“Come, and see.”
Herod tasted ash. It was a dream, surely. It had to be. And yet…the heat from the columns of fire burned his skin as though they truly raged besides him. He turned and twisted against the summons, willing himself to look anywhere but toward the gruesome dance before him.
“Come, and see.”
The Saint’s voice beside Herod sounded as if there was a choice. A choice to look away. A choice to ignore. A choice to return to his cozy feather bed in the Palace surrounded by servants to bring him warm bread at daybreak and cold wine at sunset. A choice to choose, to decide, that his sleep would be forever restful and not haunted by the image before him. No, choice in this matter was naught but illusion. Herod, compelled by his guide’s veiled command, stood by the wisen man’s side and watched, saw
The scream, guttural, tearing, like a spear being withdrawn from a stuck pig, further dissuaded any such promise of peace and comfort. As his saintly guide condemned, Herod watched the demon once again tear at the man’s neck. The victim’s back bulged, muscles tearing against his flesh growing ever more pale by the moment. Only in his eyes did Herod see the last grips and vestiges of a soul undoubtedly once vibrant struggling, lashing against the inevitable conclusion. Above, more demons circled, their eyes aflame at the sight of flowing, crimson blood. Crows to the bloody feast.
The condemned man’s hands scratched and pulled against the demon’s grip. Herod watched as his nails cut into the pale, soulless flesh but drew forth no wounds.
Herod’s stomach turned at the graphic, erotic display. The demon bit deeper and its victim’s eyes snapped open, white and wide as the last vestiges of life vanished. He pulled in vain against the Demon’s hair, fingers twisting around the fire-like locks, until…
His body collapsed limply to the ashen ground as the demon bellowed a victorious howl. The devilish host joined in echoing the war cry as the body spasmed in its death throes.
“He will be reborn tomorrow, and again will suffer the same fate,” Herod’s saintly guide said as if reciting scripture.
“What crime did he commit?” Herod asked, keeping the bile down.
“I do not know. Does any man know which of his sins condemns him? Or which of his virtues deliver him?” the Saint asked, and Herod could offer no response.
Herod awoke in his chambers, curled in sheets of silk and gold. Wrapped in his linen, he stood upon his balcony, warmed by the morning sun. Below, as the bakers baked, the weavers weaved, the guards guarded, and the counters counted, Herod came and saw all of his sins, and all of his deliverances.
Upon his balcony, Herod wept.
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A/N:
Spent a lot of time in art museums while I was on vacation in France. One of my key weaknesses as a writer is of physical descriptions of human forms, so I plan on using a few pieces of art that moved me to practice that. Dante and Virgil by Bouguereau was one of my personal favorites from the trip.
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