Iscariot: A Novel of Judas (31 page)

We had all changed.

Late that evening, I went to the bandit who was also named Jesus.

"We are going to Jerusalem for Passover. The time is nearly here."

He took this in with somber eyes. "How will he do it--how will he make himself known so that they believe? How will he force Caiaphas to proclaim him king?"

"I don't know," I said.

In my dreams I had seen the new Maccabee riding into Jerusalem with an army. I had seen him fighting his way to the Temple. But I knew Jesus would not do it that way; he never did anything the way I thought he would.

The bandit's brows drew together, and I found myself speaking before he could voice his concern.

"He will do as he does. If there is any man who can accomplish this thing, it is he. He raised a man four days dead. Do you think he did it only to bring a friend back to life? You heard what

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he said: 'So others will believe.' The prophet has said that flesh will be knit back onto the dry bones of the people. What sign do you require?"

I felt an immense peace saying this. It came over me as I spoke, and if I hadn't been aware exactly what I would say at the beginning, I was fully convinced of the truth of the words by the time I finished.

"What should we do?"

"Keep my master safe. Send your men ahead of us into the city to see what they may learn."

THEY CAME DOWN, ALL of them, through the Jordan Valley. The family of James and John including Old Zebedee their father. James and Solome and Little Mary, the siblings of Jesus. And Mary, his mother with the uncanny eyes. Susanna, who cried every time she greeted and every time she left the Magdalene. Chuza, Joanna's husband, who was the steward of Herod, came with new coin for the moneybag, confirming to us that Herod would

seize Jesus as soon as the feast was over.

There was a thrum, an unspoken thread of expectation that grew tighter and stronger with each pilgrim or family member who came to join us. Men came down from Galilee--not pilgrims but men from the hills. More bandits, concealing their swords.

We set out two weeks before Passover. We walked as those in a daze, as those who are astonished, caught between dread vigilance and hope.

Simon glanced at me once that day as we traveled, not speaking, but I saw the question in his eyes so clearly:

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Can it be?

I hadn't dared allow myself to hope. But that day my heart cried out: Yes! It is!

It must be!

For three years we had flailed at every opportunity--crying out in the storm, or at the lack of food for so many. And we had been rebuked for our lack of faith each time. How could this be any different?

THIS TIME WE DID not travel in obscurity or quietly. We filled the towns to the roof with our number. We preached by the side of the road, shouting about the coming kingdom. During the day, I felt invincible, tireless.

But at night, the Accuser whispered in my ear.

Tinderbox.

They will kill him.

We went on to the next town, and the next, our numbers increasing as we went, like mud sliding off the side of a mountain in a storm, taking the entire hillside with it.

I tried to gauge the expression of James, Jesus' brother. I saw the way his eyes flickered to Jesus. It was the way one keeps watch on a wild thing, not knowing if it will stay tame or attack those around it.

What if we're wrong? What if we march only to our deaths?

I couldn't withstand this anymore. None of us could. Kingdom or death, one or the other. It was time.

"Master, you must sleep more, and eat, or you will not have the strength to come into your power," I said as the thirteen of us sat 265

together late at night. He was drawn and paler than I had seen him in weeks, but that is not why I said it.

I said it to provoke a response, eager for one small word that I might construe as confirmation of hope.

"Listen to what I'm saying," he said as though he hadn't heard my admonition at all. I almost repeated what I had said, if only to make him acknowledge it, anxiety welling up within me at this small thing as though the fate of the world rested on a single word.

"We're listening," John said. Beside him, Simon, Peter, and James looked between themselves as men who prepare to jump off a cliff, looking for courage, wondering if they will survive the leap.

"The son of man is going to be delivered to the chief priests and teachers of the law." He glanced at me and away. His next words came as though from a distance. "They'll condemn him to death and hand him over to the Gentiles, who will mock and spit on him, flog and kill him."

I blinked at him, barely hearing the words over the frustrated drum of my heart.

No. Not that again! Not now.

Peter's brows drew together, but he did not speak. None of us did.

"Three days later, he wil rise."

When he had left us to pray, James stared at us. "I've never understood this parable," he said.

"Perhaps . . ." Matthew licked his lips, which were parched and peeling.

"Perhaps it is not a parable."

"The third day--he means that something will happen on the third day,"

James said. "Passover is a holiday of seven days. Something will happen in the middle of it."

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"He'll be challenged by the chief priests," I said. "But it's a test, as the storm was a test. We all thought we would die, but our master stood up at the last minute and calmed the waters and the wind. How much less is it to calm the mouth of Caiaphas?"

Uneasy laughter.

"Perhaps that's it," Peter said.

"They nearly stoned him the last time we were there," James said.

"And would you have predicted that we would have stayed on as long as we did, and then left with our lives?"

"No. I thought we were dead men."

Quiet, and the nodding of heads.

I was convinced of the truth of my words. Persuaded, too, that though I couldn't conceive of an act greater than raising a man from the grave, I had yet to see his greatest sign.

"We wouldn't believe now what he'll accomplish during Passover if he told us. This, I am certain."

We were gathering a multitude to surpass that of any that had followed Jesus so far. Soon he would have no choice.

He must announce his kingship successfully . . .

Or he would die.

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That night, I penned what would be my last coded message: You said he should return when he was ready. The time has come. Be ready at Passover.

That same night I fished one of the diminishing coins from the moneybag and sent the message ahead.

There. It was done.

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There was a ruckus ahead, just outside the gate of Jericho. A man was shouting, grabbing at those that passed closest to him.

"Jesus son of David, have mercy!"

Jesus stopped. "Who is calling me?"

He calls him the son of David, and my master says, "Who is calling me?"

Even a blind man sees.

I stood by as my master bent over him, knowing that he would not stop without healing him, that he could not help but heal him.

We entered the city as triumphantly as Joshua. Even the Pharisees and the elders stood back, starkly amazed at the spectacle of the crowd singing and telling the story of the man who was blind--the same man who was now dancing ahead of us like David himself, yelling and shouting to the sky.

"Isn't that Blind Bartimaeus?" I heard someone say.

I laughed. I threw back my head and laughed, having forgotten the sound, the feel of it vibrating up through my throat like its own kind of honey.

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Next to me, Simon was singing in a very loud voice. Peter clasped him around the shoulders, singing with him, and James and John boomed out

with them.

I had resented their closeness to my master those days in the northern territory of Philip, but in that moment, I forgave them. I could forgive them anything. I could even give up the seat on the left or right of my master if either had ever been mine to give up--anything, to have him, and them, and all of us near. My heart was filled with gratitude.

I felt the familiar pang; I missed my time alone with Jesus, the way we had it in those early days. But soon there would be time for us to contemplate the evening sky together once more, for me to remark on the strange familiarity on his face when he studied the stars, as one looks at something vaguely remembered from a dream.

For now there were the crowds, and the singing and chanting of "Hosanna, Hosanna!" as something inside me welled and threatened to burst. More than once I had to lower my head, the sun in my eyes too bright, the moment too full, the promises I had wished for, dreamt of, and abandoned in my greatest desperation, too beautiful.

Fall down, Jericho.

THE THRONG BORE US all the way to Bethany. We were held aloft by the singing of the hymns, the shouts, the laughter and games of the children darting out and between the pilgrims. It seemed like we hardly walked, our feet never touching dirt or stone, so that at one moment we bobbed in this ocean of pilgrims ... and the next we looked up to realize that Jericho was far behind us and here were 270 the first houses of Bethany as though they had come to us, rather than we to them.

We entered the house of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus with laughter and kisses. The Sabbath followed us in. I found myself staring at Lazarus, who looked as sun-darkened and hale as ever, as though he had never been sick in his life, let alone in the grave four days. He clasped Jesus, his head bowing against my master's shoulder, his tears falling on my master's neck as Jesus held him close.

"Ah, Lazarus," Jesus said. The look on his face was not one of comfort but of gratitude, as though he were not the one who had delivered him from the grave, but the one who had received him from it as surely as Martha and Mary had.