“Please don’t be there,” I prayed to myself. “Please be gone.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Gethsemane—the oil press—was a newly planted olive grove. Because the cuttings were still green and tender, the owner of the plot did not allow pilgrims to camp there, so it remained largely deserted. When we arrived, the moon slid behind the western hills and the torches barely lighted our way. I did not know which way to turn. Jesus and the others could be anywhere. We stumbled up the slope toward its northern edge. I almost stepped on a sleeping Simon. Someone held up a torch and I saw most of the others scattered around on the turf, also asleep. I could not be sure how many there were. I did not see Jesus.
“Is he here?” Ehud whispered.
I shook my head and we moved on. The sleepers stirred. A few woke and sat up, confused and groggy. We moved on and they were swallowed up by darkness. Farther up the path, we stumbled onto Peter, James, and John, also asleep, but still no sign of Jesus. I had the irrational hope that somehow or for some reason, Jesus had left this place and his disciples behind. Surely he could sense a threat like this. A man who could raise the dead ought to be aware of threats. I stepped around a small clump of figs and came face to face with him. He had been praying, the dirt still on his face.
“That’s him?” Ehud asked.
“Yes.”
Ehud signaled for the other torches to be lighted, and suddenly the garden blazed as bright as day. I heard the grunts of men waking up, followed by angry and fearful shouts. The garden degenerated into mass confusion. Ehud gave me a push. I went to Jesus. Tears burned my cheeks. My legs shook so badly I nearly collapsed. I reached for his hand to kiss it.
“Rabbi…” My throat felt like it was filled with the hot sand from Arabia.
Jesus took in the scene behind me and then, in a very tired, but, I think, relieved voice, said, “Is it with a kiss, then, that I am to be handed over?”
“Master—”
“Do what you must do.”
“Seize him,” Ehud said.
The others, now awake, looked on in disbelief. In the next instant the area filled with sounds of shouting and pounding feet. Disciples rushed into the well of light as the guards reached for Jesus’ arms. They surged toward us but were shoved back. Fists flew. I heard the crack of a club on someone’s skull. Peter swung his short sword. One of the high priest’s servants yelped, and there was blood all over his tunic.
“Enough. No more of this,” Jesus shouted. Everyone, even fat Ehud, froze in place. We stood in that cold olive grove absolutely still, like a field of statuary or a scene from a play stopped in midaction—men with arms raised, clubs suspended in the air, dangerously close to skulls, knees, and backs.
“It is enough,” Jesus said, this time quietly, and put his hand on the wounded man. He turned to Ehud.
“Why here? Why this way? I have been teaching in the temple for days. I have been out and about in the city and in plain sight. I never tried to hide myself from you, nor have I ever evaded your questions. You corrupted my friend with your lies to bring us to this end, but you could have asked anyone where I might be found and arrested me at any time. Yet, here you are skulking about in the dark. You came for me in stealth and in the small hours of the morning because when darkness is at its deepest, that is when evil flourishes. And so the dark, not the light, is your preference, is it not?”
Ehud was momentarily flustered by this scolding but then his expression hardened. “I need no sermon from you, Rabbi. We have heard quite enough of your blasphemy.”
The others, seeing no hope, no chance of rescue, drifted into the night. The guards bound Jesus, and the two of us were led away. I looked for the legionnaires, but they were nowhere in sight. Sometime during our march Ehud must have sent them away. I suppose he did not want to risk losing his prize to them, even by accident.
As we exited the grove, the rope still firmly around my waist, I sensed, rather than saw, the figure lurking near the bole of one of the larger trees. I did not need to look. I knew her as surely as if she stood in the middle of the path.
“Is it you?” the Magdalan murmured.
I wanted the earth to swallow me. I felt her eyes piercing the shadows, piercing my soul. I said nothing.
“Oh, Judas, what have you done?”
Chapter Forty-eight
Nothing stirred in the courtyard when we returned. Only five guards remained. They dragged us down several flights of stairs to a dungeon. When we reached the top of the last set of stairs, one of the guards untied Jesus and then, with no warning, gave him a shove. He tumbled down to the bottom. He managed to get his hands and arms out to break his fall. The guards laughed.
My guard said, “You next,” and before I could catch his meaning, I catapulted down the steps as well. Unfortunately, he forgot the tether that still bound us together. I grabbed the length of rope, more out of an instinctive attempt to keep my balance than with any idea it could have another result. As I extended the distance between us to about a body length, he left his feet and tumbled down the steps behind me. His head hit the corner of the bottom step making a noise like a melon hitting the ground. I hurt but nothing seemed broken. I untied the tether and moved away from the prostrate guard. His friends guffawed and walked down the steps. They nudged him with their feet and poked him with the butts of their spears in an attempt to wake him, but he didn’t move. Finally, they propped him up in a corner, arranged his spear in his hand, and posed him in a watchful position. Then, with more laughter, they moved away.
Jesus managed to get to his feet, but I could see he had been hurt. I started to go to him but one of the guards stopped me.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said. He looked as mean and vicious as anyone I had ever seen, and that included Barabbas, who up to that point in my life, defined meanness. Not much to choose from between the two camps, I thought. They deserved each other.
He pushed me into a cubicle. A chain secured in the wall with a shackle at its end was fastened to my ankle. A stout wooden grate sealed the entry. The four guards then shoved Jesus to the end of the corridor to what I supposed would be his cell. By leaning forward and sideways, I could see most of what happened.
There is something that takes over men at the mercy of layer upon layer of superiors. In those rare instances when they find themselves in positions of power, however slight, they become monsters. They have no place to take out their rage and frustration except on the helpless and, in this case, prisoners. Those low men had Jesus, and he became the focus of all their anger and hatred. One of them struck Jesus on the shoulder while his back was turned.
“You are a prophet, so prophesy who hit you.” The other three howled their approval. Jesus turned to face them.
“We heard you preach to the yokels that if someone hit them in the face they should turn the other cheek.” With that he balled his fist and hit Jesus in the cheek as hard as he could. Jesus crashed against the wall and sank to his knees. In a moment, he staggered to his feet and faced them again.
“Well, here’s one for the other cheek,” another guard sneered, and he struck him on the other side. I yelled at them—cursed at them. One of them told me to be quiet or I would be next.
They pushed and pummeled Jesus back and forth between them the way bullies will. They spit on him, slapped him, and called him names. He never raised a hand to protect himself, never tried to strike back, as I supposed they hoped he would. It would have excused their brutality.
I glanced back at my guard. The light was too poor for me to be sure, but he seemed deathly pale and blood trickled from his ear. I called the other guards. They only glanced my way and then returned to their sport. Finally, frustrated with his lack of response, they took up the stiff laths used to flog prisoners and proceeded to beat him. Fortunately, those instruments create more noise than physical damage. After a while, their arms weary, they stopped and shoved Jesus into his cell.
“Sleep, if you can,” one of them ras
ped. “We’ll be back.”
A sliver of daylight crept down the steps and into the dungeon. The cock outside in the courtyard announced a new dawn. I thought about Peter. Had he fulfilled the prediction and betrayed Jesus, too? The last I saw of any of them were shadows fleeing in the darkness. What had become of Mary? Finally, exhausted, I collapsed into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Forty-nine
Sunlight. A small beam streamed through a narrow slit window and teased my eyes. I stretched and winced. It was the first hour of the fourth day of the week, and my tormenters waited. The rooster quieted, his crowing replaced by the noisy comings and goings in the household. Cookware clattered. Voices and footsteps echoed from the several levels that made up the house. I smelled cooking. I had not eaten since early the night before.
At the top of the steps, hasps rasped and latches clanked. The guards, asleep at their posts, staggered to their feet, rubbing the sand out of their eyes—all except the one who accompanied me down the steps. He remained exactly as his companions had left him. Ehud and four men, clad in the now familiar black robes favored by lesser temple officials, descended into the chamber. They stopped and Ehud glowered at the rigid guard outside my cell.
“What is the matter with this man?” he snapped. The other guards straightened up and saluted.
“He fell,” one said, and looked to his companions for support.
“I think he is hurt, Excellency,” another added. The other two nodded their agreement.
“Well, get him up.”
Two rushed over to wake their companion. One nudged him gently on the shoulder. He crashed to the floor, still in the sitting position. His spear clattered to one side. His shield rolled away and settled in a series of ringing loops on the paving stones. The poor man was stiff as a board. Ehud stared disgustedly at the sight of his dead guard.
“Get rid of him,” he snarled.
They dragged the unfortunate guard away. His heels thumped on the steps as his two friends pulled him out of sight. Ehud pointed toward me.
“Take this man to the outer court. See that he has water to bathe in, a clean robe if you can find one, and something to eat. Do not let him out of your sight. Have him ready to travel in an hour.”
My chains were removed. The guards, seeing I was now the object of some courtesy, underwent a change of attitude. They took me up the stairs to the courtyard where I washed in a basin of murky water. A guard handed me clothing, a tunic, and a cloak. They were made of coarse linen and scratched, but at least they were clean. I was grateful for that. A guard brought me a bowl of tasteless porridge. It filled and warmed me and I started to feel a little better. I chanted a verse or two from one of the few Psalms I knew by heart.
Let your love and your kindnesses come to me in the morning, for in you have I put my trust. Show me the road I must follow, I lift my soul up to you. Deliver me from my enemies, O Lord…
If I thought about it rationally, I had no real prospects, but I always began my day in hope, a habit that sustained me over the years. Even though the men from Caesarea would be arriving that afternoon to seal my fate, a new day had begun and I believed anything could happen. I had been in tighter spots than this and managed to wiggle out. I wondered what would happen to Jesus. I did not see how anything, other than his beating, was likely. Passover limited their options. And who knew…perhaps the burly Peter and the clever Simon with his Zealot friends might find a way to free him. The day had barely begun and hope, however fragile, bloomed.
Against that, dark scudding clouds defeated the sun’s attempt to brighten and warm the day. Ehud reappeared and beckoned to the guards, who shoved me in his direction. I took a deep breath, assumed it might well be one of my last, and followed them through the gate and up the hill toward the city. I had no idea where we were going or why, but I savored every minute of what I believed were the last moments I had on earth.
***
The great hall of the Sanhedrin stood a short distance from the temple. It was not a place anyone in control of his senses would choose to visit. Trials were held there, and, even though the Sanhedrin no longer had the authority to hand down a death penalty, it remained a place ordinary men and women shunned.
The hall had a high vaulted ceiling, more Roman than Herodian, supported in part by two rows of thick stone pillars that ran the length of both sides of the room. Two high-backed chairs had been placed a pace or two from the back wall in the center facing the entryway. The wall behind them rose into the gloom of the ceiling. A round window filled with what appeared to be colored stones was set in its face. Smaller chairs were arranged along the sides and in front of the columns, a score or more on either side. Behind them, stools and benches were drawn up in no particular order. More benches and stools filled the area on either side of the massive cedar doors. The space smelled of damp and people up too early to have washed properly. Ehud’s deputies led me in. The room filled as important-looking people wandered in, spoke with one another, or sat. A few stared at me. I recognized one or two from the previous night. All of them wore ceremonial robes. The High Priest had called the Sanhedrin into session.
I tried to read faces. It occurred to me that if I had any talent at divining thoughts by such study, I should exercise it now. A group stood together and passed papyrus sheets back and forth—my letters. Some turned and glared at me. Most seemed puzzled, by what, I could not tell. Either they did not see the harm in the letters, or they simply did not understand them.
I trudged to the front of the hall and was made to sit on a bench against the sidewall. The large chairs were directly in front of me facing down the hall’s length. From where I sat, I could see whoever occupied them. If I leaned forward, I could see the entire row of chairs opposite, and if I leaned back, I could see along the wall as far as the stools and benches near the doors on my side of the room. Guards stood at my right and left.
I tried to recall what the law said about turning a Jew over to Gentiles. The law required the circumstances to be extreme. The thought depressed me. Murder qualifies as extreme, and they had already convicted me of that.
Chapter Fifty
The Sanhedrin and their assorted lieutenants, aides, acolytes, and attendants filled the room. The latter took positions behind in the rows of chairs and stood or sat. A clapper sounded and Caiaphas entered. His entourage processed behind him. I saw Ehud among them and another, older man, whose dress matched that of the high priest.
“Who’s the old man?” I whispered to one of my guards.
“Annas,” he hissed, “the high priest before Caiaphas.”
If Caiaphas felt he needed to drag along his predecessor, then what would come next must be important. The clapper sounded again and everyone sat. I leaned back and discovered the area beside the doors had filled with men. They were not members, and I wondered who they were and why they were there. I leaned forward and saw the whole of the entry had filled with people.
I knew I had missed the significance of the day. They were not interested in me. Whatever Caiaphas and his party knew or thought they knew about Leonides and Caesarea, I was not on today’s agenda. They had bigger fish to fry.
Caiaphas clapped his hands and the assemblage intoned their prayers. In the midst of that holy cacophony, some temple attendants entered and lighted two large braziers on either side of the main chairs. The room brightened and filled with the fragrance of incense. Caiaphas called them to order. He explained that their purpose was to hear charges brought against a particular rabbi. He did not mention Jesus by name but everyone in the room knew which rabbi he meant. He said the charges included blasphemy and sedition and required swift action on the part of the Sanhedrin. He droned on reciting bits of scripture, precedents, and bits of personal experience, which he believed relevant. When he finished, he turned to Annas and invited him to continue.
Annas, a shorter, grayer version of Caiaphas, took even more time to elaborate. If they proposed to bring about swift action, they needed to ste
p up the cadence. I leaned back and tried to figure out why I had been dragged here—to what purpose? Joseph stood and was recognized.
“Excellencies, am I to understand you are proposing we try this man, and if so, on what charges? I read this so-called testimony, and I find no cause for action. Furthermore, we have procedures we must follow. It is not permitted to hold a trial in this manner.” Nicodemas, on his left, leaned toward him, and said something. They nodded in agreement.
“Joseph of Arimathea, we are aware of your affection for Jesus of Nazareth. Indeed, there are many who share your enthusiasm, even though he attacks the very foundations of our life and, I should add, your position. But, we will not presume to have a trial. Call it an investigation, a hearing, a preliminary gathering of information that may allow us to proceed in an orderly fashion later, should one be necessary.”
Joseph stood again. “But what precedents have we for such an action? I am aware of none. This whole gathering and what you propose to do is contrary to our law and custom.”
“Joseph makes a valid point,” Annas said, and looked at the other members seated along the rows of pillars. “We do not wish to seem out of order. But there is some urgency. And, to be sure no advantage will be taken of this rabbi or anyone else,” he glanced in my direction, “we invited the people you see at the end of the hall to bear witness to our fairness and openness of purpose.”
I studied the man carefully. He was up to something and it had nothing to do with fairness or openness of purpose. I shifted my gaze to Caiaphas. I could not be sure, but I believe a smirk lurked somewhere in his carefully combed beard. They played with these men. They knew what they wanted, and they would have it and make the Sanhedrin complicit in it. Except for Joseph and Nicodemas, the expressions on the faces of the men ranged from agreeable to stupefied.
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