Judas

by Frederick Ramsay

  Jesus looked at Pilate with black fathomless eyes and responded, “Is this nonsense your idea or are you repeating someone else’s?”

  Pilate flinched, taken aback by Jesus’ sharp tone. His eyes flashed with anger and then amusement.

  “The king is defiant. So you are a king. Tell me, king, where is your throne? Where are your armies? Where is your palace?”

  “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, we would not be having this conversation. My subjects would have risen up by now and delivered me from these corrupt temple dogs…and from you.”

  “But they didn’t, did they? So your kingdom is where—in the sky, perhaps? Then, why are you causing these good people so much trouble? I really need to know that. You understand, these men here want me to kill you?”

  “I came to testify to the truth.”

  “Oh. It’s the truth you bring us. Tell me, king, what is truth? We’d all like to know the answer to that. Yes?”

  Pilate turned away and went back to Caiaphas.

  “High priest, I can find no crime here, nor does your Antipas. I cannot crucify someone just because you think he might get you in trouble with that ridiculous god of yours. No, I won’t do it.”

  “Prefect, he must die,” Caiaphas said softly.

  “Must? You say must? You are mistaken. That would be too harsh . Don’t you agree, Rufus? We are not harsh people. Rome is famous for its sense of justice.”

  “He mocks the Caesar. He threatens.”

  “Well, yes, there is that to consider. I tell you what I will do…for the acts of disrespect and the riot—of course, mustn’t forget that—a good flogging is in order. That should do it. Guard, bring the scourge.”

  Again the guard ran out and returned with a whip. I’d heard of Roman scourging but I had never seen it. The whip, or scourge, had a short wooden handle, no longer than a man’s forearm. Attached to the end were about a dozen thin leather straps and fastened to the ends of the straps and along their length were small, sharp stones. The guard twirled it around his head and it sounded like he had released a bevy of angry wasps.

  “I want everyone here to note that Pilate is merciful. Let it never be said he treats his people in a harsh manner. Proceed.”

  Jesus was stripped of his purple cloak, his robe, and tunic. His hands, still bound, were fastened around a pillar.

  “How many, sir?” the man with the whip asked.

  “How many? Three, I think. Three should do it.”

  Three lashes. It would hurt but three could not be too bad. Ehud, who is standing next to me, sucked in his breath. “It will kill him for certain,” he said.

  “Kill him? Three lashes? I don’t see how.”

  “Not three lashes—three sets. Three sets of thirteen. It will flay the skin off his back. If he is lucky, the pain will be so bad, he will pass out after the first half dozen.”

  “Why do you care? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  The man wielded the whip with great expertise. He flicked his wrist at precisely the right moment. Instead of simply laying down a set of stripes, the stones raked across the flesh and tore at it. Six lashes and Jesus’ back was torn and bleeding. After a dozen, it was laid bare. Jesus never flinched or cried out. Anyone else would have been screaming for mercy. At the twentieth stroke, he slumped against his ropes, unconscious. The soldier continued the beating. Blood splattered everywhere. At the thirty-ninth stroke, the beating finally ended. The scourge dripped with blood, its wielder with sweat. A guard cut Jesus’ bonds and he fell on his face.

  “Get him up,” Pilate snapped. “Get the king on his feet and get him out of here.”

  A legionnaire brought a bucket of water and poured it over him. Two others grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. The dirty purple robe was thrown over him. I saw it darken with blood from his wounds.

  “There. We all feel better now, king,” Pilate said.

  As the soldiers steered Jesus toward the steps leading from the fortress, Caiaphas raised his hand.

  “Stop. Prefect, this will not do. This man must be put to death.”

  “What is it with you people? Thirty-nine lashes aren’t enough?”

  Caiaphas drew in a breath. He looked very old at that moment, old and tired. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he faced Pilate.

  “You have your duty, prefect, I have mine. This man threatens the whole of our nation. I am fully aware you think our worship and practices are ridiculous and even primitive. But I tell you this, we have been faithful to the Lord since the beginning of memory. We worshipped him in the high places when your ancestors were still turning over rocks looking for food. Whatever you may think of us, we are not a bloodthirsty people. The Covenant calls us to obedience, and we know if we stray from it, the Lord will punish us. I do not relish this moment, Prefect, but this man, who believes he is the Lord, has drawn many to him. Soon, I fear, our Lord will respond.”

  Caiaphas sagged. His headpiece sat crookedly on his head. He had laid out his case to the prefect. He believed he was right. If I were anyone else and hearing this for the first time, I might have agreed with him.

  “So he thinks he’s a god. Tell me, high priest, what king doesn’t? Very well, I will crucify this dangerous man for you.”

  Rufus cleared his throat. Pilate glanced his way and smiled. “It will be fine, you will see.” Then returning to the high priest, he added, “Let us understand each other. If I do this thing for you, you will be in my debt.”

  “Yes, prefect.”

  “Deeply in my debt. I can expect you to guarantee the parties who now wrestle with one another for position and power will continue in that exercise in futility, with your help, of course?”

  Caiaphas swallowed hard and said, almost in a whisper, “Yes, as you say.”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Rufus stepped forward, took Pilate by the arm, and walked him to the back of the room where I stood.

  “This will get back to Rome. A crucifixion on one of the people’s holiest days—you can’t.”

  “You worry too much. I am not going to pass judgment on this man—they are. Trust me. I am the new Pilate, ‘Pilate the Merciful.’ You will see.” He spun on his heel and strode back toward the doors.

  “Guards, bring up the other prisoner we took last week, the bandit and assassin.”

  “Barabbas?”

  “That’s the one. Bring him up here. Oh, and fix him up with a king’s robe, too. Caiaphas…?”

  “Prefect?”

  “Get all those people in the court over here so they can hear what I have to say.”

  Caiaphas spoke to his guards’ captain who, in turn, sent his men into the courtyard. Soon the people massed at the foot of the steps. A commotion broke out behind me. Two guards shoved Barabbas, kicking and cursing, into the room. He started to strike out at the guards but was knocked to his knees. The soldiers hauled him to his feet and told him to be still or die. Another filthy purple robe was produced and thrown over his shoulders. He glanced in my direction. There was a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  “Bring them out here. Put one on my right and one on my left.”

  Jesus and Barabbas were led out on the platform in front of the doors. Each had a soldier at his side. The old soldier, my putative father, stood next to Jesus and the wielder of the whip stood next to Barabbas. A moment frozen in time followed as I took in that scene. The setting sun glowed golden and silhouetted the four men who defined my life—Pilate, Barabbas, my father, and Jesus. One way or another, I was related to each of them through blood. I would gladly kill three with my bare hands if I could, but I would be responsible only for the death of the fourth.

  Pilate called for a bowl of water and a towel.

  “Caiaphas,” he said, “I am about to relieve you of any possible repercussions coming to you for what you have done to your countryman.” Then, out of the side of his mouth, he muttered, “Watch and learn, Rufus.”

  Turning to the
crowd, he raised his hands for silence. At the urging of the temple guards, the crowd quieted.

  “People of Jerusalem, both of these men have been found guilty of crimes so serious, they require the death penalty.” He paused for effect. “But it is your Passover Feast and Rome would show mercy. We have a tradition, do we not, on such important days, that one prisoner shall be set free?”

  The crowd stirred. Caiaphas and the temple officials frowned. What tradition? No one had ever heard of such a tradition.

  “Yes. And we will honor tradition today. However, it is difficult to choose, so I give the choice to you. Which of these two would you have me free?”

  He pointed to Barabbas. “Shall it be Jesus Barabbas?” He slurred the ‘bar’ but said Jesus very loudly and clearly, Jesus bar Abbas. It came out sounding like Jesus, son of the Father.

  “Or shall it be this man,Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum?”

  The new, merciful Pilate now played the cruelest joke of his bloody career. No one in the crowd spoke Latin and he knew it. All they heard was something akin to “Jesus, son of the Father” and then a name that made no sense. The two men above them on the platform were both bowed and beaten. If anything, Barabbas looked better. After a brief pause the followers of Barabbas, seeing their chance, shouted, “Jesus Barabbas.” Others, followers of Jesus—my Jesus—thinking they could rescue him, took up the chant and shouted with them, “Jesus.”

  Pilate waited, his snakelike face wreathed in smiles.

  “You have chosen this man, Barabbas. So be it. Let him go.”

  Barabbas, stunned by the turn of events, watched in amazement, as his hands were untied and his dirty royal robe was stripped from him. Fearing a possible change of heart, he raced down the steps into the arms of his supporters.

  “What shall I do to the other?” Pilate looked at the High Priest and surreptitiously signaled to him with his fingers.

  Again he waited. Then Caiaphas, finally catching his drift, shouted, “Crucify him.” His people repeated it and soon the crowd joined in, “Crucify him.”

  Pilate looked for a long moment at the crowd in mock amazement and announced, “It is your decision then, not mine. My hands are clean in this.”

  He dipped his hands in the bowl of water and dried them with the towel.

  “We are finished here,” he said to Caiaphas. “Go away.”

  “The crucifixion?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But I thought—”

  “It is your feast day, high priest. Go and celebrate your deliverance out of the hands of the enemies of your god. Go.”

  He gestured for the great doors to be closed.

  “Lock up the king. Give him water but no food. Tomorrow, be prepared to take him and the other two out and crucify the lot of them.”

  He started to leave the room. Ehud, who had lingered, stopped him.

  “Prefect, there is one last thing.”

  “There is more? You people amaze me.”

  Ehud pushed me forward. “This man needs to be dealt with, too.”

  “The witness? Why, what has he done?”

  “There was a murder in Caesarea some years back—a famous carver in stone. You are no doubt familiar with the case?”

  Pilate’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Ehud sailed on, oblivious to the change.

  “This man is party to that crime.”

  Pilate gazed at me with the snake-like eyes I remembered so well. “You know something about it?” he said. There was no doubting the threat in his voice and the danger in those golden eyes.

  “I know nothing of it.” We stared at each other for a long time. Then, he nodded and turned back to Ehud.

  “Get out of here. I have no interest in old crimes involving silly Greek sculptors. Get out.”

  Ehud’s jaw dropped. He hesitated for a moment and then scuttled out the small door and disappeared.

  Pilate looked at me for a long moment. “You were very wise just now. Guard, this man has earned a reward.”

  “I ask for nothing.”

  “Nevertheless, you shall have something. Where are the things we took from Barabbas?”

  The guard placed a bundle on the table next to the wall.

  “There will be something suitable here. Ah, just the thing!”

  He handed me a heavy purse and a knife. Not just any knife—my knife—the one I took from the dark desert man, the one Barabbas took from me. I loosened it from its sheath and tested the edge. Barabbas had honed it to a sharpness it never had when I carried it. I could have drawn it and with one slash, avenged Jesus, my friends, my mother, my sister, and the hundreds, the thousands of men, women, and children this butcher destroyed. One lightning stroke and I would have been free. Before I could act on those thoughts, Pilate wheeled around and headed into the depths of the fortress.

  “Leave now before I change my mind,” he said over his shoulder.

  I stepped out of the fortress and on the street, free. I could not believe it. I had money, a lot of money, and my knife. I shook my head in disbelief. I stood there in the exact state I arrived in when I came to this peculiar country. Except for the ache in my heart, the previous six and a half years might never have happened.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Freedom. For the first time in two days I could move about as I pleased. I stretched my arms out and spun on my heel. I looked right and left. I did not want to meet any of the disciples closest to Jesus, or any of our supporters, in fact. I did not know what they knew about my role in Jesus’ arrest and impending crucifixion, but I knew if he had not already done so, John would tell them, and no amount of explaining on my part could ever reconcile us. I wanted to flee, to go as far as I could, as fast as I could, anywhere. But instead, I wandered aimlessly around the city, my mind numb, and my spirit broken.

  As darkness fell, I found myself wandering the hills north of the city, a short distance from the Fish Gate. Travelers covered the area with their tents. I settled near a family from Thrace. Their horsehide tent with its streamers and gaily-colored poles spread over a substantial piece of ground. I counted nearly a dozen people coming and going through its bright red flaps. I caught the aroma of cooking, some sort of meat.

  The head of the household motioned for me to join them for Passover. His wife looked dubious, but when I offered a few coins, she beamed and waved me in. They had never heard of Jesus, were only dimly aware of the commotion at the temple, and eager to eat and sing and celebrate. I was not very good company, I fear. Afterward, I spent the night in the rocky hills not far from their tent. Sleep, the great healer, avoided my earnest pleas, so I watched as the stars made their circuits in the heavens and finally gave way to the sun.

  Before I left, I traded a few more coins and my cloak for one of theirs and a head covering. The cloak, like their tent, was made from finely tanned horsehide and decorated with loops and swirls along its edge. Anyone seeking me would not be looking for a man from Thrace. I wished my host a safe trip and set out, intending to go away from the city. Instead, my steps turned toward it as if a great force willed me back, back to the temple, back to the fortress, back to my shame. I wondered if I had finally gone mad.

  I entered the city and made my way to the north side of the Antonia Fortress. A large crowd had gathered at the stout door that fronted onto the street. They pushed and shoved and a few minor fights broke out. Soldiers moved into the mass of people to quell them. Even though the crowd vastly outnumbered the guards, no one dared attack them. The sun cleared the eastern walls—the second hour of the sixth day. With an eye trained to spot them, I noted the cutpurses were out in force.

  A soldier on the wall above shouted an order to those below. They moved to the door, pointed their spears at the mob, and drove them back. When they had cleared a space, one of them banged his fist on the door and it swung open. More soldiers led out three men. The crowd began to curse and throw rotten fruit. Neither pilgrims nor worshippers, this mob came from the threadbare hem of society
that delights in public hangings and crucifixions. They would jeer and harass the prisoners all the way through the city. Whatever the other two had done or not done held no interest for me. My eyes were only on the third man, Jesus.

  He wore the same dirty purple robe, but now it was stained dark brown. The dried blood from his wounds glued the cloth to his torn back. There were dark circles under his eyes. A piece of pomegranate glanced off his forehead. Only when an errant apple struck a soldier’s helmet and its recipient whirled, sword in hand, did the pelting stop. People laughed.

  The soldier nearest Jesus grabbed the purple robe and, with a jerk, tore it away. I swear I could smell blood. Jesus cried out. Everyone could see the horror the scourge had made of his back. Even those slow-witted street denizens were subdued at the sight. His old linen robe replaced the purple one across his shoulders and, eyes wet, I watched as new red stains spread across it.

  The soldiers then dragged three heavy wooden beams from the fortress, each half again as long as the men were tall. They banged and bumped across the rough cobbles. From the new bark on them I guessed they had been cut from green wood and would be very heavy. Next, the soldiers hoisted them up onto the shoulders of Jesus’ companions. The two trudged away, bearing their crosses, but Jesus remained. Most of the oafs and their baskets of fruit followed the first two. Only a smaller, quieter crowd remained. It looked like the soldiers wanted the other two prisoners away before they started down the street with Jesus. I thought I saw Joseph nearby. Perhaps he had arranged it. Perhaps he, like me, felt deep shame for our lack of courage.

  The soldiers placed the crossbeam on Jesus’ back. He collapsed under its weight. He was jerked back to his feet and given a drink and the beam lifted on his back again. This time he managed to stagger down the street, one painful step at a time. I stayed at the back of the onlookers, moving slowly with them. The street twisted down into the Tyropoeon Valley, the valley of the cheese mongers, which divides the city. Just as he reached the bottom of the street where it veered to the left, he fell. The crossbeam bounced off his torn back and clattered several paces away. He lay motionless in the street. A soldier kicked him and he stirred. He struggled back to his feet but as soon as the beam was replaced on his back, he collapsed again.