The Last Temptation of Christ (56 page)

Judas paced up and down outside the accursed tower and glanced fiercely at the motionless Roman guards with their armor of brass and heavy boorish faces; and at the godless standard behind them which, with its eagles, waved back and forth at the top of a high pole. What did Pilate want with him, he asked himself, why had he called him? Judas knew—the Zealots of Jerusalem kept him informed—that Annas and Caiaphas went continually in and out of this tower and that they accused Jesus of wanting to start a revolution in order to chase out the Romans and make himself king. But Pilate did not agree. “He’s completely insane,” he would say, “and he doesn’t mix himself up in Rome’s business. I once purposely sent men to ask him, ‘Does the God of Israel want us to pay taxes to the Romans—what’s your opinion?’ And he, quite truly, quite intelligently, . answered, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s!’ He’s not as crazy as a saint,” Pilate would say, laughing; “he’s crazed by saintliness. If he steps on your religion, punish him—I wash my hands of the whole affair. But he does not concern Rome.” This is what he always told them, and then he sent them away. But now ... Could he have changed his mind?

Judas halted and leaned against the wall opposite the tower, nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.

Suddenly he gave a start. Trumpets blared, the crowd made way. Four Levites arrived and gently placed a gold-inlaid litter in front of the tower door. The silken curtains parted and light-skinned Caiaphas, wearing a yellow all-silk gown, slowly descended. He was so fat that globs of blubber formed cocoons around his eyes. The heavy double doors opened exactly as Jesus was coming out, and the two men met face to face on the threshold. Jesus halted. He was barefooted, his white tunic full of patches. Perfectly motionless, he stared deeply into the high priest’s eyes. The other lifted his heavy eyelids, recognized him, eyed him rapidly from head to toe. His goatish lips parted. “What do you want here, rebel?”

But Jesus, still motionless, stared down on him severely with his large, afflicted eyes.

“I’m not afraid of you, high priest of Satan,” he replied.

“Throw him out!” Caiaphas screamed at his four litter-bearers. He proceeded into the courtyard, a fat, bow-legged pygmy whose immense behind nearly scraped the ground.

The four Levites closed in on Jesus, but Judas dashed forward. “Hands off!” he bellowed. Shoving them aside, he took the teacher by the arm.

“Come,” he said, “let’s go.”

Judas pushed through camels, men and sheep, clearing a path so that Jesus could proceed. They strode under the city’s fortified gate, descended into the Cedron Valley, climbed up the opposite side and took the road to Bethany.

“What did he want with you?” Judas asked, squeezing the master’s arm in an agony.

“Judas,” Jesus answered after a deep silence, “I am now going to confide a terrible secret to you.”

Judas bowed his red-haired head and waited with gaping mouth. “You are the strongest of all the companions. Only you, I think, will be able to bear it. I have said nothing to the others, nor will I. They have no endurance.”

Judas blushed with pleasure. “Thank you for trusting me, Rabbi,” he said. “Speak. You’ll see: I won’t make you ashamed of me.

“Judas, do you know why I left my beloved Galilee and came to Jerusalem?”

“Yes,” Judas answered. “Because it is here that what is bound to happen must happen.”

“That’s right; the Lord’s flames will start from here. I can no longer sleep. I wake with a start in the middle of the night and look at the sky. Hasn’t it opened yet? Aren’t the flames flowing down? Daylight comes and I run to the Temple, speak, threaten, point to the sky, command, beseech, invoke the fire to descend. But my voice is always lost. The heavens remain closed, mute and tranquil above me. And then suddenly one day ...”

His voice broke. Judas leaned on top of him in order to hear but could detect only stifled breathing and the rattling of Jesus’ teeth.

“Go on! Go on!” Judas gasped.

Jesus caught his breath and continued. “One day as I was lying all alone on the top of Golgotha, the prophet Isaiah rose up in my mind—no, no, not in my mind: I saw his entire body in front of me on the rocks of Golgotha, and he was holding a goatskin sewn up and inflated, and it looked just like the black he-goat I met in the desert. There were letters on the hide. ‘Read!’ he commanded, stretching out the goatskin in the air in front of me. But as I heard the voice, prophet and goat disappeared and only the letters remained—in the air, black with red capitals.”

Jesus lifted his eyes into the light. He had turned pale. He squeezed Judas’s arm and clung to him. “There they are!” he whispered, terrified. “They’ve filled the air!”

“Read!” said Judas, who was also trembling.

Panting, Jesus began hoarsely to spell out the words. The letters were like living beasts: he hunted them and they resisted. Continually wiping away his sweat, he read: “’He has borne our faults; he was wounded for our transgressions; our iniquities bruised him. He was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth. Despised and rejected by all, he went forward without resisting, like a lamb that is led to the slaughter.’ ”

Jesus spoke no more. He had turned deathly pale.

“I don’t understand,” said Judas, standing still and shifting the pebbles with his big toe. “Who is the lamb being led to slaughter? Who is going to die?”

“Judas,” Jesus slowly answered, “Judas, brother, I am the one who is going to die.”

“You?” said Judas, recoiling. “Then aren’t you the Messiah?”

“I am.”

“I don’t understand!” Judas repeated, and he lacerated his toe on the stones.

“Don’t shout, Judas. This is the way. For the world to be saved, I, of my own will, must die. At first I didn’t understand it myself. God sent me signs in vain: sometimes visions in the air, sometimes dreams in my sleep; or the goat’s carcass in the desert with all the sins of the people around its neck. And since the day I quit my mother’s house, a shadow has followed behind me like a dog or at times has run in front to show me the road. What road? The Cross!”

Jesus threw a lingering glance around him. Behind him was Jerusalem, a mountain of brilliantly white skulls; in front of him, rocks and a few silver-leafed olive trees and black cedars. The sun, filled with blood, had begun to set.

Judas was uprooting hairs from his beard and tossing them away. He had expected a different Messiah, a Messiah with a sword, a Messiah at whose cry all the generations of the dead would fly out of their tombs in the valley of Joshaphat and mix with the living. The horses and camels of the Jews would be resuscitated at the same time, and all—infantry and cavalry—would flow forth to slaughter the Romans. And the Messiah would sit on the throne of David with the Universe as a cushion under his feet, for him to step on. This, this was the Messiah Judas Iscariot had expected. And now ...

He looked fiercely at Jesus and bit his lips to prevent an unkind word from escaping them. He began again to shift the pebbles, this time with his heels. Jesus saw him and pitied him.

“Take courage, Judas, my brother,” he said, sweetening his voice. “I have done so. There is no other way: this is the road.”

“And afterward?” asked Judas, staring at the rocks.

“I shall return in all my glory to judge the living and the dead.”

“When?”

“Many of the present generation will not die before they have seen me.

“Let’s go!” said Judas. He increased his pace. Jesus panted behind him, toiling to keep up. The sun was at last about to tumble down behind the mountains of Judea. Far away, from the Dead Sea, the first wakening jackals could be heard.

Judas rolled on ahead, bellowing. Within him was an earthquake: everything falling away. He had no faith in death—that seemed to him the worst road of all; resurrected Lazarus, who appeared to him deader and filthier than all the dead, made him nauseous; and the Messiah himself—how could he possibly manage in this fight with Charon? ... No, no, Judas had no faith in death as a way.

He turned. He wanted to object, to throw out the grave words which were burning on his tongue. Perhaps they would make Jesus change his route and not go by way of death. As he turned, however, he uttered a cry of terror. An immense shadow fell from Jesus’ body. It was not the shadow of a man but of a huge cross. He grasped Jesus’ hand. “Look!” he said, pointing.

Jesus shuddered. “Quiet, Judas, my brother. Do not speak.”

And thus, silently, arm in arm, they began to mount the gentle incline to Bethany. Jesus’ knees sagged and Judas held him up. They did not speak. Once Jesus leaned over, picked up a warm stone and held it for a long time tightly in his palm. Was this a stone, or the hand of some beloved man? He looked around him. All the soil, which had died during the winter: how it sprouted grass now, how it blossomed!

“Judas, my brother,” he said, “do not be sad. Look how the wheat comes to the earth; how God sends rain and the earth swells and the ears of grain rise from the foamy soil to feed mankind. If the grain of wheat did not die, would the ears ever be resurrected? It is the same with the Son of man.”

But Judas was not consoled. Without speaking, he continued to climb. The sun fell behind the mountains; the night rose up from the soil. The first lamps were already flickering at the top of the hill.

“Remember Lazarus ...” Jesus said. But Judas felt nauseated and hurried on, spitting.

Martha lighted the lamp. Lazarus put his hand in front of his eyes—the light still wounded him. Peter took Matthew by the arm and the two of them sat down under the lamp. Old Salome had found a bundle of black fleece and was spinning, thinking of her two sons. My goodness, would the day never come when she would see them in their splendor, a ribbon of gold in their hair, and when the whole lake of Gennesaret would be theirs? ...

Magdalene had started down the path. The teacher was late. Her suffering was so intense, she seemed no longer able to fit into the house, and she had gone down the road in the hope of meeting her beloved. The disciples, squatting in the yard, glanced out of the corners of their eyes at the street door and did not speak. Anger was still boiling inside them. The whole house was peaceful, not a breath could be heard. It was just the moment for Peter, who had been longing for days to see what the publican wrote in his notebook each evening. Tonight, after his quarrel with the others, he could wait no longer: he had to know what Matthew said about him. These scribblers were a shameless lot and he had better take care he was not being ridiculed for future generations. If Matthew dared do such a thing, he would throw the book—pen and all—into the fire. Yes, this very evening! ... He took the publican’s arm cajolingly and the two of them knelt down under the lamp.

“Read to me please, Matthew,” he requested. “If you must know, I want to learn what you write about the teacher.”

Matthew was delighted to hear this. He slowly removed the notebook from its position next to his breast. He had just wrapped it in an embroidered lady’s kerchief presented him by Lazarus’s sister Mary. Now he carefully unwrapped it as though it were something alive and wounded. He opened it. His body began to pitch forward and back; he gathered momentum and started, half reading half chanting, to recite:

“ ‘The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham. Abraham begot Isaac. And Isaac begot Jacob. And Jacob begot Judas and his brothers. And Judas begot Phares and Zara ...’ ”

Peter closed his eyes and listened. The generations of the Hebrews passed before him: from Abraham to David, fourteen generations; from David to the Babylonian captivity, fourteen generations; from the Babylonian captivity to Christ, fourteen generations. ... What a multitude, what an innumerable, immortal army! And what immense joy, what pride to be one of the Jews! Peter inclined his head against the wall and listened. The generations marched by, reached the time of Jesus. Peter listened. How many miracles had taken place, and he had never even had a whiff of them! So ... Jesus was born at Bethlehem, and his father was not Joseph the Carpenter but was the Holy Spirit, and three Magi had come and worshiped him; and at the Baptism, what were those words thrown down from heaven by the dove? He, Peter, had not heard them. Who told them to Matthew, who wasn’t even there? Little by little Peter no longer heard the words; he heard only a lulling music, monotonous and sad—and then, gently, he fell asleep. There, in his sleep, he heard both music and words with perfect clarity. Each word seemed to him in his sleep like a pomegranate—like those pomegranates he had eaten the year before at Jericho. They burst open in the air and from inside flew out sometimes flames, sometimes angels, wings and trumpets. ...

Suddenly in the deep sweetness of sleep he heard a tumult of happy cries. He awoke with a start. In front of him he saw Matthew, still reading, the notebook on his knees. He remembered, felt ashamed at having fallen asleep, flew into the publican’s arms, and kissed him on the mouth.

“Forgive me, Brother Matthew,” he said, “but while I was listening to you I entered Paradise.”

Jesus appeared at the door, followed by Magdalene. She was radiant with joy. Flames flew from her lips, eyes and bare neck. When Jesus saw Peter hugging and kissing the publican, his expression sweetened. He pointed to the two embracing men. “That,” he said, “is the kingdom of heaven.”

He approached Lazarus, who attempted to rise. But his loins creaked and he was afraid they would break. He sat down again. Extending his arm, he touched Jesus’ hand with his fingertips. Jesus shuddered. Lazarus’s hand was extremely cold, and black, and it smelled of soil.

Jesus went out again into the yard in order to breathe. This resurrected man still tottered between life and death. God had not yet been able to conquer the rottenness within him. Never had death shown its true strength as it did in this man. Jesus was overcome with fear and intense sadness.

Old Salome, her distaff under her arm, approached him and stood on tiptoe to whisper secretly in his ear. “Rabbi,” she began.

He bent over to hear her. “Speak, Salome.”