The Japanese Girl (32 page)

It wasn't easy to keep my joy for long that day. They told me that Dysmas and Gestas had gone up the hill with the other Jesus to suffer the expected fate. I bathed and ate and had my cuts and bruises anointed in the house of John of Siloam; and spent the rest of the forenoon with him and four others making plans for the future. We all drank too much, and some of our plans were inflammatory to the point of suicide; but goading us to this, in the back of our minds all the time, was this thought of our two good comrades suffering a horrible death no more than a mile away. It was a special load on my soul for obvious reasons; but more often than not I had more thoughts for the other Jesus who had gone in my place. It didn't seem just, to think more of him than of your closest friends, for he was no friend of mine; but maybe it was the similarity between us, our likeness in looks, the closeness of our names, the feeling that he was now in my place, like another me, as if he was dying in place of me. I tell you, it wasn't comfortable at all.

John of Siloam told me that Judas of Kerioth had laid the information which had led to Bar-Joseph's arrest, and I was not surprised. Some men are born joiners and born betrayers, and Judas son of Simon was such a one. He'd been a Zealot, and among the most eager for action, the most urgent to fight for the freedom of Israel; then things had gone wrong – it was while Peter of Bethany was our leader – and Judas had taken the hump and left us. Soon after this Peter was caught in the Galilean riots and cut to pieces, and, come to think of it now, I would not put it past Judas to have had a hand in the matter and manner of
his
death. Then he had joined the group around the Nazarene, and been hot with enthusiasm for everything they did and said.

That type, I reckon, in a revolutionary movement are the most dangerous bastards of all: it's a sort of egoism in their nasty little souls that turns them sour. They
have
to join and, just as surely, they have to betray.

About an hour after mid-day there was a hell of a thunderstorm – in all my thirty years I remember none like it – and it crossed my mind to wonder whether the other Jesus was such easy prey after all. The stories you heard. Most of them were old men's whisperings such as tag themselves on to any prophet with a following; but there were so many about this chap you almost thought there
must
be some fire where there was so much smoke.

The people I was with stared out at the crawling clouds and the rent sky and whispered among themselves – no rain, not a drop of rain – just lightning and thunder and the smell of sulphur. I thought of Dysmas and Gestas and thought: better the bolt to strike them, put them out of their agony, poor devils; better the bolt to strike on Golgotha.

By the time the sun was down the sky, the storm had passed, but it left no sense of relief behind it. It wasn't like summer thunder that clears the air. And now we are all drunk. Not surprisingly we were all drunk. If you can drink enough it brings forgetfulness. I've a strong stomach but I hadn't the guts to go up there and see my two friends and try to comfort them. I despised myself for it.

But a man came just then to tell us. Simeon of Gilboa. A nasty little rant with a snivelling nose. He'd just come from there. He was the sort who always
was
there, and in a way I hated his bones because of it. They weren't dead yet, he said, but nearly. The other Jesus was dead. He'd died about an hour ago. And Dysmas had made some sort of a pact with him to meet in the next world. He'd been quite carried away by his sufferings and called this Jesus Master, or some such, and Jesus, poor crazed man, had acknowledged it like a king and had promised him a special seat in Heaven. Simeon of Gilboa always had a filthy nose in the cold weather, and all the time he told this he sniffed and snuffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. So suddenly I could stand no more of it and shoved the wine flagon away so that it toppled over and hobbled red wine like blood on the floor, and wiped my own nose and went to the door.

‘Where are you going?' asked John of Siloam, and I said: ‘Up the hill,' and he said: ‘ Then I'll come with you.'

Golgotha's on top of this hill, and a couple of hundred yards north-west of the city wall by the Gate of Ephraim, and seeing crosses and gibbets up there is nothing unusual. I hardly ever remember when there was not something dangling in the wind. Today there was a cold air blowing after the storm, and great clouds still mustered over the Mount of Olives, so that the flat roofs of the city glinted like slates wet by the fitful sunshine. The first thing I saw on the hill was that there were two crosses only. The crowds that always gather for these executions were gone, but a few people were still dotted among the boulders, and we passed a group whispering together, and John wanted to stop and ask, but I grasped his arm and we went on.

Just for a minute I thought: what if he's gone, up to Heaven in a thunderbolt, taking cross and all; that'll be a shock for them; but when I got near I saw the middle cross was lying on the ground, and two soldiers of the Oppressors were standing by it. It was empty. My eyes went to my two old comrades and I saw, thank God, that they were now both dead. They'd been put out of their misery by having their legs broken, but they still hung there like two dreadful plucked fowls waiting for buyers in the market. There was the usual mess of blood and stuff underfoot. They didn't seem to be human any more, that was perhaps the worst thing.

I would have gone up to one of the soldiers to ask what had happened to the holy man, but this time John pulled
me
away and edged me towards a group of our own folk. They told us that two members of the Sanhedrin – of all people – had asked for the preacher's body and were just now putting it in a tomb of their own. I followed their pointing fingers and saw a group of white-clad men clustered about the entrance to a cave-tomb, and not far from them some Galilean women watching.

I had a sense of disappointment. I suppose when you feel the bitter disappointment I had felt this last year since taking over from Peter of Bethany – and especially this last month or so – when you've been through
all
that, and in the cold of the night when you see most truly you can only see ahead of you a long vista of hopeless rebellion – with no strength but men's minds and hearts against all the legions of Rome – then against your best sense you
long
for a miracle; and I suppose at the back of my mind – especially after the last talk with him – had been the crazy hope that this other Jesus
might
have been as good as his word and pulled something off. Come down from his cross and blasted the Praetorium; destroyed Herod Antipas; cut a swathe through the maniples of Rome …

Well, it was all nonsense, moonshine, child's thoughts, but I was disappointed just the same. I turned away with John and we stumbled drunkenly back down the hill.

My own family was far away, so I celebrated the Feast of Pesach in Jerusalem with Ezra my cousin and John of Siloam, but at Ezra's house. Ezra was a comfortable warm man, doing well out of the occupation, but I'll say this for him, he never wavered in his support of the Cause. There were ten of us sat down that next day in the afternoon to eat, and after Ezra had blessed the cup of consecration we had our meal of bitter herbs and unleavened bread and pascal lamb. Ezra, dipping his first morsel of bread in the
haroseth
, handed round a sop to each one of us, and when we had all taken a piece he said: ‘To Jesus our leader, mercifully saved to us this day, thanks be to God!' Then we all sang the
Hallel
before beginning the feast.

Well, of course it's a time for rejoicing, and I was glad and thankful to be there, and who wouldn't be; but I couldn't really enter into the spirit of the thing. I had refused to go with Ezra to the Temple with the lamb. I'd shut my ears to the trumpets. I had spent all the morning of the Sabbath lying on my pallet in the upstairs room.

That night when the bazaars were open again I wandered with Ezra listening to the people. Many seemed already to have forgotten the executions, and I was angry at their cheerful mien. Those who did speak of it spoke mostly of the death of the holy man, because I think it was felt that Dysmas and Gestas were patriots fallen fighting for their country and this was a crime against the nation; but the slaughtering of this prophet who had done no harm and had cured the sick and – some said – raised the dead, was a crime against God. But it was only the Galileans who were really bitter, and it was in my mind to make capital of this, since there were so many in town, but Ezra would have none of it. ‘No speeching tonight. You've been in enough trouble.'

But when you're in the mood I was in, you can't rest. I bought some myrrh and aloes at one of the stalls in the spice market, and Ezra said: ‘What are those for?' And I said: ‘For Dysmas and Gestas – I'll go in the morning.' And he said: ‘Leave it be; they are in the felons' grave; if the soldiers catch you …' ‘Why?' I said, ‘there's no law.' ‘No, but they'll seize the least excuse, and you're in no state to hide your thoughts.'

On the way home who should join us but Simeon of Gilboa again, still wiping the snot on his sleeve, with news that Judas of Kerioth was also dead. It was said he'd done it himself, but I knew him better than that. Traitors never betray themselves: it's the one and only thing you can trust about them. The holy man might be involved in all this mystical forgiveness – I'd seen his eyes yesterday morning – but not all his followers were of the same persuasion. One or other of them had seen to Judas. It was also said that the priests had moved in haste at the last because they had been told that an uprising was planned during the Passover while all the Galileans were in the city. I only wished it had been true. I still could not get it straight – why, having been to such pains to get him killed, the Sanhedrin, or some members of it, should have such care for his body. It didn't make sense. It was a mystery that rubbed raw in my mind.

That night I slept badly, and with wild and terrible dreams. I woke in the very deep of the night and remembered that second meeting I had had with the other Jesus.

It had been while I was still hoping – now that Peter of Bethany was dead and so many Galileans killed by the Romans – that Jesus Bar-Joseph would be goaded into throwing in his lot with us. We had been alone for a few minutes, even Simon Peter out of the way; and to try to entice him, I'd listed how many things there were between him and me – things we had in common. The same given-name, the same purposes, the same age and size; but he had smiled and shaken his head. Brother, what a smile: it could have led a nation out of captivity. But all he said was: ‘My friend, your mission is of the sword. What would you gain if you gained all Israel?' This seemed plain nonsense, and I said so. Then to challenge him again I said: ‘You speak of being Son of the Father. Well, that is my name too. Bar-Abbas means Son of the Father; have we not a common cause?' But he turned it away again by telling me that I was really Son of the Fatherland, which of course is exactly what I have always claimed and got us no-where. What other meaning could there be? Then I looked at him and thought I perceived his other meaning.

‘Some say you claim to be the Son of God.'

‘I claim nothing.'

‘Then what are you?'

‘The Son of God.'

‘If that is not a claim …'

‘Truth is not a claim, Bar-Abbas. The stars are in the sky, the moon will rise, the seasons change; these are not claims, Jesus Bar-Abbas.'

I was turning away when he added in a gentle voice: ‘We are all sons of God, my friend.' I scowled at him, seeing another sly evasion, and he added: ‘
You
are the son of God: all men are the sons of God. All men bear within them the spirit of the Father. All men, Bar-Abbas, are born of the flesh and the spirit. They draw the temple of their body from the flesh of their mother on earth, and the spirit that inhabits the temple they draw from their Father in Heaven. This is a truth, Jesus Bar-Abbas, just as the stars are in the sky and the moon will rise.'

That night of the sixteenth Nizan as I lay in the dark on my pallet in the dark of the night, I thought of this for a long time. I remembered then I had said to him: ‘So you are as other men?'

‘No … I am not as other men.'

‘In what way do you differ?'

‘Not in the body.'

It had seemed the same old argument round in circles.

‘In the body and the spirit lie corruption and incorruption.'

‘And when you die?'

‘I shall ascend into Heaven. As we receive at birth, so we give at death: the body to the mother, the spirit to the Father, as we received them.'

There had been more of this stuff until Andrew of Bethsaida came in to break it up. I couldn't remember it all, restless there in the dark, lying in the dark, months later, now the prophet was dead. He had said, what else had he said: ‘But no man shall live in the Father except through me.' What did that mean? ‘If you love not your enemies as yourself you may not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.' This was insufferable nonsense, and I had stormed out.

I could rest no longer now, so got up and quietly dressed, thinking there were signs of the dawn. But it was only the cloudy moonlight, the Passover moon we had scarcely seen because of a week of heavy night cloud. I felt I must go out and smell the air.

The sound of Ezra's two children; deep breaths in the night; creak of a board, hand brushing the wall; foot in the straw; out in the windy dust of the street I pulled my girdle tight against the chill. The anointing spices in one deep pocket, short staff in hand, dagger under belt.

The gates would be closed as yet, but I knew a way. You turned down an alley opposite the Shushan Gate and opened a door and squeezed through a long-dry drain and you came out between two rocks on the other side of the wall. From there it was five minutes' walk.