I, Judas

by Taylor Caldwell

  “I have heard Jesus say that through the majesty of Rome, the word of God would one day spread from one end of the Empire to the other.”

  Pilate had made a pretense of not listening, but now he snorted angrily. “This Jesus is either a fool or a knave to speak such nonsense. It would be treason if it were not so absurd.”

  Claudia Procula made no sign that she had heard him.

  “Susanna has talked of this God, saying that your Master heals through him.” Her lovely brow wrinkled in her perplexity. “Is he like our Jupiter or Apollo, to whom we have raised many statues in the hope they will look on us with favor?”

  “He is the God of Israel, and he dwells in the heavens with his an-gels.”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “He must know Jupiter then, for there also does he reign, and there too Apollo rides his chariot through the skies.”

  “It is a different God that Jesus speaks of. He is not only the creator of the universe but is of the universe, ready to share our lives by virtue of our faith in him.”

  She had difficulty following me, and no wonder, for only from Jesus did it make sense. But how else could I explain it? It was easy to see why Jesus had to perform his healings and other good works to establish his credibility.

  There was a Roman directness about her.

  “Now, what relation does this Jesus have to this God you speak of?”

  “He is his messenger, sent by God to redeem his people from their sins and help them find eternal salvation.”

  Pilate’s harsh laugh broke in. “This accursed state should give me thanks, for I have helped a good many into this eternity.”

  Claudia Procula seemed unaware of her husband’s existence.

  “Do they not call him the Messiah?”

  “Yes, he is the Promised One predicted by our prophets.”

  Pilate again interrupted. “And what does he promise, this King of the Jews?”

  “The Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “I am sure he would make a heaven of earth if he could.”

  The lady threw Pilate a look of annoyance.

  “I would know more of this man who heals the sick and comforts the poor and oppressed. I have heard reports that he can do anything, even to raising the dead and changing water to wine.”

  Pilate let out a raucous laugh. “You listen too much to your little Jewess.”

  The desire to defend Jesus overcame prudence. “I have seen Jesus do these things and more.”

  She came forward now, and her eyes peered into mine. “With your own eyes you have seen this?”

  I nodded, while Pilate threw up his hands in disgust.

  Her eyes glowed with new excitement. “I recall now the puzzling end to the recurring dream. Standing in the ruins, your Master looked down on the prone figures of several Emperors, and with a wave of his hand restored them to the living.”

  It could have signified either the restoration of the Empire or the emergence of a new way of life, just as Jesus’ vision on the mountain portended a new faith.

  Pilate’s patience had grown thin. “At least, this dream man resurrected the Empire. Thank him for that, and let this man go back to his Master.”

  She sighed in resignation. “This dream I dreamed many times, so I know it must mean something.”

  I hesitated, wondering if I dared ask a favor.

  “I have one request, if I may.”

  “Ask it,” she said, “for much has been asked of you.”

  “May I give my greetings to the Lady Susanna?”

  Pilate grunted. “The Lady Susanna. What airs these Jews give themselves.”

  She smiled, the aristocrat losing herself in the woman.

  “You must be the disciple she has spoken of. But have you not taken the vow of celibacy?”

  Pilate guffawed. “He looks not the part of a Vestal Virgin to me.”

  “We take no vows of this nature.” I felt the blood rush to my face.

  Pilate gave me a shrewd glance. “You stretch the truth so thin that one can see through it.” He turned to his wife. “But bring the maid in. What can they do that has not been done before?”

  I had thought he stood in awe of her, but it was difficult for people to share a bed and still have illusions of grandeur about each other.

  His manner toward me became ironically deferential. “Claudia Procula,” said he, “since this young man has now become our guest, nothing is too good for him.”

  As she frowned, he guided me into a spacious chamber off the Great Hall. The room was windowless, with a strangely speckled ceiling. Huge bowls of fruit sat on a large center table with goblets of red and white wine. Near a cluster of large pillows, an immense divan and couch faced each other. The light from a naphtha lamp cast its eerie shadows on the walls and gave one a feeling of contrived intimacy. It reminded me of a room in a Roman brothel.

  Pilate gave me a searching glance. “I was young like yourself and know what it is to carry the vision of a maid in the mind. It does no good there, not if you have any red blood in your veins.”

  “I do not think of her that way.”

  “Then what do you think of her?”

  “As one who loves the Master as I do.”

  His hard eyes roamed offensively over my body.

  “What for are your loins, if not to establish that you are a man?”

  “There are other ways of proving one’s manhood.”

  He laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Well said, Judah-bar-Simon. In the field against the enemy, is that not right?”

  As I remained silent, he studied me ostentatiously.

  “If you like not women, is it men then that appeal to you? To be sure, there are twelve or thirteen disciples, I am told, and no women to distract or divert them. This is not a wholesome arrangement.”

  My cheeks burned at the implication. “We have a company of women attached to our mission,” I said defensively.

  “And so your vows of celibacy are conveniently displaced.”

  I was tired of this Roman’s gibes.

  “There is no more virtuous man than Jesus Christ, and he demands the same rigid standards of his disciples. This is not Rome, where Julius Caesar was every woman’s man, and every man’s woman.”

  His dark eyes blazed for a moment, and I flinched in spite of myself. He was breathing hard, his nostrils flaring, but then, suddenly, he tossed his head back and roared with laughter.

  “This bantam cock mocks the Divine Julius; that is a good one to be told in Rome.” He grabbed my arm and squeezed it so that the flesh turned purple and I pressed my lips to hold back a cry of pain.

  “Any time it wants,” he said between his teeth, “Rome can crush you and your friends just like that. Remember that always.”

  And then he was gone, with his thin, mirthless smile.

  How I hated these vulgar men who vaunted their far-flung military might over a small nation. O God of Israel, I prayed, let Jesus fling the gauntlet back in their faces. O Lord, let him see the light and be another Moses to the stricken people of Israel.

  So caught up was I in my thoughts that I did not see Susanna enter the room. She greeted me with a flutter of the eyelids. She was so ravishingly beautiful I barely resisted the impulse to take her in my arms. A simple robe which flared at the sides revealed a fleeting glimpse of her golden thighs and set my heart pumping. Her tawny hair fell over her rosy face, and she pushed it back with a charming gesture, explaining with a blush that she had hastened at her mistress’s summons.

  “Forgive me for looking as I do,” she breathed.

  “Did you know it was for me she summoned you?”

  “Not till I saw you.”

  We sat together on the long, low couch, designed for reclining at a feast, and I was very much aware of the sweet aroma of her body. It was like the smell of musk.

  “I have missed you,” I said, taking her hands. They were warm and moist.

  She didn’t look at me directly, but kept her head b
owed, so that I saw the golden strands of hair forming on the nape of her swanlike neck.

  “I have missed the whole company, especially the Master,” she said softly. “But as long as he is well, I am happy.”

  Suddenly a cloud glazed her eyes, and she gripped the edge of my robe.

  “Your being here with Pilate, has it something to do with him?”

  “There is nothing to fret about. Pilate intends him no harm.”

  She drew back a little, and her pale blue eyes looked deeply into mine.

  “What brought you here? The Procurator does not normally receive any Jews but the High Priests and the chiefs of the Sanhedrin.”

  I answered truthfully.

  “Pilate is concerned about the revolutionaries, and it was thought I could provide him with some information of their movements.”

  Her eyes had now widened in alarm. “But why should you, one of Christ’s chosen, have this knowledge? I do not understand.”

  “This is not your province,” I said more harshly than I intended. “What do you know of plots and counterplots, and the intrigue that imperils empires?”

  My hand fell carelessly on her thigh, and in her agitation she did not remove it. Her flesh was like silk under my hand.

  “I know from Mary Magdalen,” she said breathlessly, “that he is in constant danger and will do nothing to spare himself. Claudia Procula herself tells me that it is not safe for him in Jerusalem at this time. Will you not carry him this word? Or tell me where he is, and I will warn him myself.”

  “That is not necessary,” I said. “He knows whatever you know, and he does what he has to do. He is no frail craft to be pushed this way and that by every little ripple of foreboding. He is a man for the ages who lives for his God and can do anything that God can do. I have seen him do it, and I do not doubt him.”

  Now she took my hands, and her eyes gazed into mine in a soulful manner. “I have done you an injustice, Judah. For little did I realize that you could express yourself with such nobility. I see now why he selected you, and gave you a seat next to him. You must love him as I do.”

  I had inched closer to her and could savor the warmth of her young body. She had obviously dressed in haste, as she said, for she wore no undergarments. As her bosom heaved, I could barely see the delicate pink aureole of her sweet nipples set in the soft marble of her breast. I thought of her body, taut and warm against mine, and my blood raced through my veins like wine. My hand fell casually on her bare shoulder and bent her just the least forward so that it seemed perfectly natural to brush my lips against hers. She did not resist. Indeed, her breath only came faster, and she gave a little sigh. This time I pressed my lips against her mouth, and when her arms slipped around my shoulders, I crushed her body to mine.

  “Please,” she whispered, “don’t do anything.”

  “Is it wrong to love?” I said softly.

  She made no answer, and my hand dropped idly now inside the robe and felt the swell of her naked breast.

  She gave a low passionate cry, and with her head lowered began to sob. As my head sank to her breast, I sensed the sharp intake of her breath, and the straining of her body. “Don’t, don’t,” she cried. “I am a virgin.”

  What else could she have been? For it was the sweet purity of her that incited my desire.

  My lips closed on hers, the time for conversation had ended, and there was really nothing to say. She moaned and groaned and thrashed about as though in agony and then she suddenly went limp in my arms. She gave a long sigh and it was over. I found myself disappointed and strangely empty. As I looked down on this damsel who had seemed so unattainable, I felt as if I had been cheated by her appearance of virtue. I was disenchanted by her easiness. Obviously, her virginity had not been previously challenged.

  “I love you,” she cried. “I truly love you.” She looked at me like a sick cow. “Do you love me?”

  What did this silly handmaiden know of love? “Of course I love you.”

  “Thank God,” she cried. “But there can be no marriage, for you are pledged to Jesus.”

  “And you also,” I whispered in her ear.

  I drew myself now to a sitting position, as she carefully rearranged her clothing, blushing at my gaze.

  She put her fingers to my lips. “You will not say anything?”

  The little idiot, who did she think I could mention this to? “Of course not. Nobody will ever know.”

  “Thank you, dear Judah,” she cried. There was a look of exaltation in her eyes. “There is nothing, nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I love you.”

  I looked at the heavily laden table.

  “Would you pour me a glass of wine?” I had never before felt so empty inside.

  She jumped up eagerly, like a child, and brought me the sparkling red grape. It was warming and restored my spirits.

  I had been there perhaps an hour and was ready to leave. But as I stood up, there was a knock on the door.

  I could see the alarm in her eyes and felt a sudden uneasiness myself.

  The knock was repeated.

  I went to the door.

  Pontius Pilate stood in the doorway.

  “You may go,” he said to the girl.

  She ran from the room like a frightened fawn, with a single imploring glance over her shoulder.

  His eyes peered beyond me to the couch.

  “And so, my precious disciple of God, how did it go?”

  “We had a pleasant conversation.”

  “And you spoke of your God, and life eternal, and the nobler things of life we barbarians do not understand. Is that not correct?”

  “Our conversation was private,” I said grimly.

  “Better you should say your intercourse.”

  I felt my blood run cold. “I do not understand.”

  His eyes moved up to the ceiling. “Look closely,” he said, “you have a young man’s eyes.”

  My eyes followed his, and I felt the blood drain out of my face. I felt faint, and barely managed to say: “Did Her Excellency …”

  “Oh, no, I would not have disabused her, even though I am a vulgar Roman and you a cultured Jew.”

  Involuntarily, my eyes moved upward again, to the small speckle-like apertures that dotted the ceiling.

  “Through these little peepholes,” he said, “it is possible to see everything transpiring in this room.”

  There was no doubting that leering face.

  “You deserved a little lesson,” he said. “Whatever we are, we Romans are not hypocrites. We take what we want, and enjoy it You think Rome corrupt, then what of you, my pious friend, who speaks loftily of his God and seduces innocent maidens?”

  His evil face still wore that mocking look.

  “You cost me my dinner tonight, but no matter, it was worth it. Now make haste to do what you have undertaken. And let nothing slip. For I will be watching, never fear.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE SUPPER

  “IF HE CAN FEED five thousand from a single basket,” I told Matthew, “then he can do anything.”

  Like me, he did not see how it could be a hoax.

  “One or two people might be so weak-minded as to imagine such a development, but not thousands.”

  With his healings, it was entirely different, for there was no possibility of suggestion here. The blind saw and the lame walked, the lepers became whole and the obsessed grew calm. “He has told me,” said this preening historian, “of healing vibrations in the atmosphere, which with understanding one can tune in, using the vital energy of the universe to stimulate the self-healing processes in mind and body.”

  “But it seems to work instantly for him, and in all cases, whereas we are successful with some and not with others. Why should this be?”

  “He ascribes it to a faith which brings the God within us into harmony with the God force outside.”

  It was all very confusing, but I had seen it time after time with my own eyes, and so had the others.

>   Other disciples had joined the discussion, without there being any resolution of the question, when Jesus walked into the camp. His eyes snapped angrily.

  “What can we expect from the people when my own disciples have such little faith in the Father?”

  “I have faith in the Lord,” said Thomas, “but even so I cannot walk on water like you. Master. Indeed, I sank even more rapidly than Peter in the Galilean Sea.”

  “It is not enough to say one has faith. With true faith, there comes an understanding of God’s natural laws.” He held out a handful of seeds. “Could one tell that these seeds, properly planted and watered, would yield a grove of pomegranate trees? Other seeds produce figs, still others dates, and fields of wheat and so on.”

  Thomas still had a questioning look. “But, Master, a pomegranate seed, like any other seed, grows at a certain rate, which one can predict from the soil in which it is planted, and the amount of sun and rain it receives.”

  “True,” said Jesus, “but its growth is still part of a universal creative process which can be understood by all. What is not so well understood is that when the spiritual element is introduced, a higher creative vibration results.”

  Peter, as usual, related whatever the Master said to himself.

  “But, Master, seeing you walk on the waves, I too felt that I could do the same. But I failed, even though I had that faith.”

  “But your faith was not of God; it came of watching another whose faith was greater than yours. We cannot transfer our faith but can only plant the seeds and hope they will find a place to grow.”

  His miracles won over many skeptics, but even so, believing only in what they saw, they seemed to comprehend little of what he was talking about.

  The mother of James and John, converted through his healings, pleaded that her sons be given the positions of honor next to him in the Heavenly Kingdom he spoke of. He chided her gently, saying that the first to push themselves forward were often the last to be chosen.

  “Worry not so much where you go, but how you live,” he enjoined, “and you will be where God wants you.”

  The Passover in Jerusalem was always important to him, and this Passover even more than the others, for it might be the last, he said, that he would spend with his Twelve.