Read Online Unholy Night by Seth Grahame-Smith - Free Book Online

merchants sold food and wares of every variety, some from permanent shops, others from movable stalls. At night, the entire four-mile stretch was illuminated by torches, and the crowds would continue shopping, eating, and socializing into the early hours of the morning. The north and south halves of the Colonnaded Street met in a huge, round marketplace, which would, centuries later, be rebuilt into a forum by the Eastern Emperor Valens.
    Though he had four miles of busy colonnades to choose from, Balthazar liked to work the forum. It was the heart of Antioch. A place where meetings could be arranged, where merchants could be heard haggling, political debates could be heard raging, and caravans of camels could be seen arriving with exotic goods from the East at all hours. The forum also happened to offer the most pockets to pick and the greatest number of escape routes. But the privilege didn’t come cheap. There were kickbacks to be paid. Tips to be rewarded. Accomplices to be cut in. As with any business, it took money to make money. And as in real estate, prime locations came at a premium.
    Balthazar liked to hang out on the perimeter of the forum, near the money changers. He would spend hours watching the men line up in front of their tables, waiting for the right target. Patience was the all-important virtue of the pickpocket. Balthazar had seen too many of his colleagues undone by hastiness, too many boys his age walking around with stubs where their hands had been. You needed patience. You needed a plan.
    Sometimes the money changers would give him a tip—in exchange for a hefty kickback, of course. But Balthazar hadn’t needed a tip today. He’d spotted the target himself: a tall Greek businessman who looked to be in his forties, with hair to the middle of his back and a chinstrap for a beard.
    A good target was a combination of three things: distracted, alone, and carrying a lot of money. Today’s scored two out of three. He was carrying quite a bit of money, and he was certainly distracted—his eyes darting around, his sandals tapping impatiently as he yelled at the money changer to hurry up. He was a man who clearly needed to be somewhere, and that was always a plus. The problem was, he wasn’t alone. There was another Greek with him. Slightly younger, and slightly less distracted.
    Pairs were bad. Mathematically, they doubled your chances of getting caught. But there were ways to make them work in your favor. Balthazar gave a signal to his two accomplices—a pair of younger boys waiting on the other side of the money changers. When he was sure they’d seen the target, he gave them another, using his right hand to mimic the carrying of a handle.
    He’d decided on the Spill. It was his go-to move for pairs. Balthazar would follow closely behind the two Greeks as they made their way across the crowded forum, waiting for his accomplices to strike. If everything went as designed, the boys would emerge from nowhere, hurrying along with a jug of wine. They would clumsily run into the two Greeks, spilling its contents all over their robes. And as the men examined themselves—as they cursed and yelled and threatened to beat the boys for their clumsiness—Balthazar would make the lift: passing behind the target, slipping a small knife imperceptibly toward the Greek’s coin purse, cutting the small leather strap that held it to his belt, and snatching it away without breaking his stride in the slightest. The target would never know what hit him, other than a jug of wine. When it worked, it was a thing of beauty.
    When it didn’t? You ran.

    Balthazar went as fast as his spindly legs would carry him—which was, it seemed, only a fraction faster than the Greeks chasing him. It had been a bad lift from the start. The Spill had been clumsily delivered, spilling onto their feet instead of their robes. Worse, the Greek’s companion had clearly been a victim of pickpockets before. Once the initial shock of the spill