Legionnaires worsened the tensions created by this flood of people. Groups of two or three moved through the throngs, which ebbed and flowed like a huge tidal basin, into the city and out. Nerves eventually frayed and hard words followed. Words led to fists, fists to clubs, and clubs to soldiers. Men were led away, and whether they would ever see their families again was, at best, uncertain. In the midst of it all, a thousand voices, speaking in dozens of tongues, babbled on, punctuated by the sharp bleating of calves, sheep, and the bright laughter of children.
Zealots and the followers of people like Barabbas drifted through the encampments preaching rebellion. Here and there, a would-be prophet chanted bits from the Isaiah scroll and called for the Messiah to deliver us. The air crackled like it does just before thunder and lightning strikes. It made my skin feel tight.
I found a narrow path that zigzagged up the slope. Apparently, even in their push to secure a good space, people had enough sense to leave a pathway to and from the city and the temple. But even so, I had to pick my way carefully to the top of the hill. Children tumbled past me, their shrill voices filling the air. Mothers called after them to stay close, and for pity’s sake, keep away from the soldiers. Good advice, that.
Nearly out of breath and late, I arrived at the top of the hill overlooking the Kidron and found Jesus and the others. I told him about our arrangements, including the animal he requested. I repeated Joseph’s warning. I put particular emphasis on the obvious, that there might be trouble stemming from any of several quarters and he should be very discreet while in the city.
“Discreet?” he laughed. “Have you ever known me to be discreet, Judas? We do not constrain the Father’s will. The High Priest and his party do that. We are here to renew the Covenant. It cannot be twisted about to please just those who are frightened or too comfortable. Look around you. People are hungry, and the rich, who could do something about it, turn away. People are thrown off their land by their neighbors and are left to stand idly in the marketplaces while their families starve. They are crushed by taxes to build the temple. People are trampled by the selfishness of their neighbors. The Romans are not the enemy—we are killing our own. And for this Joseph says, ‘Be discreet?’” I had no answer to the obvious. Still, I worried.
Jesus summoned Philip and Simon and directed them to fetch the donkey tethered to a ring in the wall a few paces from the path which led down from the Mount of Olives toward the temple. In a few minutes they returned, leading the pitiful animal. Jesus mounted. His legs were so long, he had to bend his knees like a man riding a camel so his feet did not drag on the ground. We all smiled at the sight.
Then he clucked and rode down the hill toward the Golden Gate. He motioned us to follow. Seven preceded and the rest followed. We made an odd procession, zigzagging our way between the tents, the smoke, and the noise. At first, the crowd gaped. Some, for reasons I could not fathom, cheered, then, amazingly, put their garments in our path and strewed palm branches in our way. There were no flowers or balsam on this barren, crowded hillside to ease the stench of a thousand people, but the pilgrims had palm fronds with them for bedding and they used them to mark our passing.
Then it began. “Hosanna, hosanna in the highest. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
Some, from the north, from the Galilee and the area around the Decapolis, knew him, but most did not. They came for Passover from all over the empire, from Greece and Cilicia, from the area around the Gaza and southward to Egypt and the coast of Africa. A few came from as far away as Rome itself.
Passover draws curiosity seekers, pagans from around the world—the God-fearers. They stared, too. Some recognized the procession, meager as it was, as a thing they had witnessed elsewhere, part of the Osiris and Bacchus stories of their childhood. Gods made entrances. They announced themselves that way. So did conquerors, kings, and always, Romans. And now—Jesus. Many laughed. They assumed Jesus was putting on a show for them, creating a bit of theater, a comedy and making fun of the pretentious Romans. They did not often get a chance to laugh at imperial power. Others, I suspect, laughed because they saw something they thought was plainly ridiculous. A great, tall man sitting on a colt, knees tucked up and riding serenely down the hill. For them, it was a charade, a farce.
I lagged behind, embarrassed. He was making us look like fools. Someone blew a ram’s horn and the onlookers laughed even harder.
“Hosanna,” someone cried. “Hosanna in the highest.”
My face grew as red as my hair. I lagged even more. No one could topple an empire with a dumb-show like this. He made a parody of the parade I’d witnessed just hours earlier. Jesus was no fool. If he did this thing, he did it for a reason. Did he fancy himself equal to one of the gentiles’ gods? In the midst of this hilarity, I saw a significant number taking it seriously, the ones we’d seen over these last several months, the ones who cheered, and danced, and sang at the feasts on the hill, the people Jesus called “the salt of the earth.” The hillside began to buzz and the cheering increased.
“Make him stop,” one man pleaded. As if I could.
I knew the power of Rome first hand. They are not a light-hearted race, not when it comes to ridicule and, whether Jesus intended it or not, they would take it as such. That meant trouble.
We had never received the support of so many people before. Loud and boisterous crowds flocked to us. The day before, dozens, perhaps hundreds, stopped Jesus to say a word, or just be near him. I did not count those cheering on the hillside during his ride into the city. Where they stood and how they might respond would remain a mystery as far as I was concerned. Yet I could not shake the feeling of imminent disaster. I had the same malaise I experienced that awful day when the Greek decided to show his statue.
***
After the fiasco of our entry into the city, I assumed it only a matter of time before someone came to arrest us, or we would be on the run. It seemed likely the officials from the Praetorium or the palace would be looking for us. To my amazement, nothing happened. The other disciples seemed excited. Philip scolded me for being a skeptic.
“You are as cheerful as Saul at Michael’s wedding,” he said.
I tried to explain what I feared from our critics. I described the pomp and power of Pilate’s entry and how some, maybe many, would compare the two and how they might take it to be a gesture of disrespect, a bit of Greek comedy played out in the hillside. No one listened. Was I the only one that saw these things?
“You understood about the feast, but you don’t understand about prophecy—the Messiah is to come up to Jerusalem riding a white colt and entering the city from the east, through the Golden Gate. So, it wasn’t as grand as we hoped. It was enough. Many understood, even if you didn’t. It’s like the fish and the bread.”
This from Thomas who, if I were to guess, would have ordinarily dismissed the event as comedy, something the world had in short supply as far as he was concerned.
Chapter Forty-two
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. Whit
e 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.
Chapter Forty-three
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.
Chapter Forty-four
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.
Judas Page 17
