“It’s almost over,” he whispered. I wasn’t sure if he heard my question, and he began to mutter under his breath in a language I didn’t understand. I leaned over him further, trying to make out his words. “…my brother,” was all I caught.
That was all I really needed to hear. I jumped up and brushed the dirt from my knees and started back the way I’d come. “I’ll get him. Don’t try and move, it’ll only take me a moment. He’s sleeping by the fire.”
I ran as quickly as I could, tearing through the brush, unconcerned for those who I woke. Skidding to a halt, I glanced around but where Yehuda had been sleeping soundly, now lay just a depression in the dirt from his body. “Yehuda!” I called.
A few of the other men stirred, but there was no answer. I shuffled around the thick brush for several minutes before I was convinced he’d left. I stood there in the rapidly lightening sky, confused, trying to figure out where he could have gone. It wasn’t like Yehuda to wander off like this in the middle of a crisis.
Still, Yeshua needed him, and I had to find him. I abandoned the group to care for Yeshua’s needs and rushed back down the mount, into the city streets. The sky was growing lighter by the second; people were starting to wake for the day’s activities. I could smell cooking fires being lit, and the noises of children waking were all around me as I rushed along. Squinting, I glanced through streets, walking swiftly, trying to stay unnoticed and yet leave no stone unturned. I didn’t know where Yehuda could have gone, or why he left in the first place, but I had to find him.
I think if it weren’t for the streets being as quiet as they were in the early morning hours, I wouldn’t have heard it, and I wonder then what would have become of me. Perhaps I would have lived and died a normal human lifespan, mourning my friend, and moving on.
But as it happened, I did hear it. A scuffle just down an alley, and a muffled cry after what sounded like something striking soft flesh. Fearing the worst, I darted around the corner and saw them, two rather large Roman soldiers dragging Yehuda up to his feet. One of them had the hilt of his short sword raised, and there was blood trickling down from a wound on the side of Yehuda’s face.
“Stop!” I cried without thinking. “Please, stop!”
The soldiers and Yehuda both froze, turning to stare at me. The taller of the two, a man with a wide face and eyes very close together, pulled his own sword, pointing at me almost lazily. “Who are you?” he muttered in accented Latin.
“My name is Markus Gracchus,” I said, invoking my Roman name for the first time in decades. “You don’t have the right man!” I was panicked, desperate to free Yehuda from a mistaken arrest that would surely lead to his death if no one spoke up for him. “You’re searching for Yeshua of Galilee, and this man is his twin! I swear it!”
“No!” Yehuda cried as the soldier dropped him to the ground. “No!” His voice was broken, desperate, and he began to cry as they glowered down at him.
“Where is your brother?”
“We don’t know, we’ve been searching for him,” I said, confused as to why Yehuda seemed upset that the Romans had let him go, but also cautious not to give away Yeshua’s location. I frowned at my friend who lay there, looking defeated. It likely would have dawned on me earlier, Yehuda’s true plan, but the fear for my friend’s life had clouded my judgment.
“I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen to you if we find out you’re lying,” the taller soldier warned. His words, though threatening, didn’t have the tone to match. The soldiers seemed almost bored of the situation, and not very reluctant to let either one of us go. Neither one of them troubled themselves as I darted to pick Yehuda up and drag him away.
“What have you done?” Yehuda shouted at me, once we were out of hearing range. He gave me a shove so hard I nearly toppled over, and I had to steady myself on a low wall. “You’ve destroyed his only hope for making it out of this city alive! You stupid fool!”
I stood there, dead silent, as the realization of Yehuda’s plan crashed over me. He had meant to be captured in his brother’s place. Everything he’d been saying over the past night had been telling me what his plan was, I just hadn’t heard it. Yeshua had to die, and Yehuda meant to take his place.
My face grew hot, red with rage as I rounded on him. “What were you thinking? You can’t take his place! Yehuda, why would you consider that?”
“Because what choice have we got, Markus,” he said, spitting my Roman name at me. “They want my brother, there’s no way to stop this. He’s been charged with sedition and they’re going to execute him. The moment he tries to leave Jerusalem, they will take him.”
I tried to control my rage, my hands trembling at my sides. I understood why Yehuda was doing what he was doing deep down, but that didn’t stop me from being hurt and absolutely confused. There was no way I could let Yehuda take Yeshua’s place, and I would do everything I could to stop either brother from meeting the death at the hands of the Romans being commanded by the High Priest.
It was then, I realized, I didn’t understand the absolute hatred to what Yeshua was preaching by his own people. It wasn’t cruel, nor did it distract from belief in their God. The fear and hatred of Yeshua’s message was so very anti-Roman, something I had never grown out of. The Romans just didn’t care what you believed in, and never would they attempt to end your life over a conflict of belief. It wasn’t their way. It shouldn’t have been the Hebrew way. It certainly wasn’t my way, and I didn’t want the people I cared about to be murdered for such a ridiculous idea. My head was spinning and I felt like I was going to be sick right there on the city street.
“Where is my brother?” Yehuda finally asked, breaking the terrible silence between us.
I glanced up toward the mount and remembered Yeshua lying on the dirt, bleeding, sobbing, and absolutely terrified. “He’s hurt,” I said. “He was asking for you.”
Yehuda nodded, still staring at me, his eyes somewhat foggy from the head injury, but he was steady as he crossed the distance between us. His hands came to rest on my shoulders as his fierce brown eyes bore into my own, begging me to understand what he was doing, and why. I couldn’t, not then, not yet, but I wanted to. “Makabi, I love you, and I’m sorry.”
It happened so fast that for years I wondered if I had imagined it. His head tilted in, his lips met mine, dry and pressing and angry, and then, before I could process it, he was standing away, as though he’d never been near me in the first place.
The Judas kiss. Yeshua’s phrase earlier rang through my ears, but I wasn’t sure what it could possibly mean. I wiped my brow and looked at him, but his face remained passive, giving away no emotion, no hint of what was swirling around through his brain. I was confused, but I knew I had no time to process any of this. The longer we stood there, the greater the threat grew, and if we were going to have any chance at getting Yeshua away, we had to act now.
“Your brother needs us. We have to try and sneak him out of the city, we don’t have another choice,” I said softly. I was painfully aware of how I had just destroyed Yehuda’s only real plan, but there had to be a better way.
Yehuda needed no further persuading from me, though. Despite the severe wound to the side of his head, he began to run. I wanted to follow, but at that point I was terrified of what Yehuda might do once he saw his brother and I decided the best course of action was to alert his parents.
They seemed unsurprised, which concerned me, but willing to prevent either brother from being taken by the Romans. I implored them to be alert, to watch for them, to do any and everything they could to ensure passage out of Jerusalem. They vowed they would do what they could, and with them on alert, I felt more confident in searching for the brothers.
I was fairly certain they would still be on the mount, and I ventured up, nervous about what I might find, but hoping that we would be able to resolve this in time. I didn’t know it right then, but was to be very, very disappointed when I arrived in the clearing.
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sp; I heard the voices before I saw them, and knelt down low in the brush. I hadn’t been noticed, and wasn’t sure if I should say anything as I crept as close as I could without being seen. In hindsight, I wondered how I had been too distracted not to realize that the Romans might follow Yehuda to where his brother lay, but regardless of any excuse, the thought simply hadn’t occurred to me.
I wasn’t, however, surprised to see them there. Only a few of Yeshua’s followers remained now; Cephas, Andrew, Tau’ma, and Jude. They stood there, looking terrified, and both twins were being held by the soldiers, stripped down to their undergarments alone, facing the small group of men.
“Is this Yeshua of Galilee?” The soldier barked at Cephas, who looked on, confused. That soldier was, indeed, holding Yeshua, and he gave him a violent shake for good measure.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice shaking. “I can’t tell.”
The soldier off to the right drew his sword, clearly attempting to be threatening, but I could see from the lack of taut muscle, he had no intention of using the sword. Cephas, however, reacted poorly and made to draw his own weapon. The Roman gave a swipe of his blade through the air, and with a gasp, Cephas’s ear dropped to the dirt.
Cephas fell to his knees with a loud cry, clasping his hand to the side of his head where his ear had been. Unable to take the violence, Yeshua darted forward, breaking free of the Roman’s grasp, and snatched the ear up from the sand. He pressed it to Cephas’s head and as he let his eyes slip closed we all felt that familiar wave of stillness pass through us as the ear was healed. The Romans watched on with a mixture of fear and horror. They belonged to a life of temple sacrifice, many gods and belief in magic, but like so many, they had never seen it happen before.
Yeshua rose and turned toward the men, hands outstretched. “I am Yeshua.”
It was all a blur after that. The Romans snapped out of their fear and wonder and took action. Yeshua was gone, the men abandoned the clearing, and Yehuda was left there, dirt on his face, surrounded by bloody ground and complete silence. Yehuda was crying as I approached and sat down in the dirt next to him, but in that sort of noiseless way of a man who didn’t want his anguish to be noticed. His hands shook as he wiped his face, and I could only hope that my presence brought him some measure of comfort. He said nothing to me, but when I let my shoulder rest against his, he didn’t pull away.
Night fell, and as it did, neither one of us dared move. We were far too petrified to find out what was going on in the city below the mount, knowing that Yeshua’s fate was sealed, and it was only a matter of time before he was dragged out into the desert and nailed to a stake for his crimes.
“It’s done, it’s over,” came the quiet voice of Cephas on the following evening. He had come with food for us, some bread and wine, and his face was pale.
“They’ve executed him?” I asked, my voice hollow and far-off.
“No, but they will. Tomorrow, they said. Pilatus attempted to free him, but the priests stirred up the crowd and they began to riot. He didn’t want to take the risk and ordered his crucifixion. I don’t understand the hatred, I truly don’t.”
Yehuda stared blankly at the ground, not moving, not acknowledging Cephas’s news. I let out a sigh and clasped his shoulder. “Is there nothing left to be done? No further appeals to be made?”
“With the High Priest so set in this execution, there’s nothing we can do,” Cephas said. “Yosef and Maryam have been informed, and they will take possession of his body once he’s expired.”
It sounded so callous, so removed from the events that were going to take place, and it startled me, but I also understood. Cephas had been Yeshua’s closest friend and follower, and to now watch him die in one of the most brutal ways possible, I couldn’t imagine. I couldn’t bring myself to go down there and see it happen. I just didn’t have the strength.
Cephas left us with food and drink and we both took it, though neither one of us were able to stomach much. Eventually we lay the ground for sleep, mourning in our own, quiet way, Yehuda’s hand in mine as I did my best to give him strength. Neither one of us dared to venture a look into the city below, nor did we have the courage to leave for our home.
It was deep into the night before I found myself able to sleep, and as I dreamt, I heard voices. Many of them, like a pantheon, all calling my name, invisible hands pushing me, dragging me to the base of the cross where Yeshua hung. There was power there, surrounding him like a cloud, waiting for something, for someone.
A voice was screaming now, screaming my name on the wind, screaming the name of Yehuda, and with a violent gust, I was thrown backwards into blackness, heat and pressure enveloping me.
I woke with a gasp, crumpled on the ground several feet from where I had originally fallen asleep. I sat up and looked around to see Yehuda on the opposite end of the clearing, in much the same state as I was. The sun was high overhead, signaling that we’d slept a good portion of the day away, and without a word, we both climbed to our feet.
“We have to go to him,” Yehuda said, his voice hoarse and low.
“I know,” I replied, and it was true. I wasn’t sure why I knew, or how, or what awaited us there, but I knew we had to go there. As we cleared the side of the mount, I saw that it was far later in the day than I had originally thought. It felt like I had only slept an hour or two, and I was frightened by my loss of time.
Shoulder to shoulder, we made the trek through the town and down the winding road where we could see the sharp crosses erected in the distance. People were all around, some weeping, some looking triumphant. I tried not to meet their eyes as we pushed past, trying to make our way to Yehuda’s dying brother.
A stench met us as we approached; the place where men died was foul and terrifying. It was a small hill, much smaller than the mount we’d climbed, but it felt like every step carried with it impossible weight.
A crowd gathered at the base of the men hanging there, moans and tears flowing, the tortured screams of the suffocating men hanging there in the fierce afternoon sun. Flesh baked, bowels emptied on to the ground. This was hell, this place here; there was not another word for it.
Yeshua hung there, in the middle of the men, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Blood flowed freely from his wrists and feet and I tried not to stare at the vicious stakes rammed into his delicate skin. My stomach twisted as I stared up at him, my very being aching to do something, to somehow alleviate his pain, to pull him down and end his suffering. But I stood there, paralyzed, helpless to make a move.
Yehuda let out a small sob next to me, grasping my arm for support, and I found I could not look at him. “I can’t…” he breathed.
He lost his grip on himself and sank to his knees, taking me with him. The sand there was soft, inviting, and all I wanted to do was lay there and close my eyes, waiting for it to be over. It would be days though, I knew, days of suffering and agony before his body would give up, and I could barely stand the thought. This man was kind, he was good, he had suffered as no man should have to suffer, and now he was dying for it. My faith in the world, in my own kind, was dwindling.
I looked up again, at Yeshua, and to my great surprise, his eyes were open. He was staring own at me, his eyes boring down into my very soul, and I swear I could hear words whispered on the wind. Something was calling my name, a disembodied voice telling me that it was my time, it was our time. Yehuda stiffened next to me, but I could not take my eyes off of Yeshua’s face.
His lips were moving now, whispering something, the voice carrying across the din of mourners and into my ears. “Forgive me, and forgive them. It’s time for you, time for my brother, and for me this ends. Makabi…”
And then, as subtle as the breeze, something around us shifted. Clouds began to roll in where there had been none before. They were dark, frightening, as they rolled in, thunder in the distance. The sun blotted out and it was then that Yeshua opened his eyes even wider and looked down upon us both.
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�They were wrong,” he said loudly, his voice stronger than I expected it to be. “They meant you.”
“I tried to take your place,” Yehuda sobbed, his face downcast. “I tried.”
Yeshua smiled. “That’s not what I meant. Be prepared brother, for this burden isn’t an easy one to bear. And Makabi, you’ve made your choice, though you might not know it yet, and all I can say is I am sorry.”
Neither one of us knew what he meant, but the words had a weight to them that we couldn’t understand. Yosef was at our side suddenly, a large bucket smelling strongly of vinegar. “This has to end,” he muttered next to me.
I sat silently as Yosef was allowed to give his son a small drink from a sponge. There was something to that, something different. Something wrong, but I wasn’t sure what it was just yet. I just knew that Yosef should not have looked triumphant.
“It is nearly time,” Yeshua whispered. He let out a breath, and without warning, the earth began to shake. The ground beneath us felt, for a moment, as though it would give way, that it would split open and devour us all. I was terrified, crying out with the rest of the crowd as they scrambled to get away.
I tried to steady myself on Yehuda’s arm, but he was not there for me to grab ahold of, and then everything around me went bright white. A sound enveloped me, loud and encompassing, and my head began to spin. I felt lifted in the air, and beyond that impossible noise I heard my name being whispered. My whole body vibrated as I felt lifted higher, into the sky, beyond, ripped from the world as I knew it. Hands held me fast, and I contorted.
And suddenly, as quickly as it came upon me, it was gone. I felt the sand beneath my feet as I came to my senses, and as I looked around, I noticed I had not moved. No one appeared to have seen what I had, and I wondered if I was going mad.
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