Judas (8 page)
I heard ringing of bronze wheels and the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and warning cries from passersby just as a chariot bore down on me. I leapt aside and felt the rush of air as a lunatic boy nearly ran me down.
“Out of the way, Jew,” the driver, who looked to be about twelve, bawled and cracked his whip in my general direction. I had not come all this way to be run over by some beardless Latin youth with too much money and too little sense. I shook my fist and sent a Corinthian curse at the charioteer’s back. My introduction to Scythopolis.
Romans have no more regard for us than for animals. No, that is not correct. They hold their animals in higher esteem. Their horses and dogs are groomed and well fed. Their slaves and servants must compete with them for scraps of food. I once watched a Roman, a man of some standing, use one of his slaves to train his watchdog to attack. The slave was mauled and died. The Roman had the slave’s body dragged away and ordered a reward for the dog.
Scythopolis or Nyssa-Scythopolis gets its name, I learned, from a Greek nymph who took care of the wine god. Why the Romans wanted a town named for that, I cannot imagine, but then, who can explain Rome? The locals call it Beth Shan
,
which means Secure House. Secure from what, I do not know. As long as Rome rules, there is only Roman security, and it seems those who claim lineage from Abraham must be content with that. Bands of raiders, those who preach rebellion, are turned in to the authorities by their own countrymen. Rome learned long ago that hunger provides spies and traitors. They maintain hunger by keeping the country taxed into poverty. That is our security.
As they did with nearly everything, the Romans made Scythopolis their own. They are not a people given to creativity. They take from others and bend it to their peculiar vision. Their genius lies in conquest and, in that, they are ruthless, predictable, and immensely successful. They will, if need be, destroy whole cities in a single day. That does not leave much in the way of choices for the rest of us.
Throughout my journey across Galilee, I heard rumors of men gathering in the wilderness, of bands collecting weapons and men, of raids on Roman camps. My grandfather’s legacy, I thought. The men came primarily from the Galilee and south, down toward Gaza. Ragged bands that come together to attack legionnaires. They dart in and out of the wilderness, destroying a patrol here, stealing weapons or food there, and disappearing just as quickly. I planned to contribute to that effort. I had enough money to arm and supply such a band of men and lead it. I would be as merciless as any Roman.
I believed that eventually Rome would tire of the killing and lash out, not just at bands of raiders, but at everyone. Then those stiff-necked people would stop cowering in the dust and rise up like their ancestors before them and fight back. I dreamed of a day when all the dark dangerous men, soldiers, hangers-on, and tax farmers would finally be paid back for what they did to Dinah, Mother; did to all the women and children they left broken, homeless, and humiliated. And if the house of Leonides wished to take me, well, they must find me first.
Of course, many Jews would be slaughtered in the process, but I did not see that as my concern. What did I care about the Jews? People like me, the unaccepted and unclaimed, forced by their law to live as strangers among them, we are but a minor irritation, a flea in their tunic. I, on the other hand, cared only that hundreds of Roman soldiers would die in the process. Or so I told myself. It is easy to be brave in the abstract. Reality is another thing entirely, as I was about to discover.
***
Every Roman city I ever visited had a road running straight through it, the Straight Street. But Sycthopolis is different. Maybe the Greeks laid it out this way, or perhaps the Roman designer who came later to reset it had a sense of humor, or was too devoted to Bacchus to care. The street that ought to bisect this city had a right angle turn at its very center. It appeared so unexpectedly, the hubs of a thousand chariots turning the corner too sharply had chipped and scraped the curbstone into roundness.
Columned porticos and wide esplanades lined both sides of its
cardo
. The eastern portion of the road boasted a long reflecting pool lined by a colonnaded
stoa
. People could walk out of the way of the wheels of carts and the mad dashing of chariots. Colorful awnings fluttered between columns, and vendors hawked their wares. If I had not set my course as an agent of death, I might have settled there. But the stars were set in their courses, and so was I.
“Meet a man at the turning of the road,” my counterfeit fisherman had said. Well, there was little doubt about where I needed to be. After my near fatal encounter with the chariot, I found a spot at the right angle turn and waited, watching people parade by, Romans in their long and short togas. Even the poorest of them had an air of prosperity. I don’t think I ever saw a hungry Roman. The Greeks, on the other hand, looked a little seedy, I suppose because there had not been one of their race to amount to much since the great Alexander. Rome appropriated their culture, their gods, and their soul.
“You, Red Hair…yes, you.”
The man appeared beside me, dressed like any of the hundreds of traders and travelers who crowded the street, unmistakably an Israelite. He motioned me to follow him. Surely, I thought, this must be the man. I followed him south along the main street, past the theater on my left and the baths on the right. Soon, we were walking south into the country away from the city’s noise and confusion. We passed a great spring that gushed from the hillside. It appeared to be the city’s only water source. It poured out from between two great boulders in the hillside and ran into the city in a shallow aqueduct. If I could find a way to shut off the water, I could defeat an entire city, a wonderful thought. I would share it with Barabbas when I met him, which I hoped would be soon.
“You,” I called to the man who was leading me away from the city, “where are you taking me?”
He did not reply but flapped his arms about as if to say, be quiet and hurry. I increased my pace but I could not catch up. After an hour he was so far ahead of me I feared I would lose him. I started to call out again when he stopped suddenly and sat. As I approached he motioned for me to sit, too.
“Why are we sitting? I am certainly grateful for the rest, but…”
“Sit…eyes down,” he growled between clenched teeth. I did as he ordered. No sooner had I tucked my sandals under me than I heard the noise of a large body of marching men. At first only the clank and jingle of metal against metal, then the glint of sunlight on short swords, shields, and helmets slung on straps over shoulders, the tramp of feet shod with the heavy leather and bronze fitted leggings, the sounds of burden bearers, camp followers, heavy breathing, grunts, and conversation as they approached.
They were just over the rise and as I lowered my head, they were on us. A centurion led a full Roman hundred north to Sycthopolis. I did not want to catch anyone’s eye. I could be forced to carry their goods for the required mile and that would end any chance I had to meet Barabbas. We let them pass and then continued our breakneck pace southward, down the valley and along the King’s Highway to the Jordan.
We traveled at that crazy pace all day and the next. My joints throbbed and my muscles felt like knotted cords, but as we walked, they loosened, the pain subsided, and I found it easier to keep up. I reckoned rebel bands in the wilderness must travel like that. To march at such a pace could put a person a great distance from his starting point in the course of only a few hours. A band of raiders moving across the wilderness at such a rate could strike several different points in a day and create the illusion there were two or three different bands instead of just one. I tucked that observation away for future consideration.
We arrived at Elijah’s spring on the edge of Jericho about the sixth hour of our third day. Palm trees circled the well and offered shade to those waiting to fill their jars. The Judean wilderness rose steeply to our right, yellow-brown and arid, shimmering in the heat. Twenty or thirty people waited in line to draw water. My guide moved to the front with his dipper. No one objected. He quickly filled a small pail and brought it to me and we drank. It had been hours since I had any water. After he sipped his share and moved away, I finished the pail.
We rested for only a few moments, then he bounced up and we set off again. All I wanted to do was to stay there in the shade of the palms and rest. What difference would another day make? But when I got my feet under me and started to move I saw my guide already a hundred paces ahead. I hurried after him.
We left Jericho and walked west toward the setting sun and, if I remembered what I had been told, toward Jerusalem. The shadows in the valley soon deepened as the sun fell lower in the western sky.
As we climbed up the Wadi Qelt, my aches and pains returned. I longed to stop. At that instant he veered sharply from the path and motioned for me to sit. We were at a point along an aqueduct where a small leak created a lush green oasis, two palm trees and some soft grass. I collapsed. Never had anything felt so welcome. My guide left me but I did not care. I scooped water from the aqueduct and poured it over my head, washed my hands and feet, and drank.
I looked again for my silent guide. In the brief moment my eyes had wandered away, he’d vanished. I scanned the whole of the horizon, looked back down the valley. No one. Only shadows and silence. The sun dropped behind the western hills and the wilderness turned cold and dark, as though a curtain had been drawn across it.
Bandits and cutthroats of every sort inhabited those parts and while I did not fear them exactly, I was a stranger and alone and not sure what to expect. As I moved deeper into the darkness a rasping voice called, “Over here, Red Hair. Over here.”
I jumped. The voice seemed to be right on top of me, but I saw no one. I peered into the gloom, looking for a clue, a flicker of firelight, anything.
“Now, Red Hair.”
I had no choice. He could see me, but I could not see him, and that meant I had no hope of escape. I followed the sound into the dark and prayed to whatever gods ruled the land that when the sun rose again, I would still be alive. I stepped closer and saw he was waving me into a cave. Hand firm on the hilt of my knife, I stepped forward into either my last night on this earth, or the future I sought and had planned for since I left Caesarea years before.
To this day, I do not know what I expected when I set eyes on the famous Jesus Barabbas—something akin to one of the Greek demigods, I suppose, like Achilles, not quite human and yet, not beyond mortal contact. Maybe I thought this rebel would be a Jewish Alexander the Great or David himself. Whatever possibilities ran through my mind were quickly dashed by the man who crouched before me and who, he announced proudly, was indeed that very famous Jewish rebel and raider.
A small fire flickered in the deep recesses of the cave. I could make out baggage and bales deeper in. Close to its mouth, bundles had been arranged so that no light escaped to betray his presence. The result—a cave filled with smoke. Soon my eyes watered and I rubbed them with my sleeve. He laughed.
“Now you know why the soldiers call us ‘red eyes.’ They think it is because we are mad. It is good they think that, but it is only the smoke.”
I nodded. My eyes adjusted to the light. “There are no others with you?” I asked. I peered into the depths of the cave as hard as I could, but saw nothing that resembled a man, much less a group of them.
“They are here…” he gestured vaguely, “and they are there…you understand how that must be.”
He smiled. His teeth were broken and yellow and his grin looked like a wolf when it has chanced upon a flock of sheep. My hand found the hilt of my knife. He saw the movement and his eyes hardened, but only briefly.
“Do not be afraid, Red Hair,” he said. “There is no need for that. You have been searching for me and now you have found me. Now, you will tell me why you have been seeking Barabbas.” He settled back on his haunches and peered expectantly at me through smoky firelight.
I studied the man. I saw strength in him. Anyone could see that. A sane person would not want to meet him in one of the dark alleys of Corinth. Even hunched over in the gloom he appeared larger than life, swarthy and broad across the chest, his beard long, cut in the fashion of the men of this land, but unkempt and scraggly. His hair had a reddish cast to it. Not red like mine, but rusty. He pulled his torn and dirty cloak around his shoulders and looked like a man on the run, which, of course, he was. I saw no weapons in his belt, no evidence of one on his person, but I had no doubt a short sword or a knife lay somewhere close by.
“I have come to make you an offer,” I said.
“An offer? What sort of offer will this red-haired wanderer make me?” His eyes glazed over, and his expression became unreadable.
“First, I wish to join you in your fight against the Romans.”
“First? There is more?”
“Well, yes, but I wanted to get that part said and agreed to.”
“You wish to join my group of men and fight Romans. You did say Romans?”
“Yes, of course, the Roman legions. I have heard all about you in my travels, in places as far away as Ephesus and beyond.”
“They speak of me, of Barabbas, in these places?” His eyebrows soared.
“Oh, yes, of Barabbas, the man who will drive the Romans out of this land.”
Hearing of his fame so far away brought another frightening smile to his face.
“And you wish to join me in this?”
I felt more confident now. I believed he recognized me as someone who knew things and had been places. I nodded.
“I see. Tell me, have you ever actually killed anyone? A Roman soldier, perhaps, anyone? I ask this only because there are many young men roaming these hills who come to me, their heads filled with dreams of glory, but when the swords are drawn and the legionnaires approach, they disappear into the wilderness as quickly as they came. They go home to their mommas and tell their friends about their campaign in the wilderness with the great Barabbas. You will not be one of those? I only want the men who are ready to risk their lives and to kill. You are a killer, yes?”
I thought about Leonides and the blood on my hands. The authorities in Caesarea believed I killed that man. His family thought I did. I had come to understand that we are what others say we are, not what we believe about ourselves. Officials declared me a killer, so I am.
“Yes,” I said.
“Ah, the Stone Carver. It is true then? You killed a favorite of the rich and powerful. Yes? How?”
“How?”
“Yes, how did you do this killing?”
“With this knife.” I jerked it free from its sheath. The blade caught the light and I thought I saw Barabbas stiffen.
“Ah, with that very knife? May I see it?”
I did not like this turn, but I could not refuse. I handed it to him.
“Very nice. May I ask where you got this? It is not from around here.”
“I took it from a desert man.”
“Took it? You took it from a desert man. And he let you? That does not sound like any desert man I ever met. You say you took it?”
“Yes.”
He turned the knife over in his hand, scrutinizing it.
“Well, for the sake of progress, let us say you may join us. I will test this resolve of yours, you understand, but for a man who took this beautiful knife from a fierce desert man and has killed, how can I refuse?” He gave me another wolfish grin.
I relaxed a little, relieved and even happy. I had met the great Barabbas and had won him over. The rest would be easy, once he knew I came to help and could supply him with many of the things he needed.
“And the other thing you wished to ask of me?”
“Yes, the second part. I have access to certain sums of money.” His eyes flickered for a moment. I could not read their meaning, but I plunged ahead anyway. “Enough to supply another band of fighters as large as your own, which I will lead.”
“You will lead? What makes you think you can lead a band such as mine, Red Hair?”
“I have been saving and preparing for this moment from the day I realized it possible. Romans destroyed my family. Listen,” I rushed on, “I am the grandson of Judas of the Galilee, and I swore many years ago to finish what he started and make them pay for what they did to me and mine. And now I have come to you prepared to do it.”
“And that makes you special, Red Hair? Your grandfather, if indeed he was…” He looked at me and at my hair. “More than half the people in the Galilee and at least a third of those in all of Judea have suffered at the hands of the Romans. It comes from being a conquered people. Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, and now Romans, one after the other, have taken this land and done terrible things to its people. And when they are gone, someone else will take their place.”
“Not if we raise men to fight,” I said, and wondered at his lack of enthusiasm. This did not sound like the great Barabbas described to me.
“To do such a thing,” he said slowly, “would require a great deal of money.” He gave me an appraising look and I squirmed under his gaze. “You have such sums, no doubt, in that little pouch you carry? Or maybe they are in your belt. No, you’ve got them in your sandals.”
He wished to provoke me, I knew. I stayed calm. I had the resources he needed and I decided to wait until he came to me. “Letters of credit,” I said quietly, “guaranteed by Silvanus Quintas, a Roman banker, in fact.”
His eyebrows lifted again, just a little this time. “No, you are not just one of the little boys who come to the wilderness to fight, only to run away, are you? You have thought this out.” He said this slowly, thinking aloud. “Letters of credit could be hidden in many places, could they not? In one’s cloak, for example, or tunic or even one’s headdress. Isn’t that so?”
I knew I had missed something important. I pressed on. The prospect of assembling a band of warriors from among Barabbas’ best men blocked any second thoughts I should have had. My instincts told me to be careful but my heart urged me on. My mind was as cloudy as the smoke filled cave in which I sat. It never occurred to me that he might turn on me.
He scratched his head and then, having reached a decision clapped his hands. “Good. We will proceed. Red Hair and Barabbas will free the country from the invaders,” he laughed. “We will drink some wine to seal the pact.” He reached for a wineskin and started to hand it to me but stopped. He pulled back the skin and his smile disappeared. “You wish to kill Romans, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, a little too loudly and wishing I had the wine.
“Who else are you willing to kill, to accomplish this end?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Red Hair, the Romans rule because they have power. Others, the people of this land, fear this power, and so they help them. Rome requires only a fraction of the men to occupy the country as it needed to conquer it in the first place. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I suppose that must be so.”
“You suppose. No supposing. That is the way it is. Now, if we can create an opposite fear in the hearts of these sheep, a fear that will persuade them to stop helping the Romans, wouldn’t that make it easier to attack our enemies?”
I heard his logic but was uneasy with the conclusion I expected to follow. I nodded my agreement.
“So, sometimes we must kill our own. We must take what we need from those who cannot stop us, so we can fight against those who can.”
“You rob our people?”
“Rob, and if I have to, kill them. Who else? You have other candidates?”
What he said made sense, but surely, if there was to be a general uprising, people must be willing to follow a leader. If the leader turned out to be someone who had just stolen their goods or killed one of their family… My mind reeled.
“So, let us return to the Romans. I can see the idea of going against your own will take time for you to accept.”
Not
my own
. Those people were no more my people than their god was my god. I was about to say so when he heaved himself to his feet and, crouching under the cave’s low ceiling, moved back into its dark recesses.
“You wish to kill Romans, you said?” he asked from the darkness.
“Yes. As many as I can.”
A moment later he reappeared, dragging what I thought was a very large bundle. The cave must have been deeper than I thought. There may have been many such bundles and who knew what else he had stored in its depths.
He tore the sacking away to reveal a man, a boy, hands and feet bound with a thick rope and another across his mouth to prevent his speaking. He wore only a soldier’s soiled undergarments. His body armor had been stripped from him. How much of the conversation he had heard and understood, I did not know, but the look of terror in his eyes made me believe he had at least grasped the essentials.
“Very well, Red Hair,” Barabbas said. “Kill this one.” He picked up my knife, tested its edge, and handed it to me. “Cut his throat.”
I held the knife in my left hand. I shifted it to my right. Sweat broke out on my forehead and my palms were so wet I thought the knife would slip away.
“Here…now?”
“Why not? You told me of your great hatred for the Romans, not just this Roman or that Roman, but all Romans. ‘They destroyed my family,’ you said. ‘I am the grandson of Judas of the Galilee,’ you said. So here is one. Kill him.”
Time stood still. The soldier moaned, his eyes as big as bread rolls. He could not have been more than sixteen, I thought, probably just someone like me, who survived the streets and found his way into the service of Rome as an alternative to starvation. We stared at each other. We could be brothers. But he was a Roman soldier and my enemy.
“Kill him, man. Kill him, now.”
I raised the knife. An eternity passed. I looked into the terrified eyes of that defenseless soldier and lowered the knife.
“Not such a killer as I was lead to believe,” Barabbas said, voice flat.
He took the knife from my hand and with one quick motion drew it across the soldier’s throat. The young man’s eyes closed and then snapped open as his body jerked against his bonds as if it was trying to run after the life that drained out of him into a crimson pool at my feet. Then he went limp. Barabbas wiped the blood from the blade on the poor man’s clothes and glowered at me.
“That is how you kill Romans, Red Hair. Not with words or letters of credit, but with knives and clubs and swords, with fists, and teeth, and nails, and anything that comes to hand.”
“I know, but—”
“He was one of a squad of ten men who captured and then crucified one of my men. They nailed him to a cross, laughing at his screaming. They laughed and drew straws for the miserable clothes he had on his back. They sat, ate their midday meal, and watched him die as calmly as they would step on a beetle. No, this one was lucky. We were going to crucify him, too, on the Jericho road—one of theirs for one of ours. Now we must find another.” As he said that, he looked steadily at me.
I thought I would be sick.
“You fool. Do you think killing Romans because they hurt your family will have an effect on anything? We kill one of them, they kill ten of us. I do not live out here in this godforsaken wilderness because I think I can save the world from Rome. No, Red Hair, I am here because this is what is left for me to do, to rob and plunder whatever comes my way. If they are Romans, so much the better, but for me, anyone, you understand, anyone is fair game.”
