Judas

by Frederick Ramsay

  I turned away and walked along a shallow wadi toward an ancient sycamore. I smelled the honey before I saw the bees. A split in the trunk of the tree held the hive. Hundreds swarmed into its depths. I sat and contemplated bees. I knew little about them. I grew up in cities and beekeeping belonged to the country. I did know they would sting if aroused, and attempting to take their honey was the surest way to do that. Bees had short lives characterized by hard work, no recompense, and an anonymous death. Somewhere in the depths of the hive, the ruler, removed from all this activity, dictated their fate.

  It would be easy to wax philosophical about that—bees are the conquered people, the ruler is Caesar, and so on, but that is not where my thoughts took me. Bees work for others. They contribute beyond their needs and combs fill to overflowing. My colleagues were like bees. They worked the nets together, each contributing a share.

  I remembered the solitary wasp that stung me when I tried to retrieve my honey cake. Wasps do not make honey. Wasps do not gather in communities like bees. They fly alone, caring for no one but themselves. I worked alone and always, only for myself. I did not qualify as a bee. Did I ever belong with this man? Could I be transformed from solitary wasp to communal bee?

  I wanted so much to share the vision. I understood how to make things happen in ways the others could barely comprehend. But I did it alone. I left the company and worked my own kind of miracles, Judas the Thief. A solitary wasp, a honey thief, allowed in the hive and lingering only because the ruler wishes it. Should I leave before they discover I am not one of them, or stay and pretend to be something I am not? Could a wasp destroy a hive?

  “They are evil,” Mother had said.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Smoke from a thousand campfires and the din of an equal number of voices filled the Kidron Valley. The bleating of at least as many calves and sheep added to the cacophony. The aroma of animals, people, and cookfires assaulted my senses. Why, I asked myself, must I cross this noisy, crowded valley and climb to the top of the Mount of Olives? To secure a donkey, and not just any donkey—a white one. Of all the things Jesus asked me to do, this ranked as the most incomprehensible and time-consuming. I approached twenty men before I found one willing to provide such an animal. He wanted two denarii for the day. I agreed, but insisted on seeing the beast first. It turned out to be a colt. That took me to my wit’s end. I had wasted hours searching and then, to end with this undersized and ridiculous animal. I could not afford to squander any more time. It would have to do, but I told the donkey’s owner that such a poor animal was not worth two denarii. I gave him one. He protested until I told him whom it was for, and then he shrugged and agreed.

  ***

  Bethesda lies across the Kidron Valley and to the south. Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus live there. Jesus would travel up from Jericho and turn south to Bethesda just outside the city wall. Then, on the day after the Sabbath, he would enter the city. He’d made it clear to me what I must do, and I knew better than to argue with him. He had his reasons.

  My first task had been to find a family known to Jesus who, he said, would provide us rooms. I had been directed to go to the Essene quarter, the home to families who like Nahum the Surveyor, follow the way of the Essenes but prefer not to commit to its rigors. They adhere to the rules as best they can, including the calendar for feasts and holidays but remain scattered around the country, partly Essene, partly of the world. They are good people caught between two worlds. They found Jesus speaking to them.

  “Look for a man carrying a jar of water,” he had said. What kind of man, I wondered, would carry water? That is woman’s work. Just then, a boy, a young man, approached me with an empty jar on his shoulder. “Are you looking for me?” he asked.

  I nodded. “What is your name?”

  “Mark,” he said.

  “Well, Mark, my master sends his greetings to you and your family, and desires a place for himself and his friends for the Passover feast. Can your father supply these things?”

  “Yes, he has been expecting you. A room has been set aside for you over our lodgings.”

  Of course, the room was available. Somehow it no longer surprised me.

  “My father says you will bring the food and wine.”

  Ah, to be sure, another expected response. Of course, Judas will provide the wine, the food, bread…everything.

  He led me to his father who showed me the room above their lodgings large enough to serve a meal for the number of people who were with us and to sleep. The room would serve us well. We also planned to celebrate the Passover in the city. Satisfied, I thanked the man and his son. I had one more task to perform but, first, the purse needed replenishing.

  I had only a few coins left and most were shekels. To function in this city I would need a great deal more. I recrossed the Kidron Valley and climbed the temple steps to the Hulda gates and watched as thousands of pilgrims streamed in and out, making their way up and back down again. This smelly, noisy mass of humanity filled the temple and all its passages. I joined them, pushing and shoving my way up the inner stairs to the moneychangers. They were out in force, changing money for travelers, to pay their temple tax, or buy doves, or rams, or other sacrifices with shekels.

  No image, whether king, pretender, living, or dead may adorn a coin dedicated to the Lord’s service. It would be reckoned a graven image and not permitted on the Mount. So the moneychangers were there as a service to the faithful and a source of significant income for the temple. They had been installed years ago to aid pilgrims. They charged no fees and only asked for a small donation to compensate them for their time and effort. But over the years they had become a pestilence. I made a good living in my days as a money changer and I drove some hard bargains, but compared to these vultures, I practically gave money away. They were charging twenty over a hundred that day. Twenty! Those wretches were gouging travelers from Egypt to Gaul. And John called me a thief.

  However, it did provide me with a great opportunity. I positioned myself at the foot of the stairs leading up to the temple and offered to change money, making sure they knew my rate. Soon people were streaming back down to me. I began changing at fifteen. When I had nothing but Roman coins, I walked around the temple to the Praetorium in the Antonia Fortress, and offered to trade them to the Roman legionnaires for their shekels. They thought they were as shrewd as rats.

  “What rate will you give us today, Jew?”

  “Twenty,” I said.

  “Five.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Done.”

  At twelve on the hundred from these gutter rats and fifteen from the pilgrims I was netting twenty-seven, better than the thieves at the temple.

  It was a good thing I did.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The next day dawned crisp and clear. Cool morning air carried the fragrance of anemones and the promise of better things to come. The city stirred even though it lacked an hour before shops opened. I had a few things to purchase and some followers to visit in the city. When I finished, I went to find Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Sanhedrin and one of our supporters. Jesus did not tell me the depth of his commitment. I do not think he even asked. Jesus trusted him and, therefore, so must I. I did wonder if he had read my letters, if he were one of the anonymous insiders.

  I located him standing among a small group in the shadows of Solomon’s Porch. A group of lawyers and Pharisees were disputing about divorce and adultery, a conversation I did not wish to hear. They had no idea what life was like for those of us who were the consequence of such a union. For them, it made no difference whether a person fell or was pushed, there must be punishment, and because of the sin of Eve, it must be meted out to the woman first and only sometimes to the man. I do not know which caused me the greatest anguish in my childhood, these self-righteous upholders of the Law or Rome. These men thought like donkeys.

  I made my presence known to Joseph and stood to one
side and waited. If men were assigned to animal families, Joseph would be an eagle. With his hawk-like nose and piercing eyes, he could pose for the crest on a legion standard. He wore robes that marked him as a man of stature and substance. With his straight back, white beard, and angular features, he seemed taller than he really was.

  When he’d heard enough, he walked away and, with a tilt of his head, motioned to me to follow. He did not want to be seen with me, at least not on the Temple Mount, not in public. When we cleared the temple, he slowed so that I could catch up and then we walked together, speaking in low voices as we elbowed through the crowd.

  “Does Rabbi Jesus have a message for me?”

  “He said to tell you he would arrive later today and there would be a task you would not like, but you must do.”

  “Task? What sort of task?”

  “He said only that it would not be easy for you and you might be called on to defend him and you should not be afraid.”

  “Defend him from what? Against whom…when? Afraid of what? Was that all?”

  I shrugged. We passed a stall selling fruit, some of it overripe. The aroma of rotting fruit had attracted flies and wasps. The flies did not discriminate between the fruit and passersby. The wasps concentrated on the sweet pulp. We hurried by swatting at flies while avoiding stirring up the wasps.

  “Tell your master to be careful. There will trouble this Passover.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Pilate made it clear any disturbance this year, no matter how slight, would be dealt with severely. He is angrier than usual. He is capable of butchering anyone for even the slightest infraction. He has done it in the past and will again. And if that weren’t enough, Barabbas has been taken into custody.”

  Barabbas in custody? That thief, that fraud, I wished I had brought him in. Good for the Romans. Today, I would hate them a little less.

  “What has that to do with us?”

  He spun around and looked at me, angry, then continued down the street. “His followers are in the city. They will stir up trouble. When the soldiers respond, they will take everyone and anyone they think could be a problem. They will not discriminate between Barabbas’ people, the Siccori, Zealots, or you Galileans.”

  “Galileans?”

  “Your people. His disciples. Don’t you know?”

  “I have never heard us called that.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, less angry now. “It is because so many of you are from that part of the country. Those who oppose you, the Sanhedrin and the High Priests, Caiaphas, and even old Annas, many powerful Pharisees, and most of the temple establishment—all of them constantly remind the prefect of the uprising in Sepphoris twenty years ago, the one he helped put down, as it happens. You won’t remember. It happened before you were born, but Rabbi Jesus will.”

  I did not know why that failed rebellion surfaced so often in conversations and reminiscences. Jews are never far from their history. Rebellion rose up in the Galilee; Jesus came from the Galilee; therefore, there would be more uprisings in the Galilee, and Jesus must be part of a great Galilean plot. The movement against him would use anything, even that bit of specious reasoning, to bring him down. I wished such a conspiracy did exist. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Good.”

  The old man spun on his heel and looked at me, puzzled.

  “Good?” he said. “What could be good about that?”

  “Sorry. Good that Barabbas has been put in prison,” I said, covering my foolish outburst. “He is a danger to everything we are trying to accomplish.”

  “Yes, well, tell Rabbi Jesus to be very careful, to be discreet.”

  After a moment I asked, “Is there any talk in the Sanhedrin of support for Jesus, a small group, possibly?”

  “Support for Jesus? Except for me and Nicodemas, there is no support for him at all. Quite the opposite, he is a major thorn in Caiaphas’ side and the sycophants who surround him. That is why your master must be doubly careful. If they thought they could get away with it, they would happily turn him over to the prefect. They are offering large sums to anyone willing to testify against him. It is a very dangerous time. No, tell him not to look to the Sanhedrin for anything but trouble.”

  Somehow his words, though I heard them clearly, failed to register.

  As our conversation unfolded, we moved steadily through the city streets. He barely acknowledged the salutes accorded him from those who recognized him. He stopped suddenly, turned, and stared at me as though he had never really seen me and wanted a good look.

  “I must prepare myself to do a service for Rabbi Jesus that I will find difficult and distasteful. Is that the gist?”

  “Yes, in so many words.”

  He nodded absently and melted into the crowd. I had my answer, but it troubled me. Why was he, of all people, not included in the group that contacted me? Surely they would know his sympathies. On the other hand, if they were unwilling to align themselves openly with Jesus, they would be reluctant to affiliate openly with Joseph. Satisfied, I returned to trying to figure out who the others might be, unwilling to consider any possibilities except those I most wished for.

  Chapter Forty

  Our steps had taken us to the Gannath Gate. The street teemed with people and soldiers pushing them back from the center of the street. Others handed out flowers, boughs, and coins. I turned to the man next to me.

  “What is this?”

  “Pilate is coming.”

  Soldiers made me nervous, our Roman overlord and his entourage, more so. I began to sidle away.

  “Stay, stay,” the man said and tugged at my sleeve. “They will give you money to cheer for the prefect and throw flowers in his path. It is easy money. See, he comes up from Joppa with all his baggage, through the gate over there, and marches to the Praetorium.” He gave me a toothless grin. “Easy money.”

  I stepped back to the wall. I wished to see but not be seen. Preparation for Passover meant streets cleared of trash and detritus. Unlike many of the empire’s cities, Jerusalem has no great sewer to manage the waste of its thousands of citizens. Instead, it is channeled along the streets through drains and into one of the wadis leading eastward. When the rains come, the accumulated filth washes down to the Salt Sea. Until that relief arrives, the wadi and, eventually, the city suffers from its stench. If it gets too bad, water from Pilate’s aqueduct can be diverted into the morass and the worst of it sent streaming away.

  Into this malodorous city, the prefect, the mighty Pilate, had to pass on his way to the Antonia Fortress. His presence remained a constant and important reminder of Roman authority and a warning to any who would challenge it. It was one of the few times during the year he visited Jerusalem, preferring the sun, the sea, and the familiar pagan culture of Caesarea Maritima.

  A wagon filled with boughs of aromatic balsam and juniper appeared at the top of the street. Soldiers passed out the boughs. Another wagon appeared and then another, flowers, palms, and fir to be distributed to the crowd. People were told to lay them in the road when the prefect and his party arrived, each given a coin to assure they did as they were told. I took some boughs and the shekel. After all, money is money.

  Soon I heard the blare of brass trumpets from the gate, drowning out the ram’s horns from the temple. Then I heard the thunder of drums. I looked to my left. Legionnaires, in lockstep, marched to their beat.

  Two hundreds from the Italian cohort stationed in the city—my clients from the shekel exchange—commanded by their centurions, led the way. More drums thundered. Standards of each unit passed by, streaming with ribbons designating battles fought, battles won. As they approached, we threw our boughs in their path. Three additional hundreds—soldiers from Caesarea—followed. More standards flashed, more banners fluttered, and more boughs and flowers were thrown. The sun hovered low in the east, but bright enough to light this spectacle. Greaves and the legionnaires’ heavy soled sandals shone from grease and polishing. Their burnished shields
glittered, and I was momentarily transported back to my childhood.

  Two dozen chariots clattered down the street, each drawn by three of the tall horses from Scythia and manned by spear throwers and drivers. Horses snorted and pranced. People, at the prompting of the soldiers in our midst, began shouting.

  “Hail to Pilate. Hail to the one who comes in the name of Caesar.”

  The soldiers’ sandals, the horses’ hooves, and the bronze-covered wheels of the chariots crushed the boughs. Soon the stench of the city was cloaked by the fragrance of fir, balsam, and flowers. Next, a train of enclosed wagons lumbered down the street. I guessed they contained dignitaries and their wives. More soldiers and chariots followed. Finally the prefect himself appeared, the famous Pilate, astride a white horse with saddlery and harness of polished black leather and gold studding.

  “Hosanna, hosanna, blessings to the one who comes in the name of the Lord Caesar.”

  I knew him. I had seen him somewhere, but where? Memory failed me.

  What a spectacle. I never saw anything like it—flowers, palm branches and sweet balsam, drums, soldiers, trumpets, all the panoply of Roman power and hubris, the Roman Empire on display. Even in this backwater province, this display of might, however meager by the standards of the capitol, made clear to anyone with a glimmer of intelligence that you engaged Rome at your peril.

  I suppose these simple people found it exciting. Certainly it was impressive, but it depressed me. How could we ever defeat these people? Who could stand against all of that? Not Judas. Not the Galilee’s fishermen, not even with Zealots and Assassins combined. In the face of that display, I knew then that all I dreamed, all I hoped for, had no more substance than smoke.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The eye-watering smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily across the Kidron Valley, forming a blue haze in the heavy afternoon air was as irritating as Barabbas’ cave. Experienced pilgrims learned early to arrive in the city, days in advance of holidays, to stake out a claim on the heights. Latecomers had to endure the smoke and the waste that inevitably drifted downhill. The hills already bustled with people. In another three days, you would not be able to discern a hint of green where a bush might have been. Shelters would be packed together like pebbles on a beach.