Judas (18 page)
The next day dawned crisp and clear. Cool morning air carried the fragrance of anemones and the promise of better things to come. The city stirred even though it lacked an hour before shops opened. I had a few things to purchase and some followers to visit in the city. When I finished, I went to find Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Sanhedrin and one of our supporters. Jesus did not tell me the depth of his commitment. I do not think he even asked. Jesus trusted him and, therefore, so must I. I did wonder if he had read my letters, if he were one of the anonymous insiders.
I located him standing among a small group in the shadows of Solomon’s Porch. A group of lawyers and Pharisees were disputing about divorce and adultery, a conversation I did not wish to hear. They had no idea what life was like for those of us who were the consequence of such a union. For them, it made no difference whether a person fell or was pushed, there must be punishment, and because of the sin of Eve, it must be meted out to the woman first and only sometimes to the man. I do not know which caused me the greatest anguish in my childhood, these self-righteous upholders of the Law or Rome. These men thought like donkeys.
I made my presence known to Joseph and stood to one side and waited. If men were assigned to animal families, Joseph would be an eagle. With his hawk-like nose and piercing eyes, he could pose for the crest on a legion standard. He wore robes that marked him as a man of stature and substance. With his straight back, white beard, and angular features, he seemed taller than he really was.
When he’d heard enough, he walked away and, with a tilt of his head, motioned to me to follow. He did not want to be seen with me, at least not on the Temple Mount, not in public. When we cleared the temple, he slowed so that I could catch up and then we walked together, speaking in low voices as we elbowed through the crowd.
“Does Rabbi Jesus have a message for me?”
“He said to tell you he would arrive later today and there would be a task you would not like, but you must do.”
“Task? What sort of task?”
“He said only that it would not be easy for you and you might be called on to defend him and you should not be afraid.”
“Defend him from what? Against whom…when? Afraid of what? Was that all?”
I shrugged. We passed a stall selling fruit, some of it overripe. The aroma of rotting fruit had attracted flies and wasps. The flies did not discriminate between the fruit and passersby. The wasps concentrated on the sweet pulp. We hurried by swatting at flies while avoiding stirring up the wasps.
“Tell your master to be careful. There will trouble this Passover.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Pilate made it clear any disturbance this year, no matter how slight, would be dealt with severely. He is angrier than usual. He is capable of butchering anyone for even the slightest infraction. He has done it in the past and will again. And if that weren’t enough, Barabbas has been taken into custody.”
Barabbas in custody? That thief, that fraud, I wished I had brought him in. Good for the Romans. Today, I would hate them a little less.
“What has that to do with us?”
He spun around and looked at me, angry, then continued down the street. “His followers are in the city. They will stir up trouble. When the soldiers respond, they will take everyone and anyone they think could be a problem. They will not discriminate between Barabbas’ people, the Siccori, Zealots, or you Galileans.”
“Galileans?”
“Your people. His disciples. Don’t you know?”
“I have never heard us called that.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, less angry now. “It is because so many of you are from that part of the country. Those who oppose you, the Sanhedrin and the High Priests, Caiaphas, and even old Annas, many powerful Pharisees, and most of the temple establishment—all of them constantly remind the prefect of the uprising in Sepphoris twenty years ago, the one he helped put down, as it happens. You won’t remember. It happened before you were born, but Rabbi Jesus will.”
I did not know why that failed rebellion surfaced so often in conversations and reminiscences. Jews are never far from their history. Rebellion rose up in the Galilee; Jesus came from the Galilee; therefore, there would be more uprisings in the Galilee, and Jesus must be part of a great Galilean plot. The movement against him would use anything, even that bit of specious reasoning, to bring him down. I wished such a conspiracy did exist. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Good.”
The old man spun on his heel and looked at me, puzzled.
“Good?” he said. “What could be good about that?”
“Sorry. Good that Barabbas has been put in prison,” I said, covering my foolish outburst. “He is a danger to everything we are trying to accomplish.”
“Yes, well, tell Rabbi Jesus to be very careful, to be discreet.”
After a moment I asked, “Is there any talk in the Sanhedrin of support for Jesus, a small group, possibly?”
“Support for Jesus? Except for me and Nicodemas, there is no support for him at all. Quite the opposite, he is a major thorn in Caiaphas’ side and the sycophants who surround him. That is why your master must be doubly careful. If they thought they could get away with it, they would happily turn him over to the prefect. They are offering large sums to anyone willing to testify against him. It is a very dangerous time. No, tell him not to look to the Sanhedrin for anything but trouble.”
Somehow his words, though I heard them clearly, failed to register.
As our conversation unfolded, we moved steadily through the city streets. He barely acknowledged the salutes accorded him from those who recognized him. He stopped suddenly, turned, and stared at me as though he had never really seen me and wanted a good look.
“I must prepare myself to do a service for Rabbi Jesus that I will find difficult and distasteful. Is that the gist?”
“Yes, in so many words.”
He nodded absently and melted into the crowd. I had my answer, but it troubled me. Why was he, of all people, not included in the group that contacted me? Surely they would know his sympathies. On the other hand, if they were unwilling to align themselves openly with Jesus, they would be reluctant to affiliate openly with Joseph. Satisfied, I returned to trying to figure out who the others might be, unwilling to consider any possibilities except those I most wished for.
Our steps had taken us to the Gannath Gate. The street teemed with people and soldiers pushing them back from the center of the street. Others handed out flowers, boughs, and coins. I turned to the man next to me.
“What is this?”
“Pilate is coming.”
Soldiers made me nervous, our Roman overlord and his entourage, more so. I began to sidle away.
“Stay, stay,” the man said and tugged at my sleeve. “They will give you money to cheer for the prefect and throw flowers in his path. It is easy money. See, he comes up from Joppa with all his baggage, through the gate over there, and marches to the Praetorium.” He gave me a toothless grin. “Easy money.”
I stepped back to the wall. I wished to see but not be seen. Preparation for Passover meant streets cleared of trash and detritus. Unlike many of the empire’s cities, Jerusalem has no great sewer to manage the waste of its thousands of citizens. Instead, it is channeled along the streets through drains and into one of the wadis leading eastward. When the rains come, the accumulated filth washes down to the Salt Sea. Until that relief arrives, the wadi and, eventually, the city suffers from its stench. If it gets too bad, water from Pilate’s aqueduct can be diverted into the morass and the worst of it sent streaming away.
Into this malodorous city, the prefect, the mighty Pilate, had to pass on his way to the Antonia Fortress. His presence remained a constant and important reminder of Roman authority and a warning to any who would challenge it. It was one of the few times during the year he visited Jerusalem, preferring the sun, the sea, and the familiar pagan culture of Caesarea Maritima.
A wagon filled with boughs of aromatic balsam and juniper appeared at the top of the street. Soldiers passed out the boughs. Another wagon appeared and then another, flowers, palms, and fir to be distributed to the crowd. People were told to lay them in the road when the prefect and his party arrived, each given a coin to assure they did as they were told. I took some boughs and the shekel. After all, money is money.
Soon I heard the blare of brass trumpets from the gate, drowning out the ram’s horns from the temple. Then I heard the thunder of drums. I looked to my left. Legionnaires, in lockstep, marched to their beat.
Two hundreds from the Italian cohort stationed in the city—my clients from the shekel exchange—commanded by their centurions, led the way. More drums thundered. Standards of each unit passed by, streaming with ribbons designating battles fought, battles won. As they approached, we threw our boughs in their path. Three additional hundreds—soldiers from Caesarea—followed. More standards flashed, more banners fluttered, and more boughs and flowers were thrown. The sun hovered low in the east, but bright enough to light this spectacle. Greaves and the legionnaires’ heavy soled sandals shone from grease and polishing. Their burnished shields glittered, and I was momentarily transported back to my childhood.
Two dozen chariots clattered down the street, each drawn by three of the tall horses from Scythia and manned by spear throwers and drivers. Horses snorted and pranced. People, at the prompting of the soldiers in our midst, began shouting.
“Hail to Pilate. Hail to the one who comes in the name of Caesar.”
The soldiers’ sandals, the horses’ hooves, and the bronze-covered wheels of the chariots crushed the boughs. Soon the stench of the city was cloaked by the fragrance of fir, balsam, and flowers. Next, a train of enclosed wagons lumbered down the street. I guessed they contained dignitaries and their wives. More soldiers and chariots followed. Finally the prefect himself appeared, the famous Pilate, astride a white horse with saddlery and harness of polished black leather and gold studding.
“Hosanna, hosanna, blessings to the one who comes in the name of the Lord Caesar.”
I knew him. I had seen him somewhere, but where? Memory failed me.
What a spectacle. I never saw anything like it—flowers, palm branches and sweet balsam, drums, soldiers, trumpets, all the panoply of Roman power and hubris, the Roman Empire on display. Even in this backwater province, this display of might, however meager by the standards of the capitol, made clear to anyone with a glimmer of intelligence that you engaged Rome at your peril.
I suppose these simple people found it exciting. Certainly it was impressive, but it depressed me. How could we ever defeat these people? Who could stand against all of that? Not Judas. Not the Galilee’s fishermen, not even with Zealots and Assassins combined. In the face of that display, I knew then that all I dreamed, all I hoped for, had no more substance than smoke.
The eye-watering smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily across the Kidron Valley, forming a blue haze in the heavy afternoon air was as irritating as Barabbas’ cave. Experienced pilgrims learned early to arrive in the city, days in advance of holidays, to stake out a claim on the heights. Latecomers had to endure the smoke and the waste that inevitably drifted downhill. The hills already bustled with people. In another three days, you would not be able to discern a hint of green where a bush might have been. Shelters would be packed together like pebbles on a beach.
Legionnaires worsened the tensions created by this flood of people. Groups of two or three moved through the throngs, which ebbed and flowed like a huge tidal basin, into the city and out. Nerves eventually frayed and hard words followed. Words led to fists, fists to clubs, and clubs to soldiers. Men were led away, and whether they would ever see their families again was, at best, uncertain. In the midst of it all, a thousand voices, speaking in dozens of tongues, babbled on, punctuated by the sharp bleating of calves, sheep, and the bright laughter of children.
Zealots and the followers of people like Barabbas drifted through the encampments preaching rebellion. Here and there, a would-be prophet chanted bits from the Isaiah scroll and called for the Messiah to deliver us. The air crackled like it does just before thunder and lightning strikes. It made my skin feel tight.
I found a narrow path that zigzagged up the slope. Apparently, even in their push to secure a good space, people had enough sense to leave a pathway to and from the city and the temple. But even so, I had to pick my way carefully to the top of the hill. Children tumbled past me, their shrill voices filling the air. Mothers called after them to stay close, and for pity’s sake, keep away from the soldiers. Good advice, that.
Nearly out of breath and late, I arrived at the top of the hill overlooking the Kidron and found Jesus and the others. I told him about our arrangements, including the animal he requested. I repeated Joseph’s warning. I put particular emphasis on the obvious, that there might be trouble stemming from any of several quarters and he should be very discreet while in the city.
“Discreet?” he laughed. “Have you ever known me to be discreet, Judas? We do not constrain the Father’s will. The High Priest and his party do that. We are here to renew the Covenant. It cannot be twisted about to please just those who are frightened or too comfortable. Look around you. People are hungry, and the rich, who could do something about it, turn away. People are thrown off their land by their neighbors and are left to stand idly in the marketplaces while their families starve. They are crushed by taxes to build the temple. People are trampled by the selfishness of their neighbors. The Romans are not the enemy—we are killing our own. And for this Joseph says, ‘Be discreet?’” I had no answer to the obvious. Still, I worried.
Jesus summoned Philip and Simon and directed them to fetch the donkey tethered to a ring in the wall a few paces from the path which led down from the Mount of Olives toward the temple. In a few minutes they returned, leading the pitiful animal. Jesus mounted. His legs were so long, he had to bend his knees like a man riding a camel so his feet did not drag on the ground. We all smiled at the sight.
Then he clucked and rode down the hill toward the Golden Gate. He motioned us to follow. Seven preceded and the rest followed. We made an odd procession, zigzagging our way between the tents, the smoke, and the noise. At first, the crowd gaped. Some, for reasons I could not fathom, cheered, then, amazingly, put their garments in our path and strewed palm branches in our way. There were no flowers or balsam on this barren, crowded hillside to ease the stench of a thousand people, but the pilgrims had palm fronds with them for bedding and they used them to mark our passing.
Then it began. “Hosanna, hosanna in the highest. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
Some, from the north, from the Galilee and the area around the Decapolis, knew him, but most did not. They came for Passover from all over the empire, from Greece and Cilicia, from the area around the Gaza and southward to Egypt and the coast of Africa. A few came from as far away as Rome itself.
Passover draws curiosity seekers, pagans from around the world—the God-fearers. They stared, too. Some recognized the procession, meager as it was, as a thing they had witnessed elsewhere, part of the Osiris and Bacchus stories of their childhood. Gods made entrances. They announced themselves that way. So did conquerors, kings, and always, Romans. And now—Jesus. Many laughed. They assumed Jesus was putting on a show for them, creating a bit of theater, a comedy and making fun of the pretentious Romans. They did not often get a chance to laugh at imperial power. Others, I suspect, laughed because they saw something they thought was plainly ridiculous. A great, tall man sitting on a colt, knees tucked up and riding serenely down the hill. For them, it was a charade, a farce.
I lagged behind, embarrassed. He was making us look like fools. Someone blew a ram’s horn and the onlookers laughed even harder.
“Hosanna,” someone cried. “Hosanna in the highest.”
My face grew as red as my hair. I lagged even more. No one could topple an empire with a dumb-show like this. He made a parody of the parade I’d witnessed just hours earlier. Jesus was no fool. If he did this thing, he did it for a reason. Did he fancy himself equal to one of the gentiles’ gods? In the midst of this hilarity, I saw a significant number taking it seriously, the ones we’d seen over these last several months, the ones who cheered, and danced, and sang at the feasts on the hill, the people Jesus called “the salt of the earth.” The hillside began to buzz and the cheering increased.
“Make him stop,” one man pleaded. As if I could.
I knew the power of Rome first hand. They are not a light-hearted race, not when it comes to ridicule and, whether Jesus intended it or not, they would take it as such. That meant trouble.
We had never received the support of so many people before. Loud and boisterous crowds flocked to us. The day before, dozens, perhaps hundreds, stopped Jesus to say a word, or just be near him. I did not count those cheering on the hillside during his ride into the city. Where they stood and how they might respond would remain a mystery as far as I was concerned. Yet I could not shake the feeling of imminent disaster. I had the same malaise I experienced that awful day when the Greek decided to show his statue.
***
After the fiasco of our entry into the city, I assumed it only a matter of time before someone came to arrest us, or we would be on the run. It seemed likely the officials from the Praetorium or the palace would be looking for us. To my amazement, nothing happened. The other disciples seemed excited. Philip scolded me for being a skeptic.
“You are as cheerful as Saul at Michael’s wedding,” he said.
I tried to explain what I feared from our critics. I described the pomp and power of Pilate’s entry and how some, maybe many, would compare the two and how they might take it to be a gesture of disrespect, a bit of Greek comedy played out in the hillside. No one listened. Was I the only one that saw these things?
“You understood about the feast, but you don’t understand about prophecy—the Messiah is to come up to Jerusalem riding a white colt and entering the city from the east, through the Golden Gate. So, it wasn’t as grand as we hoped. It was enough. Many understood, even if you didn’t. It’s like the fish and the bread.”
This from Thomas who, if I were to guess, would have ordinarily dismissed the event as comedy, something the world had in short supply as far as he was concerned.
