Judas (19 page)
The crowds streamed into the city making it nearly impossible to walk the narrow streets. We struggled through the crush to the temple’s south steps, washed at the baths, pushed our way up the steps, and headed for the porches. But Jesus stopped in mid-stride, his eyes like ice. Then, he whirled and, jaws clenched, started back the way we came. We made a path through the crowds and, if I read the expression on his face correctly, headed for trouble.
“Master, what is it?” I said. His eyes flashed and my heart sank. It had begun and we were not ready.
We pushed back down the steps, provoking curses from angry pilgrims. When we reached the moneychangers, Jesus seized a length of heavy rope and without warning, lashed out at the tables, the merchants, and anyone who stood in his path. Tables crashed to the floor, coins scattered and rang across the pavement. People scrabbled around on hands and knees trying to retrieve them or steal them, depending on whether they were bystanders or traders. Doves flapped against the ceiling as their cages shattered. White feathers drifted down on us like snow. Sheep bleated, men cursed. Records of transactions, carefully inscribed on wax and clay tablets, shattered on the tiles. Papyrus fluttered in the air and landed underfoot to be crushed, smeared, and lost. Chaos. I stood in the midst of this, dumbstruck. I looked at the others, and they, mouths agape, watched as surprised as I.
“You pitiless brood of wolves. You have turned my father’s house into a den of thieves. Don’t you know the Law forbids charging for changing money? This is the Lord’s house, not a market.” He roared, he bellowed, all the while upsetting more tables and lashing out with the rope.
The merchants and their assistants recovered from their initial shock, closed ranks, and moved toward him. Passersby, drawn by the noise and, for some, the prospect of picking up a few stray coins, tumbled into the hall. They had no idea what the fuss was about, but it required only one elbow to go astray for the confusion to turn into a full-scale riot. Soon forty or more people banged away at each other, kicking, punching, and wrestling. More tables splintered on the paving. The noise was deafening. Not for the first time, I came to appreciate Peter. He may not have had the quickest mind among us, but he certainly had the biggest body, and all those years of hauling nets gave him arms like tree trunks. He tossed men around as fast and as easily as Jesus tossed tables.
Maybe the release of tensions built up over these last months caused it. Maybe I had not changed as much as I thought, but I grew excited, exhilarated even, and I threw myself into the fray. I am not big. Indeed, I am of less than average height and do not look like someone who could do much in a fracas like this one, but I learned how to handle men twice my size in my years on the streets. And so I waded into the crowd with an eagerness that surprised my fellow combatants. All of us exchanged blows with those attempting to land a fist or club on Jesus. A merchant, face red with fury, swung at Jesus but as he did so, he slipped on some coins and his feet went out from under him. He crashed to the floor as two others, also headed our way, tripped over him. I remember dropping one very large and furious Pharisee with a punch to his midsection. I cannot tell you how good that felt. Trumpets announced the arrival of temple guards, who attempted to push into the already cramped space, which by then had been reduced to a battlefield filled with broken furniture, bruised and bleeding men, and bawling animals.
“Get him out of here,” John yelled. “If the guards take him, it will be over.”
Peter tossed one more merchant into the pile of moaning bodies he’d built in one corner and grabbed Jesus’ arm. Philip grabbed the other and somehow they managed to hustle him down the stairs and away. The rest of us scattered. By the time the guards managed to push into the melee, its chief instigator and his accomplices were gone. They were left to sort out the few left behind—mostly those who joined the fracas without really knowing why and the poor merchants who told them the real culprit decamped and they should go after him.
As I scurried through a back passage, I felt a tug at my sleeve. I jerked away thinking I had been captured, but a voice said, “Iscariot, tonight. We want to see you tonight.”
I spun around to face the fat man from the street, the recipient of my letters.
“Tonight?”
“Be at the crossing of the street leading from the old wall and the one with the potter’s shop, just after the guard changes,” he croaked and scuttled away before I could ask him any questions.
I knew the place. It was a short distance from the house where we were to eat that night. It would be easy to slip out and meet them without being noticed.
It had come at last, and it could not have come at a better time. Finally, I could deliver to Jesus the very thing he most needed but had not been able to acquire himself—power at the center. Finally, I would succeed with these men where I had failed with Barabbas. The events I had just left behind could have easily lost us their support, but we had succeeded. And set the stage for Jesus’ confirmation as Messiah.
We gathered in the room supplied by Mark’s family. It was large enough for the thirteen of us to dine and for the women and other guests to sit on benches placed behind us when they were not serving. As usual, the table was set with shorter surfaces along the east and west walls, the longer portion along the north. Lamps were placed around the room, and their light gave it a warm, golden glow. Dishes and bowls of food, bread, and oil for dipping, lamb, and herbs, and eggs were placed on the tables. I saw the appreciative looks on the others’ faces as they entered and sensed the calming effect it had on them.
As a courtesy to our Essene host, we celebrated Passover with him and his family that night. Essenes insist on using the old calendar, which necessitated a dual celebration. I had no problem with the way things were done. I had grown accustomed to this practice at Qumran. In two more days, we would celebrate Passover again with the rest of the city.
We reclined on our couches, Jesus at the left-hand table with John to his immediate right. I took the place on his left hand, and the rest assembled along the walls. Peter positioned himself opposite Jesus so he could speak without having to crane his neck. He appeared to be very sore from this morning’s tussle, and there were dark bruises on both sides of his face. Andrew grinned from ear to ear when I asked about them.
“He must have turned the other cheek,” he laughed.
“Teacher,” I said, and dipped a piece of bread into a bowl. He put his hand on mine.
“Wait.”
I breached the first rule of etiquette that governs meals. I forgot. John gave me a look. Jesus said a blessing and then took the first bite.
“Now,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“I will have to leave soon. There are still a few arrangements I must make.”
“Stay with us for a while. There is not much time left.” He raised his voice a little so everyone could hear him.
Who has received our message? And who has seen the strong arm of the Lord
? He recited Isaiah, and then with infinite patience, told out the words of suffering, of rejection, and of the death that must follow.
The Son of Man, the anointed of God, will be handed over to the Gentiles. They will humiliate him and kill him
, he continued, shifting to Zechariah.
We sat in stunned silence, unsure what to say. After a pause he said, “Listen, listen carefully and remember what I am about to tell to you.”
He picked up a round of bread and broke it into smaller pieces. Then, he filled a bowl with the pieces. “This is my body offered up for you,” he said and held it aloft for a moment. Next he filled a bowl with wine and even though it was good wine, I had seen to that, he added a bit of water. He prayed silently and then said, “This is my blood which will be shed for you and for the many, for forgiveness.”
The room became very quiet. Jesus ate a piece of the bread and passed the bowl down the table. We each took a piece and ate. Then he sipped from the chalice and passed it, too. At a gesture from him, we each drank as well. When each of us had eaten a piece of bread and drunk from the cup of wine, he said, “Remember this night. Whenever you are together and I am not there with you, relive this moment, and in so doing, I will be among you.”
“When will we not be with you, Master?” Peter asked. “We will never desert you.”
“Ah, Peter, my brave fisherman, you don’t know what you are saying. This very night one of you will hand me over.”
Everyone looked startled and confused.
“Not by me,” protested Peter.
“Peter, before the rooster announces sunup, you will deny ever knowing me at least three times, and the rest of you will scatter to the winds.”
The room erupted as each declared his steadfastness to Jesus, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I heard the tramp of feet in the street and that meant the guard was changing and time for me to go. I rose from my couch.
“Master—”
“I know. You must leave us now. If we are not here when you return, you will find us in Gethsemane. So, now do what you must do, Judas.”
I don’t think anyone noticed me leaving. Before I went, I signaled to the young boy, Mark, to take my place at Jesus’ left. His face lighted up like the sun. He had done much for us, and he deserved a chance to be there. I slipped out through a side door, on my way to meet the men who could change everything.
I stepped into the night and paused, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. The feeble light from a few torches spaced irregularly along the street created a forest of sharp, menacing shadows. I heard the tramp of marching feet a street or two away. It must have rained. The streets reeked of damp masonry. I waited until I could safely make my way to the intersection where I was to meet the men. I could hardly contain myself, intoxicated at the prospect.
A moment later, I found the potter’s shop. I experienced a moment of panic when I realized its proximity to the high priest’s house. These men knew the streets—how could they misjudge our meeting place so badly? I peered into the shadows around me but saw no one. I must have arrived early. I strained to see a movement, some sign of life, then stepped back into the shadows. The sound of marching faded away. Only the muted voices of families at mealtime along with the aroma of roasted lamb and herbs wafted out of shuttered windows and down to me. After what seemed an eternity, figures appeared at the end of the street.
“Judas Iscariot?” one said in a low voice.
Before I could answer, a voice behind me said, “He is here.”
I jerked around but could not make out where the voice came from. Had someone waited for me in the darkness? When the group drew closer, a figure separated from the shadows immediately at my right.
“Follow us,” one said and walked away.
I wanted to ask questions, but their backs were to me and they walked quickly. I could barely keep up with them.
To my astonishment, they wheeled through Caiaphas’ gate. I was too confused to be afraid. I hesitated and, too late, turned back toward the street to run. The man behind me stood in the torch’s light—a temple guard. I spun back to face the others. Three official-looking men in long robes stared at me, their faces arranged in smug triumph. More guards stepped into the light. I felt a spear point in the small of my back, urging me forward through the gates and into the flickering light that defined a courtyard. There had been no mistake.
The guard steered me across the courtyard, into the house, down some stairs, and into a large hall. A dozen or more people milled around. I could not make out who they were. Suddenly, Joseph stood by my side. “They have baited a trap for you. Say nothing,” he whispered.
I turned to ask him what he meant, but he had melted into the crowd. More lights were brought. Temple officials—the room was filled with them. Joseph belonged to the Sanhedrin. What had it to do with me, and what had become of the men I was supposed to meet? I looked around frantically, trying to find a familiar face or an escape route—anything. A man pounded his staff on the floor and the men sat.
Torches set in sconces and stands guttered, filling the room with shadows, the aroma of hot pitch, and peril. Two guards pushed me into the center of the room. I studied the faces surrounding me.
Somewhere in the darkness a door creaked open. A heavy man swept into the center of the room. Not fat, not heavy that way, but big all over, larger than life, big hands, arms, even his beard.
“Stand for the high priest,” someone announced out of the shadows. The high priest, Caiaphas himself, stalked into the room.
After a pause, he took a seat at the center. Then he said, not quite looking at me, “You are Judas, sometimes called Iscariot?”
I stared at the man for a moment. I wanted to know what I had gotten myself into. “I am,” I said. My voice shook and my heart pounded like the drums that led the legions into the city.
“A trusted follower of Jesus, the rabbi from Nazareth?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“The man who preaches blasphemy and sedition, wouldn’t you say, Judas Iscariot?”
“No, certainly not. He preaches only the true word.”
“But that is not what is reported. That is not what these men heard about your rabbi. These are men of great learning and substance. They, better than you, are qualified to make judgments, and they agree, Rabbi Jesus is a blasphemer and a troublemaker.”
I decided to take Joseph’s advice and say nothing. What had gone wrong? One moment I stood at the verge of making the impossible happen and the next, in the middle of some sort of hearing, heading to disaster. What had I done?
“Judas Iscariot,” Caiaphas shouted. “It is in your best interest to pay close attention to what we say here. There are serious charges being made against your teacher tonight, and a few of them by you.” By me? What was he talking about?
“I make no charges. I would never accuse my master of anything.”
“You deny then, you believe he is the Messiah, the anointed one of God?”
“It is no crime, High Priest,” Joseph interrupted, “to claim Messiahship. Many do, many have done so in the past, and many will in the future.”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” Caiaphas said, annoyed. “But this one also thinks he
is
the Lord. Is that not so, Iscariot?”
“He never said so.” He put me in a tight spot on that point. Peter’s confession, while not as stunning to me then as it had once seemed, still needed to be reckoned with. It would not do to bring it up in that assembly.
“Ah, but he did, or at least implied it. He is a lawbreaker, a defiler of the Sabbath. He puts his hands on corpses, he touches women in their impurity, even lepers, and all this is clearly against the law Father Moses gave us…and many other things as well. You agree, Judas?”
“No, certainly not.”
“No? But that is exceedingly strange. I was told those were the very charges you bring against him tonight. Am I mistaken in this?”
His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, and he looked around the room. Then his expression darkened. He held out his left hand and a packet was placed in it. Still staring at me, he opened it and withdrew some papyrus sheets. My heart stopped. My blood ran as cold as a mountain spring.
“Do you recognize these letters?”
I said nothing. What could I say?
“These things of which I speak are all documented here.”
How did he get his hands on those letters? They must have captured my correspondents as well. I looked wildly around the room. Then I saw him. My fat Pharisee lurked in the corner, looking pompous and pleased.
No group of supporters ever existed. In my vanity I had been deceived and blundered into the trap Joseph said they baited for me. In my entire life, Jesus was the only person I ever knew who believed in me, who trusted me, and who loved me. But my pride betrayed him to the very people I had hoped to defeat. I closed my eyes and thought of the bees.