Judas (20 page)
I believed myself so much cleverer than everyone—the solitary wasp. I worked the miracles with the purse. I followed Jesus’ teaching without explanation. I did. I looked at the sheets of papyrus in the dim flickering light. How could I have been so stupid?
“Iscariot, I asked you a question. Do you recognize these writings?”
For a fleeting moment I thought—lie, deny the letters, claim they were forgeries—the sort of thing I might have done in the past.
“Yes, they are by my hand.” The men murmured and leaned forward in their chairs.
“So we can say this is your testimony, freely given to these men?”
I said nothing. He turned to the fat man. “Did you ask this man to write you?”
“I did.”
“And did he do so willingly?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Was he paid to write any of this?”
“No, Excellency.”
“Was there any attempt on your part, to have him report anything but the truth?”
“No, Excellency.”
“Judas, you have heard this good man’s testimony. Do you dispute any of it?”
I hung my head. “No, it is as he says.”
They had used me. They’d found the weak link. If I had been one of them, I would have done the same thing. I wrote only the truth, but truth in the hands of those who believe inspires; in the hands of those who do not, destroys. My words should have brought men to Jesus. Instead they condemned him.
“Some of us have not read this man’s accusations,” Joseph interjected. “It is improper to discuss this as testimony or evidence until we have.”
“Of course, of course, but we are not holding a trial here. We are merely gathering information against the time when such a trial might be necessary.”
Caiaphas’ speech was as smooth and oily as a Greek wrestler. His heart existed in the world too much and in the temple too little.
“But now we have another problem. It seems someone has let it be known to the Roman officials that the instigator of the riot in the temple this morning is this very same Jesus. Is that also the truth, Judas Iscariot?”
I said nothing. “Come, come. You were there. You had a conversation afterwards with Ehud.”
He pointed to the fat man. Until that moment, I did not know his name—Ehud, the left-handed judge.
“Ehud, is this the man you spoke to this morning at the money changers’ booths?”
“Yes, Excellency, it is.”
“So you were there, Judas?”
“Many were there.”
I studied the floor. I dared not look at Joseph. Torches guttered and flickered. The room reeked of the resinous smoke and deceit. Mine or theirs?
“Yes, as you say, many were there including your master. Listen to me, Iscariot, it is one thing to march about the countryside proclaiming one the ‘Son of the living God’ and quite another to start a riot during the Passover when the prefect has made it clear any disturbance would be met with swift and awful punishment. You understand we must arrest him now.”
I looked at Joseph. He must warn Jesus. He would not meet my eyes.
“Now then, will you take us to him?”
“No. I have done enough already. It is not what I intended. I thought I could gain support for him by writing. I thought the truth might persuade them to join us.”
The room rocked with laughter. And I played the fool.
“Yes. We know what you thought. Understand this, we chose you because we deduced you would be the easiest to snare. The others, those Galilean fishermen, have families and friends, wives and children. They are the sons of Zebedee, Alphaeus, and men of note. They have people to ask for advice. They have histories. But you—you are different. You are solitary. You have no one to go to for counsel, do you? You do not because you cannot reveal who you really are. No, you are not one of them and never will be.”
In one blinding moment I realized the awful truth—no matter how close I came to Jesus, I would always be an outsider, the wasp. My friends, if I had any, were Thomas, Mary Magdalene and, perhaps, Matthew. The fishermen only tolerated me.
“And we are uncertain if you belong anywhere. We can find no trace of you, Judas, son of…who?”
“Ceamon.” I said loudly, and then regretted my outburst.
“Simon…precisely. Simon who? Simon son of…who? Judas, can you enlighten us?”
I said nothing.
“You see how it is. You have no history. In this country everyone has a history. Most people think they can trace their lineage back to Abraham—some to Adam. That is silly, of course, but you, you cannot trace it anywhere. Why is that, Judas, son of Simon?”
“I am of the Diaspora. I was brought up in Corinth.” At least, it was partly true. And that line worked on the priests at Masad Hasidim.
“Corinth? Not Caesarea? Are you sure? I ask only because we received some reports when we sought to uncover your history, reports of a boy and his mother living in Caesarea. You would be about that boy’s age, I think. A boy of uncertain parentage, I might add.”
I felt a noose tightening around my neck. Try as I might, I could not escape my past.
“There is even a question about your claim to be a Jew.”
“My claim to being a Jew is as good as yours to being a high priest, Sadducee,” I said.
Anger flashed in his eyes. “Ah. The Jew of the Diaspora opines about the legitimacy of the Sanhedrin. How is that possible, I wonder? Did a well-known rabbi in some great city train you, Judas? Tell us his name. We might know him.”
I felt like a fish in their net about to be hauled into the boat.
“What do you want from me?”
“Ah, at last, our poor Corinthian grasps the situation. All we ask is for you to take us to your master.”
“I left him at dinner not three hundred paces from here. You know where he is. Why ask this of me?”
“Well, I might say, to make it clear who gave him up. But the truth is, he is no longer there.”
“I can’t take you to him.” I tried again to catch Joseph’s eye. He could warn Jesus. I could not, but he could.
“Cannot or will not?”
I remained silent. Caiaphas combed his beard with his thick fingers and contemplated me the way a snake contemplates a mouse.
“Tomorrow men will arrive from Caesarea. They will stop here. They have been following a boy—the one I spoke to you about—and his mother for many years. They almost caught him several times, they said, but in the end, the boy, now a man, managed to slip away. They seek the murderer of an important artist and scion of an influential family. You wouldn’t know about that, would you, Judas son of Simon? One might expect to find him in the company of Barabbas. Indeed, at one point they thought the bandit of the wilderness might be that boy grown up. It turned out not to be so. But who would think to look for a murderer among the shabby band following the holy man from Nazareth?
“That boy, they say, had hair much like yours. Now that is an interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say? But we do not know that boy’s name. Perhaps we will be told tomorrow.”
It did not matter how Leonides came to have a knife stuck in his ribs. The whore and her bastard were to pay for it. Nothing changed. My nemesis had finally caught up with me.
“Do you think I should receive the deputation? Or should I send them away because you have decided to help us?”
“I have done too much already. Do what you will with me. I will not hand Jesus over to you.”
“Very brave. I admire your loyalty, however misplaced. But you see, you must.” He swiveled in his chair and faced the line of men on his left.
“Joseph, tell this misguided fool that his master is better off in our hands than the Romans’. We have our rules. Jesus is entitled to representation, his own witnesses, and as long as he is in our jurisdiction, the Romans will not act. But, if they find him first…you understand”
“He is right,” Joseph said quietly and looked away.
At a gesture from Ehud, guards pushed me to the front. Was there no end to this humiliation?
“Iscariot, it is required your fee be paid.” Fee? I knew of no fee. At a gesture from Annas, Ehud brought me a small purse—small but heavy.
“What is this for? Am I being rewarded for betraying the man I most admired in the world? I cannot take it.”
No one answered.
There it was. Like my grandfather before me, I had presumed to know the mind of God. Before the Sabbath star rose, I would likely hang from a cross and Jesus would be disgraced.
Guards manhandled me back to the courtyard. A wind from the north brought cold air to the city. I shivered. I am not sure whether from the chill or fear. Less than four hours remained before dawn.
“Stay here. Your life and that of your rabbi depend on your cooperation and silence.”
Ehud, sounding more and more like Caiaphas, had been assigned my keeper, and we would spend the next three days in each other’s company, he gloating, me alternately disconsolate and angry. What function he performed in the ranks of the Sanhedrin’s bureaucracy before, I did not know, only that he had contacted me initially. One of the guards saluted him. He looked pleased with himself.
There had to be a way to escape this nightmare. I could not, I would not, lead these men to Jesus. I racked my brain. If I could slip away somehow, if I could race ahead of these men into the dark. I could run to the garden and warn him. We could leave the city under the cover of darkness. Traveling at night through the wilderness carried substantial risks, but given the alternative…
I glanced at the gate not more than ten paces away. If I dashed out into the darkness, I could lose myself in the streets. I had eluded guards and officials all over the empire, a small benefit of my upbringing. I could still do it. I began edging toward the gate, slowly, so as not to attract attention. I covered half the distance when one of my guards stepped between it and me and grasped my arm.
“He said to stay, Galilean.”
“Corinthian.”
A small band assembled—three or four temple guards, Ehud, one of his associates, and some others I did not recognize. They carried torches, but only two were burning. The rest, pitch still fresh, would be ignited when they took Jesus. I mulled other escapes. Once through the gate, I thought, I could push my guard off balance and bolt. Two torches would make it impossible for them to see me, or where I went. I took a few deep breaths and tightened my sandals. I would only have one chance to do it, and I must be ready when it came.
Ehud led over another guard. This one was carrying a length of rope about ten cubits in length. One end was firmly knotted around my waist, the other around his. We were tethered. Perhaps I could make a great deal of noise and warn Jesus. Before the thought fully formed in my mind, a smirking Ehud faced me.
“If we must, we will gag you, blasphemer. You will give no warning. There is a contingent of Roman legionnaires with us as escort.” Ehud’s smirk pushed his jowls back toward his ears making him look like an officious pig. “At a word from me, they will take your rabbi. If you value his life, you will be silent and cooperate. Do you understand?”
We left the court. Ehud, my guard, and I led the way. The rest of the black robed officials and legionnaires straggled along at the rear. The soldiers grumbled among themselves. They harbored no affection for Jews in general, the Temple Party in particular, and resented being sent on a fool’s errand. We turned and descended stone steps into the valley. Somewhere down there and to the north, Jesus and the others gathered, unaware of what I had done and what would soon to be visited on them. I felt sick.
With a jerk on my rope, the guard brought me back to the moment. We started down the steps. I offered him a bribe. I had their thirty pieces of silver, I could afford one, a large one. He might have taken it except Ehud overheard me and to save face, the guard cuffed me behind the ear.
“Think about it,” I whispered.
We trudged on. I put aside any thoughts of escape and turned instead to what I might do when we got to the valley floor. I still harbored the hope Joseph had sent a warning. When we reached the valley, I aimed to take them south, away from the garden and stall until dawn. Perhaps, by then, news might reach Jesus. Then I remembered the Romans searching for Jesus. Ehud stared at me as if he were reading my mind.
“Just lead us to him,” he said. “For his own good, let us find him first.”
Bereft of ideas and despairing, I decided to get it over with. I took them northward toward Gethsemane.
“Please don’t be there,” I prayed to myself. “Please be gone.”
Gethsemane—the oil press—was a newly planted olive grove. Because the cuttings were still green and tender, the owner of the plot did not allow pilgrims to camp there, so it remained largely deserted. When we arrived, the moon slid behind the western hills and the torches barely lighted our way. I did not know which way to turn. Jesus and the others could be anywhere. We stumbled up the slope toward its northern edge. I almost stepped on a sleeping Simon. Someone held up a torch and I saw most of the others scattered around on the turf, also asleep. I could not be sure how many there were. I did not see Jesus.
“Is he here?” Ehud whispered.
I shook my head and we moved on. The sleepers stirred. A few woke and sat up, confused and groggy. We moved on and they were swallowed up by darkness. Farther up the path, we stumbled onto Peter, James, and John, also asleep, but still no sign of Jesus. I had the irrational hope that somehow or for some reason, Jesus had left this place and his disciples behind. Surely he could sense a threat like this. A man who could raise the dead ought to be aware of threats. I stepped around a small clump of figs and came face to face with him. He had been praying, the dirt still on his face.
“That’s him?” Ehud asked.
“Yes.”
Ehud signaled for the other torches to be lighted, and suddenly the garden blazed as bright as day. I heard the grunts of men waking up, followed by angry and fearful shouts. The garden degenerated into mass confusion. Ehud gave me a push. I went to Jesus. Tears burned my cheeks. My legs shook so badly I nearly collapsed. I reached for his hand to kiss it.
“Rabbi…” My throat felt like it was filled with the hot sand from Arabia.
Jesus took in the scene behind me and then, in a very tired, but, I think, relieved voice, said, “Is it with a kiss, then, that I am to be handed over?”
“Master—”
“Do what you must do.”
“Seize him,” Ehud said.
The others, now awake, looked on in disbelief. In the next instant the area filled with sounds of shouting and pounding feet. Disciples rushed into the well of light as the guards reached for Jesus’ arms. They surged toward us but were shoved back. Fists flew. I heard the crack of a club on someone’s skull. Peter swung his short sword. One of the high priest’s servants yelped, and there was blood all over his tunic.
“Enough. No more of this,” Jesus shouted. Everyone, even fat Ehud, froze in place. We stood in that cold olive grove absolutely still, like a field of statuary or a scene from a play stopped in midaction—men with arms raised, clubs suspended in the air, dangerously close to skulls, knees, and backs.
“It is enough,” Jesus said, this time quietly, and put his hand on the wounded man. He turned to Ehud.
“Why here? Why this way? I have been teaching in the temple for days. I have been out and about in the city and in plain sight. I never tried to hide myself from you, nor have I ever evaded your questions. You corrupted my friend with your lies to bring us to this end, but you could have asked anyone where I might be found and arrested me at any time. Yet, here you are skulking about in the dark. You came for me in stealth and in the small hours of the morning because when darkness is at its deepest, that is when evil flourishes. And so the dark, not the light, is your preference, is it not?”
Ehud was momentarily flustered by this scolding but then his expression hardened. “I need no sermon from you, Rabbi. We have heard quite enough of your blasphemy.”
The others, seeing no hope, no chance of rescue, drifted into the night. The guards bound Jesus, and the two of us were led away. I looked for the legionnaires, but they were nowhere in sight. Sometime during our march Ehud must have sent them away. I suppose he did not want to risk losing his prize to them, even by accident.
As we exited the grove, the rope still firmly around my waist, I sensed, rather than saw, the figure lurking near the bole of one of the larger trees. I did not need to look. I knew her as surely as if she stood in the middle of the path.
“Is it you?” the Magdalan murmured.
I wanted the earth to swallow me. I felt her eyes piercing the shadows, piercing my soul. I said nothing.
“Oh, Judas, what have you done?”