Iscariot: A Novel of Judas (36 page)

But first these anxious pains.

The moon was full, casting the hillside in a light like dusk as we passed through the groves of Gethsemane at the foot of the mount. I knew they would be here--it was where they had always come.

We were just nearing the garden when I took note of the camps, growing thinner out this way. The youths creeping along the trees, 308

watching the soldiers with us, their tunics like ghosting patches of snow in the night.

For a panicked moment, I thought I should have told Jesus and the others to stay someplace closer, and more public. A great sign might happen here, within moments. Or just within the gates of the city.

Either that, or I would soon part from him forever.

My hands began to tremor.

Into the grove, through the trees.

To the cave, where the press was.

"Let me go ahead," I said, turning to them in the descending darkness.

"You laid the charge. You must identify him," Malchus said.

"The one I kiss. He is the one. Now, stay back and wait."

The contingent behind him halted.

I got to the cave in time to see them coming out, several of them looking confused and bleary-eyed--except for Jesus, who looked very alert, having prayed all this time, no doubt. Simon and Peter nodded; it hadn't been unusual for me to come and go this close to the city and my home. But I dared not greet them now. I went directly for Jesus instead.

In the past, he had held out his arms to me. Not tonight.

This time, he waited as I came to stand before him.

"Hail, Teacher," I said.

Suddenly, I wanted to weep. I cupped his face and tilted my forehead against him, felt my expression crumble.

Why this, why like this? Why must I do this? I could smell the warmth of him, the scent that was his, like the smell of sweat and wine and salt and blood.

Blood? And then my lungs constricted, and

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my breath caught in my throat. My hands fell to his shoulders, and for an instant, I thought my knees would fail me again, that I would clasp him as one does while drowning.

His whisper, when he spoke, was warm against my ear. "Do what you came for, friend."

Inexplicable tears--hot tears--coursed down my cheeks.

"Hail," I whispered, and kissed him with trembling lips.

It was greeting and goodbye.

I lifted my head to find him gazing directly at me, something in his wide eyes I had never seen before.

Fear.

And then there was the rush of footsteps, of bodies and the clink of armor.

He was pulled away from me, I wasn't sure by whom, but only that I was jerked back--too soon!--still holding on to him, his tunic pulling askew, his mantle sliding off his shoulders, baring one of them.

I was dragged back as Malchus and several soldiers moved in front of me.

And there was Peter and the flash of his sword and then Malchus, who had ducked the arc of it, screaming.

"Put your sword away!"

Jesus.

The soldiers were advancing now--too fast! They would kill him, cut him down, and I was shouting and trying to get between them.

My master threw out his arms. "Don't you think I could call on my father and have twelve legions of angels at my disposal?"

I hadn't known what would happen, but something felt wrong. Malchus was screaming for everyone to put up their swords, his hand clutching at the place his ear had been.

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The right ear. Where a man received the oil and blood of his guilt offerings, on the lobe. Without it, a man could never be properly absolved.

My master went to Malchus in the circle of soldiers, silently drew Malchus'

shaking hand away from the side of his face.

His ear was whole, and intact--only the fresh blood on his neck and tunic bearing witness that it had ever been removed.

And then the soldiers came all at once.

They grabbed for Jesus, who did not move, but staggered as hands seized him from one direction and then another.

"Master!" I shouted.

Behind him I could see the soldiers seizing one of the young men who had followed us, grabbing his tunic so that the boy spun away, ripping it apart, leaving it in the soldiers' hands.

"Let them go!" Jesus said.

The group scattered in the fading light. Peter turned back, his mouth working, and I realized he was screaming for me to run.

I stood rooted in shock--long enough to see them binding the hands of my master.

And then I turned on my heel and fled.

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43

Peter and I pressed ourselves against the gate of the old Hasmonean Palace, calling out to anyone passing through the yard to let us in, to fetch Malchus. It had gone wrong. I had to see Malchus. To demand an explanation. To know that they wouldn't harm my master.

Eventually a slave let us inside the yard. Malchus himself was nowhere to be seen.

Guards passed before the yard's caldron fire--Temple guards, many of whom had come here ahead of us. Overhead, clouds had obscured the moon. We drew our mantles close about ourselves, and waited.

We did not speak. But I glanced often at Peter and thought, He knows. He knows and disowns me already.

The hour wore on. At some point, I looked down to see the dirt on my feet--

the feet that my master had washed, now covered in grime.

A little while later, the slave came back out. Peter shrank toward the shadows. She didn't seem to notice him--or the lewd looks of the soldiers upon her--as she summoned me.

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"What's happening?"

"Malchus sent me to fetch you. They're questioning him."

I glanced back at Peter, his eyes like holes in his face, and then followed her in.

She led me along the corridor of the house I had been so curious to see most my life. But now that I was here, I had no eye for the fine torches or the mosaics, or the great length and breadth of the front room ahead of me as she brought me to a small side gallery tended by a guard. From here I could see only a swath of the larger room beyond.

"You have to stay here."

My heart was in my throat and I nodded, unable to speak. Ahead of me, through the doors, the great room was filled with light and arches . . . and the frowning faces of several Pharisees and Sadducees I recognized. There was Helcias bar Phiabi and several from the house of Boethus, talking amongst themselves. There, Annas, who was High Priest before Caiaphas, and there . . . Caiaphas himself, surrounded by his cronies like a pack of vultures. A group of men known for their scheming and power-lording and corruption, twenty-three in all.

And there, standing in front of them, was my master.

His mantle was gone and his tunic was strangely stained, as though he had bled on it--no, that he had sweated out blood from his very pores.

It was only then I fully understood: He hadn't been brought here for questioning.

He was on trial.

No. I had to be wrong. But there they were: twenty-three. The number of men required to examine or convict a man. But a trial

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could not be conducted at night, nor on the eve of a holiday! They knew this!

Master!

Through the doors, my master turned his head.

Did he see me? Had he heard the cry in my heart? Did he see me from the corner of his eye--this ant, this termite that I was, crouching in the wall?

But there, on his face. What was that?

A welt.

They had beaten him?

I rushed forward, cried out his name. But they were still on some kind of recess and talking so loudly between themselves that no one heard. The guard standing between the larger room and the gallery gave me a pointed look.

I sat back, chewing the inside of my cheek, telling myself that Jesus had stilled a storm with a word, so surely he could escape them all now.

They came to order. Brought in a man. I thought I might recognize him, that he might be one of the men who picked up a stone during Tabernacles. But how could I know, how could I remember? And what help was it if I did?

"What do you remember of this man's teaching at the Temple?" Caiaphas asked him.

"He said that he would destroy this temple made by human hands. And that in three days, he would make another--not made by human hands."

But that was not it. He spoke in parables!

"What is your answer?" Caiaphas said, looking expectantly at him.

Jesus pitched forward onto the floor and I realized that someone 314

outside my line of vision had struck him from behind. He fell, sprawling, and I could see that his hands were bound.

"You won't answer." It wasn't a question.

The breath went out of me. Where was Nicodemus? Any of his friends--the students of Gamliel? There were none of them here that I could see.

And then a figure I recognized very well came to stand beside Annas.

Zadok.

Cold. A dart through my lungs.

His hair was oiled, and the tefillin seemed to fairly gleam on his arm and forehead, wrapped so tightly that they practically protruded like square, sawed-off horns.

Annas leaned toward Caiaphas, murmuring something too short and too quiet to be heard.

At last, Caiaphas said, "Are you the Messiah? The son of God?"

The words I had longed for him to speak. To hear from his own lips. But now, for the first time in my life, my heart cried out: No.

Say no.

Say no and live.

My master was getting to his feet. The form of a soldier stepped into view, a large and thick-shouldered Temple guard. Caiaphas stayed him with a hand.

"I am," Jesus said, his words thick.

Outrage from the gathered council. I staggered back against the wall.

"And you will see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of the Mighty One," Jesus cried, "coming on the clouds of heaven!"

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They rose up in their seats. The High Priest tore his clothes.

Blasphemy.

Death.

They cannot convict him. They swore and put it in writing.

Then why do they continue with this farce?

The trial went on for hours.

It was a charade. Not even legal. It was night. This was the home of the High Priest, not the chamber of the Sanhedrin. It was the eve of a feast. Where was evidence of acquittal? A man could not condemn himself. And even if he could, even guilty, they could not condemn him on the same day. It was the law.

But these thoughts faded away as my master went sprawling again and I covered my ears as the soldiers came to haul him back up.

This time, he was turned away from the council. This time he gazed out past the open doors of the chamber.

This time he looked directly at me.

His face was mottled with darkening bruises. Blood trickled from his lip, already grossly swollen. Despite the blood, the swelling of the side of his face, the look in his eyes was unmistakable.

Love. So much love.

And pity.

I felt my face crumple.

They jerked him to his feet.

"Master!" I shouted. I leapt from the side gallery, threw myself against the guard as my master was led away.

I don't know what I screamed or said after that. I only knew that a part of me was being rent away, taken off by the brutal hands of Caiaphas' men.

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Beyond the impenetrable shoulders of the guards, Zadok lifted his head to stare directly at me as the Sadducees buzzed between themselves like a horde of flies.

"You lied!" I screamed. "You swore an oath!"

One word reached me through the fracas then. One word, that chilled my blood.

Mesith.

Leading Israel astray.

I staggered.

It was a charge worse than blasphemy. A killing charge, with no defense, for which they might meet and convict in the same day. For which a man might convict himself with his words. For which they might conduct every aspect of this trial exactly as they were--at night, with only a quorum, on the eve of a holiday, convicted by a majority of only one.

Mesith.

A death knel .

I had bargained for the life of my master, to save him from a charge of blasphemy. I thought I had earned him his safety, his life. But now I knew: They had meant to charge him with mesith all along.

They released me into the yard with a shove. I stumbled toward the fire, tearing at my hair.

What have I done?

The face of my brother Joshua wavered before me. Joshua, the day I spat in his face. The day he fell into Roman hands. Joshua, whom I had loved more than anyone in the world, even Father.

I saw Susanna, dead on the ground. Dead because I had gone to the Temple first, before seeing to her safety.

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Father, hung on a cross, because I prayed to stay in Sepphoris.

Someone tugged at my sleeve, and I turned with unseeing eyes. Peter. He was pulling me away. His eyes were swollen. Had he been beaten, too? But