Before I could answer, a voice behind me said, “He is here.”
I jerked around but could not make out where the voice came from. Had someone waited for me in the darkness? When the group drew closer, a figure separated from the shadows immediately at my right.
“Follow us,” one said and walked away.
I wanted to ask questions, but their backs were to me and they walked quickly. I could barely keep up with them.
To my astonishment, they wheeled through Caiaphas’ gate. I was too confused to be afraid. I hesitated and, too late, turned back toward the street to run. The man behind me stood in the torch’s light—a temple guard. I spun back to face the others. Three official-looking men in long robes stared at me, their faces arranged in smug triumph. More guards stepped into the light. I felt a spear point in the small of my back, urging me forward through the gates and into the flickering light that defined a courtyard. There had been no mistake.
The guard steered me across the courtyard, into the house, down some stairs, and into a large hall. A dozen or more people milled around. I could not make out who they were. Suddenly, Joseph stood by my side. “They have baited a trap for you. Say nothing,” he whispered.
I turned to ask him what he meant, but he had melted into the crowd. More lights were brought. Temple officials—the room was filled with them. Joseph belonged to the Sanhedrin. What had it to do with me, and what had become of the men I was supposed to meet? I looked around frantically, trying to find a familiar face or an escape route—anything. A man pounded his staff on the floor and the men sat.
Torches set in sconces and stands guttered, filling the room with shadows, the aroma of hot pitch, and peril. Two guards pushed me into the center of the room. I studied the faces surrounding me.
Somewhere in the darkness a door creaked open. A heavy man swept into the center of the room. Not fat, not heavy that way, but big all over, larger than life, big hands, arms, even his beard.
“Stand for the high priest,” someone announced out of the shadows. The high priest, Caiaphas himself, stalked into the room.
After a pause, he took a seat at the center. Then he said, not quite looking at me, “You are Judas, sometimes called Iscariot?”
I stared at the man for a moment. I wanted to know what I had gotten myself into. “I am,” I said. My voice shook and my heart pounded like the drums that led the legions into the city.
“A trusted follower of Jesus, the rabbi from Nazareth?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“The man who preaches blasphemy and sedition, wouldn’t you say, Judas Iscariot?”
“No, certainly not. He preaches only the true word.”
“But that is not what is reported. That is not what these men heard about your rabbi. These are men of great learning and substance. They, better than you, are qualified to make judgments, and they agree, Rabbi Jesus is a blasphemer and a troublemaker.”
I decided to take Joseph’s advice and say nothing. What had gone wrong? One moment I stood at the verge of making the impossible happen and the next, in the middle of some sort of hearing, heading to disaster. What had I done?
“Judas Iscariot,” Caiaphas shouted. “It is in your best interest to pay close attention to what we say here. There are serious charges being made against your teacher tonight, and a few of them by you.” By me? What was he talking about?
“I make no charges. I would never accuse my master of anything.”
“You deny then, you believe he is the Messiah, the anointed one of God?”
“It is no crime, High Priest,” Joseph interrupted, “to claim Messiahship. Many do, many have done so in the past, and many will in the future.”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” Caiaphas said, annoyed. “But this one also thinks he is the Lord. Is that not so, Iscariot?”
“He never said so.” He put me in a tight spot on that point. Peter’s confession, while not as stunning to me then as it had once seemed, still needed to be reckoned with. It would not do to bring it up in that assembly.
“Ah, but he did, or at least implied it. He is a lawbreaker, a defiler of the Sabbath. He puts his hands on corpses, he touches women in their impurity, even lepers, and all this is clearly against the law Father Moses gave us…and many other things as well. You agree, Judas?”
“No, certainly not.”
“No? But that is exceedingly strange. I was told those were the very charges you bring against him tonight. Am I mistaken in this?”
His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, and he looked around the room. Then his expression darkened. He held out his left hand and a packet was placed in it. Still staring at me, he opened it and withdrew some papyrus sheets. My heart stopped. My blood ran as cold as a mountain spring.
“Do you recognize these letters?”
I said nothing. What could I say?
“These things of which I speak are all documented here.”
How did he get his hands on those letters? They must have captured my correspondents as well. I looked wildly around the room. Then I saw him. My fat Pharisee lurked in the corner, looking pompous and pleased.
No group of supporters ever existed. In my vanity I had been deceived and blundered into the trap Joseph said they baited for me. In my entire life, Jesus was the only person I ever knew who believed in me, who trusted me, and who loved me. But my pride betrayed him to the very people I had hoped to defeat. I closed my eyes and thought of the bees.
Chapter Forty-five
I believed myself so much cleverer than everyone—the solitary wasp. I worked the miracles with the purse. I followed Jesus’ teaching without explanation. I did. I looked at the sheets of papyrus in the dim flickering light. How could I have been so stupid?
“Iscariot, I asked you a question. Do you recognize these writings?”
For a fleeting moment I thought—lie, deny the letters, claim they were forgeries—the sort of thing I might have done in the past.
“Yes, they are by my hand.” The men murmured and leaned forward in their chairs.
“So we can say this is your testimony, freely given to these men?”
I said nothing. He turned to the fat man. “Did you ask this man to write you?”
“I did.”
“And did he do so willingly?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Was he paid to write any of this?”
“No, Excellency.”
“Was there any attempt on your part, to have him report anything but the truth?”
“No, Excellency.”
“Judas, you have heard this good man’s testimony. Do you dispute any of it?”
I hung my head. “No, it is as he says.”
They had used me. They’d found the weak link. If I had been one of them, I would have done the same thing. I wrote only the truth, but truth in the hands of those who believe inspires; in the hands of those who do not, destroys. My words should have brought men to Jesus. Instead they condemned him.
“Some of us have not read this man’s accusations,” Joseph interjected. “It is improper to discuss this as testimony or evidence until we have.”
“Of course, of course, but we are not holding a trial here. We are merely gathering information against the time when such a trial might be necessary.”
Caiaphas’ speech was as smooth and oily as a Greek wrestler. His heart existed in the world too much and in the temple too little.
“But now we have another problem. It seems someone has let it be known to the Roman officials that the instigator of the riot in the temple this morning is this very same Jesus. Is that also the truth, Judas Iscariot?”
I said nothing. “Come, come. You were there. You had a conversation afterwards with Ehud.”
He pointed to the fat man. Until that moment, I did not know his name—Ehud, the left-handed judge.
“Ehud, is this the man you spoke to this morning at the money changers’ booths?”
“Yes, Excellency, it is.”
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“So you were there, Judas?”
“Many were there.”
I studied the floor. I dared not look at Joseph. Torches guttered and flickered. The room reeked of the resinous smoke and deceit. Mine or theirs?
“Yes, as you say, many were there including your master. Listen to me, Iscariot, it is one thing to march about the countryside proclaiming one the ‘Son of the living God’ and quite another to start a riot during the Passover when the prefect has made it clear any disturbance would be met with swift and awful punishment. You understand we must arrest him now.”
I looked at Joseph. He must warn Jesus. He would not meet my eyes.
“Now then, will you take us to him?”
“No. I have done enough already. It is not what I intended. I thought I could gain support for him by writing. I thought the truth might persuade them to join us.”
The room rocked with laughter. And I played the fool.
“Yes. We know what you thought. Understand this, we chose you because we deduced you would be the easiest to snare. The others, those Galilean fishermen, have families and friends, wives and children. They are the sons of Zebedee, Alphaeus, and men of note. They have people to ask for advice. They have histories. But you—you are different. You are solitary. You have no one to go to for counsel, do you? You do not because you cannot reveal who you really are. No, you are not one of them and never will be.”
In one blinding moment I realized the awful truth—no matter how close I came to Jesus, I would always be an outsider, the wasp. My friends, if I had any, were Thomas, Mary Magdalene and, perhaps, Matthew. The fishermen only tolerated me.
“And we are uncertain if you belong anywhere. We can find no trace of you, Judas, son of…who?”
“Ceamon.” I said loudly, and then regretted my outburst.
“Simon…precisely. Simon who? Simon son of…who? Judas, can you enlighten us?”
I said nothing.
“You see how it is. You have no history. In this country everyone has a history. Most people think they can trace their lineage back to Abraham—some to Adam. That is silly, of course, but you, you cannot trace it anywhere. Why is that, Judas, son of Simon?”
“I am of the Diaspora. I was brought up in Corinth.” At least, it was partly true. And that line worked on the priests at Masad Hasidim.
“Corinth? Not Caesarea? Are you sure? I ask only because we received some reports when we sought to uncover your history, reports of a boy and his mother living in Caesarea. You would be about that boy’s age, I think. A boy of uncertain parentage, I might add.”
I felt a noose tightening around my neck. Try as I might, I could not escape my past.
“There is even a question about your claim to be a Jew.”
“My claim to being a Jew is as good as yours to being a high priest, Sadducee,” I said.
Anger flashed in his eyes. “Ah. The Jew of the Diaspora opines about the legitimacy of the Sanhedrin. How is that possible, I wonder? Did a well-known rabbi in some great city train you, Judas? Tell us his name. We might know him.”
I felt like a fish in their net about to be hauled into the boat.
“What do you want from me?”
“Ah, at last, our poor Corinthian grasps the situation. All we ask is for you to take us to your master.”
“I left him at dinner not three hundred paces from here. You know where he is. Why ask this of me?”
“Well, I might say, to make it clear who gave him up. But the truth is, he is no longer there.”
“I can’t take you to him.” I tried again to catch Joseph’s eye. He could warn Jesus. I could not, but he could.
“Cannot or will not?”
I remained silent. Caiaphas combed his beard with his thick fingers and contemplated me the way a snake contemplates a mouse.
“Tomorrow men will arrive from Caesarea. They will stop here. They have been following a boy—the one I spoke to you about—and his mother for many years. They almost caught him several times, they said, but in the end, the boy, now a man, managed to slip away. They seek the murderer of an important artist and scion of an influential family. You wouldn’t know about that, would you, Judas son of Simon? One might expect to find him in the company of Barabbas. Indeed, at one point they thought the bandit of the wilderness might be that boy grown up. It turned out not to be so. But who would think to look for a murderer among the shabby band following the holy man from Nazareth?
“That boy, they say, had hair much like yours. Now that is an interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say? But we do not know that boy’s name. Perhaps we will be told tomorrow.”
It did not matter how Leonides came to have a knife stuck in his ribs. The whore and her bastard were to pay for it. Nothing changed. My nemesis had finally caught up with me.
“Do you think I should receive the deputation? Or should I send them away because you have decided to help us?”
“I have done too much already. Do what you will with me. I will not hand Jesus over to you.”
“Very brave. I admire your loyalty, however misplaced. But you see, you must.” He swiveled in his chair and faced the line of men on his left.
“Joseph, tell this misguided fool that his master is better off in our hands than the Romans’. We have our rules. Jesus is entitled to representation, his own witnesses, and as long as he is in our jurisdiction, the Romans will not act. But, if they find him first…you understand”
“He is right,” Joseph said quietly and looked away.
At a gesture from Ehud, guards pushed me to the front. Was there no end to this humiliation?
“Iscariot, it is required your fee be paid.” Fee? I knew of no fee. At a gesture from Annas, Ehud brought me a small purse—small but heavy.
“What is this for? Am I being rewarded for betraying the man I most admired in the world? I cannot take it.”
No one answered.
There it was. Like my grandfather before me, I had presumed to know the mind of God. Before the Sabbath star rose, I would likely hang from a cross and Jesus would be disgraced.
Chapter Forty-six
Guards manhandled me back to the courtyard. A wind from the north brought cold air to the city. I shivered. I am not sure whether from the chill or fear. Less than four hours remained before dawn.
“Stay here. Your life and that of your rabbi depend on your cooperation and silence.”
Ehud, sounding more and more like Caiaphas, had been assigned my keeper, and we would spend the next three days in each other’s company, he gloating, me alternately disconsolate and angry. What function he performed in the ranks of the Sanhedrin’s bureaucracy before, I did not know, only that he had contacted me initially. One of the guards saluted him. He looked pleased with himself.
There had to be a way to escape this nightmare. I could not, I would not, lead these men to Jesus. I racked my brain. If I could slip away somehow, if I could race ahead of these men into the dark. I could run to the garden and warn him. We could leave the city under the cover of darkness. Traveling at night through the wilderness carried substantial risks, but given the alternative…
I glanced at the gate not more than ten paces away. If I dashed out into the darkness, I could lose myself in the streets. I had eluded guards and officials all over the empire, a small benefit of my upbringing. I could still do it. I began edging toward the gate, slowly, so as not to attract attention. I covered half the distance when one of my guards stepped between it and me and grasped my arm.
“He said to stay, Galilean.”
“Corinthian.”
A small band assembled—three or four temple guards, Ehud, one of his associates, and some others I did not recognize. They carried torches, but only two were burning. The rest, pitch still fresh, would be ignited when they took Jesus. I mulled other escapes. Once through the gate, I thought, I could push my guard off balance and bolt. Two torches would make it impossible for them to see me, or where I went. I took a few deep breaths
and tightened my sandals. I would only have one chance to do it, and I must be ready when it came.
Ehud led over another guard. This one was carrying a length of rope about ten cubits in length. One end was firmly knotted around my waist, the other around his. We were tethered. Perhaps I could make a great deal of noise and warn Jesus. Before the thought fully formed in my mind, a smirking Ehud faced me.
“If we must, we will gag you, blasphemer. You will give no warning. There is a contingent of Roman legionnaires with us as escort.” Ehud’s smirk pushed his jowls back toward his ears making him look like an officious pig. “At a word from me, they will take your rabbi. If you value his life, you will be silent and cooperate. Do you understand?”
We left the court. Ehud, my guard, and I led the way. The rest of the black robed officials and legionnaires straggled along at the rear. The soldiers grumbled among themselves. They harbored no affection for Jews in general, the Temple Party in particular, and resented being sent on a fool’s errand. We turned and descended stone steps into the valley. Somewhere down there and to the north, Jesus and the others gathered, unaware of what I had done and what would soon to be visited on them. I felt sick.
With a jerk on my rope, the guard brought me back to the moment. We started down the steps. I offered him a bribe. I had their thirty pieces of silver, I could afford one, a large one. He might have taken it except Ehud overheard me and to save face, the guard cuffed me behind the ear.
“Think about it,” I whispered.
We trudged on. I put aside any thoughts of escape and turned instead to what I might do when we got to the valley floor. I still harbored the hope Joseph had sent a warning. When we reached the valley, I aimed to take them south, away from the garden and stall until dawn. Perhaps, by then, news might reach Jesus. Then I remembered the Romans searching for Jesus. Ehud stared at me as if he were reading my mind.
“Just lead us to him,” he said. “For his own good, let us find him first.”
Bereft of ideas and despairing, I decided to get it over with. I took them northward toward Gethsemane.
Judas Page 18
