophecy just as it is written in scripture: ‘Thus says the Lord, A voice in Ramah is heard, wailing, weeping most bitter. Rachel is weeping for her sons. She has refused to be comforted, for her sons are no more.’”

The memory of those words, her sons are no more, sent ice through Helena’s veins. What did it mean? What horror was Anna foreseeing?

She barely registered Herod speaking, his voice seeming to come from very far away. Something about how he too wished to honor this newborn king.

Beside her, Hornisdas stiffened suddenly.

She glanced at him and saw his eyes lose focus, his jaw go slack. She knew that look. She had seen it before, when visions come upon him.

For Hornisdas, the throne room began to distort and recede. It always started the same way, a sensation of his scalp tightening, shrinking, as if an invisible hand were drawing the skin taut. The pressure built until his vision began to warp at the edges. Colors bled and swam. Then came the mandala.

It appeared first as a pinpoint of light directly in his line of sight, hovering between him and King Herod’s throne. But it grew rapidly, expanding outward in concentric rings of color—tiny bars of brilliant light, red and gold and electric blue, all spinning in an intricate, hypnotic pattern. The wheel rotated faster and faster, drawing his consciousness inward, pulling him away from the physical world and into the spirit realm.

Behind the spinning light, shapes began to form. Dark shapes. Moving shapes.

Hornisdas tried to pull back, to break free, but the vision had him now. It consumed his awareness completely.

He saw Herod, not as he appeared in the natural world, but as he truly was. The king’s body remained, but surrounding it, interpenetrating it, possessing it, were the demons that controlled his thinking. Hornisdas could see them clearly now: twisted, serpentine forms of shadow and malice, their presence so thick around Herod that the man himself seemed almost secondary, a mere puppet animated by their collective will.

Their faces, if those twisted masks could be called faces, turned toward Hornisdas. They saw him seeing them. And they smiled.

Terror gripped him. These were not minor spirits of mischief or temptation. These were ancient, powerful entities of pure malevolence, and they had made their dwelling place in the soul of the King of Judea.

Hornisdas tried to scream, to warn Helena, but he had no voice. He could only watch in mounting horror as Herod’s mouth moved, as words emerged that dripped with false honey and hidden venom:

“…I would ask that you return to Jerusalem after your visit to Bethlehem, so that you might enjoy more of my hospitality before continuing on to your homeland. That way, you can inform me precisely where the child may be found, so that I too might pay him proper tribute.”

The demons writhed with pleasure at the lie. They were already planning the child’s murder. Hornisdas could see it in the visions that spilled from their dark forms, images of swords, of screaming mothers, of infants torn from their cradles, of Bethlehem running red with innocent blood.

No, Hornisdas tried to shout. No, you cannot…

The mandala exploded in a burst of blinding light and everything went black.

When awareness returned, Hornisdas found himself staring up at an ornate ceiling. His head throbbed. His body felt leaden, disconnected. Somewhere nearby, Helena’s voice filtered through the fog:

“Old One, wake up. Please, wake up. You’ve had another of your spells.”

He felt her hand patting his cheek, soft, insistent slaps that gradually brought him back to himself. He blinked, focused, and saw her face hovering over his, creased with worry. Behind her, curious courtiers craned their necks to see. Herod’s personal physician was pushing through the crowd.

“I’m… I’m all right,” Hornisdas managed, though his voice came out as a croak. Helena helped him sit up, and he realized he was sprawled on the cold marble floor of the throne room. He must have collapsed.

“Get him water,” Helena commanded, and someone scurried to obey.

Herod himself approached, his face arranged in an expression of concern that Hornisdas now recognized as utterly false. “Your man seems unwell, Your Majesty. Perhaps the journey has been too taxing for one of his years. You should rest here until he recovers.”

“You are most gracious,” Helena said smoothly, helping Hornisdas to his feet. “But I believe fresh air and rest in our own quarters will serve him best.”

She half-carried, half-dragged Hornisdas from the throne room, Guda and Larvandad rushing to support him on the other side. They did not speak until they were safely back in the guest palace, the door closed firmly behind them.

That night, sleep would not come to Helena. She lay on her bed in the darkness, staring at nothing, while her mind churned through the same terrible thoughts again and again. Beside her chamber, she could hear Hornisdas tossing restlessly, occasionally crying out in his sleep.

In the morning, when he’d recovered enough to speak coherently, he told them everything about the vision of the demons. The images of slaughter. Herod’s murderous intent barely concealed beneath his false courtesy.

“We must not go to Bethlehem,” Hornisdas insisted, his voice still shaking. “And we must never return to Jerusalem afterward. That man, that thing that wears a man’s shape, he will use us to find the child. We will lead him straight to his prey.”

The words made terrible sense. Helena could see the logic clearly. Anna’s prophecy. Hornisdas’ vision. Herod’s barely-disguised eagerness to learn the child’s exact location. It all pointed to the same horrifying conclusion: if they went to Bethlehem and returned to Jerusalem as Herod requested, they would become accomplices to murder. The blood of the Messiah-King would be on their hands.

“We should leave Jerusalem,” Hornisdas urged. “Return to Arbela. Forget this entire journey. It’s too dangerous.”

But how could they? How could they turn back now, when they were so close?

Helena rose and went to the window. Jerusalem spread out below her, still and quiet in the early morning hours. Somewhere out there, just ten miles to the south, a child slept in Bethlehem. The child king that the stars had announced. The child Anna had seen and blessed. The child God Himself had sent into the world. The Messiah.

Later that morning, Helena summoned Hornisdas to her chambers. He came looking haggard, his eyes shadowed with sleeplessness and lingering fear.

“You believe we should return to Arbela,” Helena said without preamble. “That we should abandon our quest and flee for safety.”

“Yes, My Queen.” His voice was firm despite his exhaustion. “I have seen the evil that waits in Herod’s heart. If we give him what he wants, we become instruments of that evil.”

“And if we refuse to go at all?” Helena challenged. “If we turn away now, do we not also refuse to honor the very King we came to worship? We have traveled a thousand miles, Hornisdas. We have followed the star through winter and hardship. And now, when we are finally told where to find this King, you counsel me to turn my back and run?”

“I counsel you to preserve your life, your soul, and the life of the child, My Queen. There is no shame in avoiding a trap.”

Helena crossed to where he stood and took his weathered hands in hers. She looked directly into his frightened eyes.

“We speak of the Messiah-King,” she said quietly. “Sent to us from Holy God Himself, the Creator of Heaven and Earth. How can we not pay Him tribute? How can we turn away from this moment as if it meant nothing?”

Hornisdas opened his mouth to argue, but Helena tightened her grip on his hands.

“Tell me, Old One, what can evil do to prevent us from honoring the Living God?” Her voice grew stronger, more certain. “What power does Herod have that can stand against the One who set the stars in their courses? If God Himself has called us to this place, at this time, do you truly believe He will abandon us to the schemes of demons and mad kings?”

She released his hands and stepped back, her decision made, her voice ringing with quiet conviction.

“We will go to Bethlehem. We will find the child. We will honor Him as we came to do.” She paused, then added, “But we will not return to Jerusalem. We will find another road home.”

Hornisdas stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he bowed his head in acceptance.

“As you command, My Queen. May the God you serve protect us all.”

~

In the morning, as the servants prepared her entourage for their departure from Jerusalem, a worn and winded messenger arrived from Damascus. He was charged with delivering his message into Queen Helena’s hand and to no one else. The small scroll was sealed with the signet of Moses ben-Hamadi. Hornisdas watched as the queen’s eyes grew wide. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, and she collapsed to the ground, weeping. She handed the scroll to Hornisdas without words. On it, he read the tragic news of King Monobaz’s death. His thoughts went immediately to the queen’s question of the previous night, “What can evil do to us…” But the timing of the event also spoke to Anna’s vision. Helena’s thoughts went to the old prophetess’s decree and her own prayer, that God would lift the burden of her guilt, of her complicity in the evil that was poised and ready to strike down the Messiah-King.

In her grief, Helena revised her plans.

The following morning, when all was in readiness, Queen Helena’s caravan set off north, on the Damascus Road, to return to Arbela where she would install her eldest son, Monobazus, on the throne of Adiabene. Her younger son, Izates, would remain in Jerusalem, to be schooled among the rabbis and the temple scribes, as prearranged. She insisted that Hornisdas, Larvandad, and Guda travel on to Bethlehem, to find the Messiah King and pay tribute to him. She commanded that they not return to Jerusalem, as Harod desired, but they should find another way home to Arbela.

~

Bethlehem, AUC 749, (5 BC)

Joseph saw nothing extraordinary in the boy-child that Mary delivered on that cold night in Nisan, two years hence. He accepted the boy as his own, by faith in the vision he had received from angels. But in all that transpired on the night of Jesus’ birth, including the testimony of the shepherds, there had been nothing to cause Joseph to anticipate the arrival of nobility from the east, three wisemen, not kings, as he’d been told, coming to pay homage to the boy. In fact, their coming worried him. In his latest vision an angel warned him to leave Bethlehem, to take Mary and the child and flee to Egypt. He intended to obey, but he had no resources to “flee,” as the angel commanded, so he remained in Bethlehem, praying for God’s provision, praying for a way to comply with God’s command.

Joseph firmly believed all along that God would provide for the journey and, today, these men, these important Maji from the east, with a great procession accompanying them, have come to bow before the child, Jesus, calling him King, and offering lavish gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The gifts alone were worth more than enough to pay for the journey to Egypt and to start a new life there. But the one called Hornisdas of Arbela brought much more than gifts of gold. He brought an explanation of the star which, on this night, still shone brightly overhead. The aged Magi told Joseph, “Along with this tribute of gold from Queen Helena, ruler of Adiabene in the Persian Empire, I bring you a dire warning. You are in great danger from King Herod. In his madness he seeks the life of this child. For the sake of the child and, more, for the kingdoms over which He will one day rule, you must leave this place before Herod finds you.”

The Maji’s words were nothing less than confirmation of the angel’s warning. And the gifts were nothing less than God’s provision for the journey. Joseph could see in all of it, the overflow of God’s grace and mercy.

If treasures were not enough, Hornisdas offered further, “You must come with us, this very night. We will give you protection as we travel.”

There was no hesitation in Joseph’s acceptance of the offer. He and Mary departed Bethlehem, with the child, Jesus, that very night, leaving behind their hovel and what little furnishings they possessed.

They traveled south, under the protection provided through the generosity of the queen of a distant land, whom they never met; for Helena, in order to confuse Herod’s court, departed Jerusalem for Damascus.

That same night, Joseph and Mary, along with the three magi, traveled under a star whose brilliance outshone even the moon, and by its light, they made their way to Hebron, where they stopped and rested before going on to Egypt, escaping The horrors Herod would soon plan for the children of Bethlehem.

~

Notes:

In the fall of 2010, archaeologists in Israel, digging beneath a parking lot in Jerusalem, discovered the remains of a large palace. Inside was the well-preserved tomb of a person of obvious wealth and influence. The tomb contained a sarcophagus clearly marked with the name, Queen Tsadan. The palace and sarcophagus were archaeological proof of what was already written by Flavius Josephus, the first century historian. In his work entitled “The Antiquities of The Jews” he wrote extensively about her, calling her by her Greek name, Queen Helena of Adiabene. (Ref. BAR)

*That is Arbela of Adiabene, of the Parthian Empire in the East, not the Arbela found in ancient Israel.

** All Biblical quotes, shown in italics, are from the New King James Version, Thomas Nelson, Harper Collins publishers.