Iscariot: A Novel of Judas (37 page)

Authors: Tosca Lee

Tags: #FICTION / Historical

no, he had been weeping.

I opened my mouth but I could not say the word.

Mesith.

I had delivered my master to death.

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They sent him bound and beaten to Pilate in the morning. I followed the guarded escort, trying to catch sight of him. And when I did, I saw that Jesus'

face was nearly unrecognizable.

I stopped by the side of the road to vomit.

Now who was the dog?

I loitered in the courtyard, watching it fill with Pharisees, pilgrims, and curious onlookers, and then with faces I recognized as those of the bandit Jesus' company. What were they doing here?

Peter was gone; I didn't remember when he left that morning, and did not know where he went. But he had disappeared with the cock's crow, and I had come here alone.

I had been waiting outside through dawn, trying to catch a glimpse of Jesus, to bargain with the guards if they would only let me in to see him.

"What are you doing here?" I said to one of the bandits now. "Are you waiting for my master?"

One of them, his eyes lighting with recognition when he saw me, 319

said, "We wait on our own. Our leader was arrested in the scuffle your master started."

Someone else shouted, "Give us our Passover release!" They had been shouting this off and on now for an hour, and it took me a moment to remember, dully, that Pilate had once followed in the tradition of Archelaus and released a prisoner at Passover as a sign of goodwill.

I blinked at the man. "Your leader--you mean the bandit Jesus?"

"Yes! He killed a Samaritan that day in the Temple!" There was fire in his eyes.

"He's the one who killed the Samaritan?" I looked around. "But there weren't this many in your company. Why are there so many people clamoring for his release?" The courtyard had steadily filled, not only with those I recognized as priests from the Temple, but common peasants, no doubt come down from Galilee.

"All this time he was with you--don't you know who he is? Or, rather, who his father was?" he said. "He's the youngest son of Judas bar Hezekiah himself."

Jesus the bandit, son of the Teacher himself. Jesus bar Abba.

By the time they escorted my master to the palace, the crowd had quadrupled.

I caught only one more glimpse of Jesus from the courtyard. He had been brutally beaten.

"Master, Master!" I shouted, unable to even hear myself, the cries of "Bar-Abbas!" thick in my ears.

I did not stop to immerse in the mikva. It wouldn't do any good. I hurried through the double gate, shoved my way into the great court. Somewhere within the Middle Court, the Levites sang their morning psalms.

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I strode through the columns, the teachers already in the porticoes. Would they pander to the Pharisees and quibble about purity or did they whisper the forbidden challenge of the spirit behind the law? Would they speak the things they should not speak, or mire themselves comfortably in debate forever?

Those shining-faced students, those young boys that would be Pharisees and sages--would they be content with blithe answers and ignore the final Hosanna of their hearts?

Did they go into the darkness of their homes and hear the sound of God after so many hours spent studying his law? Did they see their own starlike hands, the lesions on their souls, the adultery of their hearts?

Unclean. Unclean.

We are all white-washed tombs.

With every step, the purse at my side was a jingling liability, the peal of Sheol. Thirty pieces of silver.

I had no need for coin.

"He'll release the bandit to them--" someone was saying as I passed by.

"The people love the bandit; he killed that Samaritan in the Temple. One would-be Messiah for another, then."

I saw it then as clearly as though it had played out. They would call for him, the son of Judas bar Hezekiah. For the good of Israel.

And they would turn the king--my king--over to death to placate their Roman masters.

We have no king but Rome.

To the chamber at the end of the portico, the meeting place of the Sanhedrin.

Days ago I had waited, sweating, to speak. Now I strode directly to the dais, into the midst of them all. There they

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were. Jonathan, Joezer, Helcias, and a tired-looking Annas, and there, last of all . . . Zadok.

"You charge the mesith!" I cried, the words echoing off the sides of the chamber. "That he leads Israel astray?"

Jonathan did not speak, but glanced at Zadok, who sat back. "Ah. Judas."

Off to the side, someone snapped for the guard.

"You have played your role. You have done well," Zadok said.

"You promised. You gave your word!"

"That we would not charge him with blasphemy. And we have kept that word," Annas said.

"Blasphemy--or a worse offense!"

"I'm sorry. You did not say that."

The letter of the law. The very word I spoke.

"What can I do to ransom him? What can I give you in exchange? Please." I fell down to my knees. "Any price. Name any price. Give him back to me."

"Get up. This does not behoove you," Zadok said.

"I can give you information on the sons of Judas bar Hezekiah," I said loudly, staring right at him. "On the rebel group who fashion themselves Sons of the Teacher after him. I can tell you all about them!"

Zadok's eyes narrowed at me.

"We have all the information that we require about them," Joezer said lightly.

"Zadok, here, can supply you with far more."

Zadok sat unmoving. Far too unmoving.

They all did.

And I realized then I had been played expertly. Right into their hands.

"Judas, be glad. Don't you see? You have your Messiah," Zadok said.

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"He will die for the people. To stave off the dogs of Rome. For another day, Judas. He saves us. You see? And so you can be content. Hosanna."

Outside, the great court was filling with pilgrims, the strains of their hymns flitting into the chamber.

"I am not content!" I roared, stalking toward them, never caring about the soldiers at the end of the room. "I have betrayed innocent blood!"

I yanked the moneybag from my belt and threw it at the feet of Annas. The fabric split open, the coins spraying out across the foot of the dais.

Would you buy back your master for thirty silver?

"Absolve me of this! I return your money. I have worked in the treasury, I know the law. If you refuse to take it back, then I return it to the Temple. My mind is changed. I want nothing to do with this deal. I undo it! Here is your money--it is invalidated!"

"Judas--"

"I've sinned! I have betrayed innocent blood! Undo it!"

No one moved. Hurrying footsteps, the guard, coming for me.

"He is innocent! No one else has said it, so let me. He is innocent! If the witnesses disagree, then you cannot convict him and your false witness must suffer the condemnation you have put on him. You, yourselves, as false witnesses, must suffer the condemnation you have put on him. I, Judas, son of Simon, condemn you! Undo our agreement!"

No one moved. Desperation flooded my throat, my lungs. I was drowning in it. In bloodguilt.

"I have betrayed a Jew into the hands of the Gentiles!" I screamed.

The eyes of Annas were ice cold. "That is your responsibility."

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"It's a dying offense! Such an act invites God's curse--and makes one unfit to dwell in the land. If you follow the letter of the law, you must kill me!"

Annas nodded to the guard, who started toward me. "We do not accuse you," he said, placidly. The guard came, and I struck out at him.

"You!" I cried, stabbing my finger at Annas. "You have turned him over to the Gentiles as much as I. You are as cursed as I!"

"We? Not we." Annas' eyes narrowed. "We are the children of Abraham. As for you . . . You signed the document. You are the accuser. Blame us all you

like, but the decision was yours."

And then the guard's fist found my face and the floor crashed up to meet me.

My teeth hit the marble with a crunch that sent my ears ringing. I lashed out at him with a leg, but this time another guard joined him. Together they took me by the shoulders, carried me from the Temple, and threw me down the southern steps.

IT HURT TO BREATHE. It hurt to live.

They had turned him over to Rome, because they could not convict a death penalty case themselves.

They would make it seem like a great offering, a sublime submission on their parts, to convict him for them, like a rich man placating his mistress with a gift.

He had called me "friend." But I had played the satan.

I must make restitution. I would make sacrifice.

But how could I bring an offering to the very priests who conspired against my master? How could I take an animal to the Temple

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to sacrifice ever again? How could I celebrate Passover even as my master was taken out of the city during the killing of the lambs?

Where was the Lord?

Not there with the priests.

No, there was nothing there for me anymore.

The only God I knew was with my master in Pilate's prison and I had accused him and delivered him over to his enemies. I had betrayed the only absolution I had ever hoped to receive in my life.

A faint rumble ran along the horizon like laughter.

I LOITERED OUTSIDE THE palace, desperate for a glimpse of him. My one tooth had come out and two more were loose. My eye was swelling, and my ribs hurt every time I took a deep breath. I knew all of this, but I did not feel it.

The courtyard was nearly full by mid-morning.

I was weeping, and there were some people staring at me, pulling away in order not to touch me.

"Is he a leper?" someone asked.

"Yes," I said, glancing at them. "I am unclean." It had been my nightmare all my life.

They fell away from me like water from oil. I gave a faint laugh that sent a shock of pain through my side, tears stinging my eyes.

I wanted him. I wanted him back. It was all I wanted.

I tried to pray. I had not prayed the Shema in nearly a day for the first time I could remember.

Hear, O Israel, the Lord is One . . .

One.

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They brought him out, bloodied more even than before. But I knew him. I would have known him anywhere by the way that he moved, the cant of his eyes, swollen as they were.

Let me take his place. Let me die. Let him live.

Get behind me, Satan.

They had dressed him up as the king from the soldiers' basalinda game, this hand-worker from Galilee standing beside the most powerful man in Judea.

When Pilate joined him on the parapet, it was my master who wore the purple of the king.

Pilate washed his hands of it, publicly. One would-be king passively accepting the blood sacrifice of the crowd. How easily he did it. They all did--

Zadok, the priests, those members of the Sanhedrin who had convicted him