I, Judas

by Taylor Caldwell

  “But we are not the Chosen People?”

  “God chose us because we chose him. But we have not always kept the faith, and the Temple is no longer a fit place for him to dwell.”

  “Are we any better,” I asked, “for the Romans sitting astride their ramparts, casting their offal into our Temple, and massacring our friends from Galilee?”

  Andrew quickly interceded. “You speak too sharply, sir. Mind your tongue.”

  Jesus waved him aside. “He speaks well who speaks for Israel.” His eyes moved over the Galileans and I saw them mist with emotion. “If it were not for my friends, Judah-bar-Simon, I would not be here tonight, for their massacre was the sign I waited for, the sign that not only Israel but Rome itself needed saving. Yes, Judah, I knew these pilgrims well.”

  A shiver went down my spine.

  “Yes, Judah, as I shall know you, and Pontius Pilate.”

  That night, Jesus took Simon-bar-Jonah and young John, and climbed into the mountains of Moab, where the prophets Moses and Elijah had kept their vigil before him.

  “I go to wrestle with the devil,” he said.

  “And where is this devil?” said Andrew.

  “He is the devil within me, which bends my ears to the cries of the oppressed of Rome, to the stricken Galileans, and to all slain for their faith in Israel.”

  What kind of a devil was it, I wondered that he blamed for saving his own people? But I dared not say more after that rebuke from the soft-spoken Andrew.

  He embraced his Galileans, and they kissed his cheek, bidding him peace on his journey.

  “I have come far from Nazareth in three days,” he said, “and I go to find how much further I must go.”

  He turned to me. “Embrace me if you like, Judah, for you are as dear to me as the rest.”

  I fought back tears of joy, and kissed him lightly, sending my heart on his way.

  “Meet me in Cana, Judah,” he said. “I will be there in a month.”

  I could think of little but him as I sat the next day with a committee of Zealots, presided over by Joshua-bar-Abbas. They seemed so commonplace even with all the fire shooting off their tongues.

  “We cannot wait for him to decide which way he blows,” said bar-Abbas. “It is time to arm, and to begin our war of attrition. Small but strong bands shall attack the remote garrisons and take over their arsenals. Other bands, sweeping out of the desert on swift camels, will harass the caravans, depriving the enemy of his supplies. We shall wreak this havoc, growing stronger each day, until, like the Maccabeans, we shall have a force to match any that Rome can pit against us.”

  I looked to see how all this was received by Simon Zelotes. For this valiant fighter, who had served with Judah the Galilean in his ill-starred revolt, was so staunch a Zealot that none could question his patriotism. Only he, like a Roman hero of old, had won a surname in battle.

  His gaunt face reflected the gravity of the moment. “I believe in him,” he said slowly. “I believe he is the Messiah, sent by God to deliver his people, and I believe that he feels the oppression of Rome as strongly as any of you. When he spoke of the massacre of the Galileans he was almost overcome with grief. In the mountains he will commune with the Prophets and so define his mission.”

  “Perhaps he already has communed many times,” said Cestus with a sneer.

  Zelotes looked at him coldly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he could draw his own image from the composite pictured in Scripture.”

  Simon’s eyes grew even sterner. “You speak like a Sadoc or an Eleazar, mincing little men with mincing little minds and no soul.”

  Cestus had the grace to flush. “Our lives are at stake. We cannot depend on the lackadaisical. Is that not so, Judah?”

  I liked not the way he looked at me.

  “I agree, but as has been said, only the Messiah can unite the nation behind him. The Judeans follow one, the Galileans another, the Samaritans still another. But all, good Jews or bad, tribed or tribe-less, will rally behind the Deliverer sent by God. Of that you may be sure.”

  Zelotes clapped his hands. “Wise words from an aristocrat.” His eyes clashed with bar-Abbas over the scanty midday meal. “I believe we should hold off and give him a chance to declare himself. We have little to lose waiting a few months. By that time we may have help from Nicodemus, if he becomes convinced of the Messiah.”

  “Delays, delays, and delays,” cried Cestus and Dysmas in unison. “Rome was not won like this.”

  “Rome,” said Simon drily, “took twenty years to destroy Carthage.”

  “We do not have twenty years,” said bar-Abbas. “Our skins will be hanging from crosses long before that if we are unsuccessful.”

  “Let us not quarrel among ourselves,” said Simon, “but let us review our resources for the day we can bring them to bear behind the leader.”

  “He is no John the Baptist,” cried Dysmas. “He would never lead armies into battle.”

  “It is only necessary,” said Simon, “that he advocate revolution, and all Israel will rise.” His voice took on a tinge of irony. “You, bar-Abbas, can lead those armies. How many troops do you command as of now?”

  Bar-Abbas’ grin gave his beaked face an evil look. “I command a thousand Idumeans, Pereans, Samaritans, not a true Israelite in the lot.”

  “And I two thousand seasoned veterans of other fights,” said Simon proudly, “but with the Messiah’s blessing that two thousand would be multiplied twentyfold.”

  “It would do no harm,” said bar-Abbas in a wheedling tone, “to forage on the countryside, for if this were done discreetly, with a minimum of killing, it would be thought the work of robbers and brigands, no more.”

  Simon laughed until his whole body shook. “And how far off would they be, bar-Abbas?”

  “I like not your humor,” growled bar-Abbas, but when the rest, including Cestus and Dysmas, joined in the joke, he laughed as well, holding his sides.

  “I agree,” said Simon. “Raid the caravans, but nothing more, no garrison attacks and no ambushes of small details of soldiers until the time is ripe.”

  “Agreed.” Bar-Abbas held out a homy hand, and we shook hands all around.

  My mind was already made up. I would follow Jesus to Cana, in Galilee, to Jerusalem, even to Rome if need be. The Romans had not heard the last of him, nor the Temple priests, nor any others who stood between Israel and its God. How could any question that he was the Messiah? He filled the description in every way, and his familiarity with the Prophets, particularly Isaiah and Ezekiel, revealed an exciting awareness of his own destiny.

  My path was clear. I could not love him and another. I would be honest with Rachel, which I had not been before, and not so candid with the Sanhedrin and the High Priests. For as long as it behooved them to employ me, it served me to appear in their employ. Dissembling with the dissemblers in no way disturbed my conscience. Jesus had said: “Do unto others as you would be done by.” But he surely could not have been speaking of the High Priests. What did they know of honesty but to pervert it to their own ends?

  The Zealots had decided that Simon Zelotes and I should attach ourselves to the Messiah and be the watchdogs for the party. I quickly acquiesced, for that was my wish in any case. As a Galilean who had already fought in one rebellion, Simon had a special interest in a leader sprung from his soil.

  “But he is a Judean,” I had argued, “of the royal House of David.”

  “But his heart is in Galilee,” Simon countered. “I saw it in his eyes. It was only to fulfill the prophecy that his parents contrived to have him born in Bethlehem.”

  “They had little to do with it,” I said. “It just happened that way.”

  “Nothing just happens. Jesus can tell you that. We are mere puppets, responding to the will of the Lord.”

  Simon ran deeper than I thought.

  “Then why do we struggle so, if all is planned?”

  He laughed mirthles
sly. “Because we do not know God’s will until we have already committed ourselves to a course and learn too late what it is.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Does anybody then know God’s will?”

  “Some say that the learned rabbis and priests know from their studies of Scripture.”

  “Would Jesus then know?”

  “If he is the Messiah, which I believe, then none would know better than he, unless it is God himself.”

  “Then why does he go into the mountains and meditate on his mission? Is it not clear to him from its onset?”

  Simon Zelotes sighed. “Perhaps there are two sides, the heavenly, in which God’s will is plain, and the earthly, in which he is but human like the rest and must find his own way.”

  “All I know,” said I, with ringing tones, “is that the world has never known his like before.”

  “We will know more,” said Simon, “after our sojourn in Galilee. He does not speak lightly. He means for us to be in Cana for a very good reason. He does nothing without reason. I know this because I know men.”

  I regarded him curiously. “How well do you know yourself?”

  He hunched his powerful shoulders. “As well as I know you, Judah-bar-Simon.”

  “And what do you know of me?” I was annoyed that he should judge me so hastily.

  “You are overly moved by emotion and do not always think things out before acting.”

  “You could say that of anybody.”

  “You speak much of God and the Messiah, but it is Rome that bothers you, Judah.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “Doesn’t Rome bother you?”

  “Yes, but I make no pretensions. I do not speak of God and Israel like you. Rome oppresses Israel, and that is enough for me. It is not wholly a religious question. If the Messiah helps unite the country, fine, but if there is no Messiah, then we go it alone.”

  “It will not come alone, for without the Messiah there can be no fulfillment of Israel’s triumph.”

  He chuckled in his scraggly beard. “You treat God and the Messiah as if Israel were their only concern.”

  His words gave me a start, for had not Jesus said fundamentally the same thing?

  “He said he would triumph over Rome, and I believe him.”

  “And if not, what then?”

  “All he need do is declare himself, the rest will follow.”

  He gave me a long look. “You put into him what you want.”

  “I put in nothing that is not there, waiting to be wakened at the proper moment.”

  “Have it your own way,” he chuckled. “But I am a realist and see things as they are.”

  “Is it for this reason you work in the Temple?”

  He mimicked the arrogant voice of a Temple guard. “The devil you know, Judah, is safer than the devil you don’t know.” Then he added enigmatically: “Joshua-bar-Abbas watches the Temple, and I watch him.”

  It was time for us to separate for the present. We embraced perfunctorily and promised to meet in Cana.

  “Meanwhile,” he said with a curious smile, “think over your own motives, Judah.”

  There was nothing to think about except my immediate problem. I had thought of postponing the inevitable but knew it would be best to get it done with, and so not be constantly plagued by Rachel’s reproachful eyes.

  As I had surmised, it was an unpleasant affair. She laid her empty head on my shoulder and cried. I felt the swell of her breast against my own chest, her bosom heaving in rhythm to her sobbing. I moved a hand to comfort her. She took my hand and kissed it, pressing her lips down hard. And then as I sought to stop this unseemly behavior, she transferred her lips to my mouth, kissing me in such a way that I forgot my earlier resolves. She did not wait for my trembling fingers to loosen her blouse or her robe, and so transpired the last thing I had wanted to happen. In all the time I had known Rachel, not once had I trespassed on her virtue by look or act. And now as I gazed at her, purring in my arms on my father’s couch, I felt a stirring of guilt. She looked up and pouted, her child’s mind not once grasping what was running through my own. “Do you love me?” she murmured.

  A pang of remorse was quickly succeeded by annoyance and then a start of revulsion. Why should this insignificant chit of a girl complicate plans of such grandeur that she could not begin to fathom their importance?

  “I am sorry, truly sorry,” I said.

  She stopped my lips playfully with her fingers.

  “There is nothing to be sorry about. We shall just be married sooner than we planned.”

  “Married?” I sat up straight in one convulsive movement. “But I have just told you why we cannot be married.”

  She tittered like a child. “But that was before … You have made a woman of me now. And if you do not marry me you will have made me an adulteress, for that is the law of Israel.”

  I looked at her in horror. “You tricked me,” I cried.

  “Not so, Judah, I love you.”

  I found her more revolting than I would have believed possible.

  “I shall not marry you.” I rapidly disengaged myself and got to my feet, slipping on my robe in the semi-darkness.

  She stood up and pressed her breasts against me.

  “Don’t you understand? Never, never, never, shall I marry you, or anyone else.”

  She shrunk back in disbelief. “I don’t believe you. You are my own cousin. You could not do this thing.”

  “It is done,” I said, stalking out of the room.

  My mother’s attitude was no help. I had never seen her so severe and uncompromising. “The wedding,” she said, “will take place as planned, on a Wednesday, as is the custom of our people.”

  I looked at her with a sinking heart, and then my confidence returned. “I am the head of this house,” I said, “and I make the announcements. This is one announcement that shall never be made.”

  She did not relent. “Then, as head of the house, you have doubly sinned, betraying not only your betrothed but a guest in your house.”

  “She is not without sin,” I said.

  Scorn sharpened her tongue. “You accuse a fifteen-year-old child of sin, you, a man almost thirty, of some experience of the world. Yet you blame her. For shame.”

  I had refused to have Rachel at the meeting, for I did not want to hurt her further.

  “Tell her,” I said, “that I will settle any amount of money on her, enough to give her a home of her own and to keep her for the rest of her life.”

  “And will you give her back her virginity?”

  I felt the same annoyance now with my mother that I had felt with Rachel. “What is so wonderful about this virginity?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Judah. You know she cannot find a husband with this stain on her character.”

  She was looking at me accusingly. But instead of being contrite, I had the feeling of being trapped.

  “She need not be lonely,” I said. “She can live here with you as your companion. You love her as a daughter. I will deed you this house. I will have no need for a place in Jerusalem hereafter, for I will be traveling.”

  There was no glint of interest in her eyes.

  “Is this your last word on the subject?”

  “I shall not change my mind. I shall never marry.”

  Her voice was so cold that it filled me with foreboding. “Good,” she said, “for better the line should stop with you than there should be a son of your blood.”

  “Mother,” I cried, reaching for her hand.

  She drew away with a gesture of disgust. “Do not call me mother, for you are no longer my son.”

  My eyes widened incredulously. “All this for Rachel?”

  She shook her head. “You have behaved abominably. You have violated a sacred trust, Judah. Your father would turn in his grave if he knew.”

  “You will think better of me in time.”

  “I never want to see you again. We shall leave this house in the morning, Rachel a
nd I. We want nothing of yours.”

  “Please, Mother, you would fill me with guilt.”

  “You can still repent.”

  So that’s what it was, a trick to make me relent.

  “I have nothing to repent.”

  “You have betrayed an innocent child.”

  “You make too much of it. None will know.”

  “God will know. Is that not enough?”

  I had no recourse but the truth.

  “She threw herself at me,” I cried.

  She drew back horrified.

  “You do not even play the part of the gentleman.”

  “I am sorry. Mother. Is that not enough? I will make whatever amends I can. But I will never marry.”

  She looked as if she were seeing me for the first time.

  “You think only of yourself, Judah. You are not to be trusted.”

  “Every man has a right to make his own bed.”

  She bent her gray head for a moment to hide her tears, then brushed me aside as I tried to take her hand.

  “I can never forgive you, Judas,” she cried, using the Greek version of my name for the first time, as if to indicate the gulf that had come between us. “You have dishonored your father’s name.”

  I could think of nothing to say, but with it all I still felt a sense of relief that Rachel was out of my life.

  She walked slowly to the door and stopped a moment. “I never thought I would turn my back on my only son, but, with all your fine talk, Judah, you have no care for right or wrong. You serve only your own whims. And I warn you”—I thought I detected a break in her voice—“you shall one day suffer for the suffering you cause others through your self-indulgence.”

  The door closed and she was gone.

  I went to my chambers and meditated. It was all a bluff; she would not leave the home she loved so much, with all its tender memories, for so slight a reason.

  I slept late, and upon awakening I could tell immediately from the servants’ frozen silence that something was amiss. “Your mother left in the night with your betrothed,” they said in hushed tones. I could feel the accusation in their voices.

  I decided that I would not spend another night in the house. It was hers, and she would come back after a while, grateful that I had turned the place over to her. She had often said she wanted to die near my father. I gave the keys to the chamberlain with instructions that he keep the house open for my mother’s return. “Send somebody to bring her back. Go to Kerioth, her family’s home, and there she will be.”