I, Judas

by Taylor Caldwell

  He held up a restraining arm. “I come not as a physician to the body, but to the spirit. There the illness begins.”

  Since he could heal, I wondered why he did not heal all who needed it.

  “You have been put on earth,” he said, as if divining my thoughts, “to meet the challenges of life, learning in time, with faith in God, to behave in such a way as to establish yourselves as worthy companions of the Lord.”

  This in no way stilled the shouts of the sick, preoccupied with themselves, as they were.

  “Think not of self, but of others,” he said, “and your thinking will free you of the chains of the flesh. Your Father knows what you need before you ask. So pray to him, but use not vain repetitions as the heathen do. They think to be heard because they pray loudly and often. But in this way they stress weakness, not faith, which should be strong and sure.”

  The multitude did not understand. For the cry went up: “Tell us, Master, how we should pray.”

  “Not with words alone, but with the spirit.”

  “But what are these words?”

  “If it were but words, the ailing could say them and be cured.”

  They still clamored for the magic words.

  “Pray then in this manner, repeating each word after me, knowing that what you ask of God will be answered.”

  His eyes were raised as he spoke, and a responding murmur came from the crowd.

  “Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

  “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

  “Give us this day our daily bread.

  “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

  “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever.”

  I could sense a letdown in the crowd, which was clearly disappointed that the prayer wrought no miracle. And he realized it as well, for he now exhorted them.

  “Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven. Unless your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the Sadducees and Pharisees, you shall in no event enter into this Kingdom of Heaven I speak of.”

  From their faces it was quite evident that the crowd had expected more.

  “You ask of others,” said Jesus, “ask first of yourself. Blame not others for that which you do or don’t do, for the errors of omission are often more reprehensible than those of commission.”

  The irrepressible Sadoc had edged himself into the forefront of the assembly.

  “You mention My Father, Your Father, Our Father—exactly whose Father do you speak of?”

  Jesus smiled. “Well said, Sadoc, for he is the Father of all who heed his voice. And before you report to the High Priests let me say that I have not come to destroy the law, or the Prophets, but to fulfill that said of old.”

  Sadoc’s face gave him away.

  “I speak only for myself,” he blustered.

  “But you account to others. Account fairly then, for you must account to one greater than I.”

  He did not speak like a Galilean, for most spoke only Aramaic, and that with a slur that was almost a lisp. His Hebrew was better than mine, and his Greek was flawless. Where had he studied that he should be letter perfect in these languages?

  I thought, observing him closely, that he was in his early thirties, perhaps a few years older than me, but only months younger than his cousin the Baptist, from what I had overheard. Yet he seemed ageless, of any time or place.

  He had drawn away from Sadoc now, and had asked Levi, like myself, to join him later. And so after our evening meal of flat cakes and goat’s milk, with high expectations we proceeded up the hillside to the great campfire which served as John’s headquarters. Several others were already there, speaking informally with the Master, who was reclining comfortably on the grass while a young man of great beauty anointed his feet with oil.

  From their speech I took these men to be Galileans. One, standing tall and majestic, was called Andrew, The other, a hulking figure with a low forehead and a slack jaw, was his brother Simon. I disliked him at sight; he seemed to dominate the conversation, and yet added little to it. The young man, certainly no more than twenty, they called John, and with him was his brother James. They were the sons of the boatbuilder Zebedee, a prosperous man by Galilean standards. I gathered from the conversation that they had come to Bethabara to be baptized by John and had been surprised by the appearance of their fellow Galilean.

  Simon-bar-Jonah was happiest when he was talking. He discussed this first meeting with Jesus with any who would listen. “Andrew and I were fishing on the Galilean Sea and kept bringing back empty nets all day long. A stranger on the shore called for us to drop the nets from the other side of the boat, but we saw no point to it, since others had been fishing there without any luck. But when he insisted, we did as he suggested, and lo and behold, we had the biggest catch of fish ever, so great indeed that it tore the nets, so that the fish escaped.”

  He did not realize how ridiculous he sounded.

  “So,” Levi whispered maliciously, “he was impressed by the Master because he helped him with his fishing.”

  The others I was more familiar with, the Zealots, Cestus and Dysmas, Joshua-bar-Abbas, and Simon Zelotes, a Galilean also, but more strident in speech and action because of his political persuasion. The Baptist stood over Jesus, with his disciples Ahiram and Abner. He seemed bemused by the younger John’s ministration of the Master, performed with such loving care.

  The Master did not appear to be listening, yet he would add an ironic touch to the conversation every now and then. When Cestus and Dysmas mentioned that the Messiah of Israel could prove himself only by liberating his people, Jesus smiled, saying: “And if he be the Messiah, the Deliverer that Israel seeks, need he take his instructions from any but he who sent him?”

  Cestus and Dysmas frowned, for they had been answered, without receiving the answer they sought.

  “It is not enough,” said Cestus, “for one to say he is the Messiah.”

  “True,” said Jesus, “nor that others say it as well.”

  The two leaders of the Zealot party now interceded. Joshua-bar-Abbas was considered something of a military expert, having served with the Roman legions in Egypt for a while, and Simon Zelotes was the religious authority, for he had combed through the Torah, the books of Moses and the Prophets, and could recite from them whatever was expedient to his cause.

  “The Torah,” said Zelotes, “proclaims that the Messiah shall reign as the King of Kings over all nations.”

  “And how else,” put in bar-Abbas quickly, “can this rule be accomplished than through the destruction of the Romans?”

  Jesus’ blue eyes twinkled.

  “There is more than one way of conquering an adversary.”

  “And which is that?”

  “With love, by turning the other cheek when he smites you.”

  The Zealots looked at him incredulously.

  “Turn the other cheek,” bellowed bar-Abbas, “and the Romans will have your head.”

  “Nonetheless,” he said, “in Rome itself they shall bow before the one God.”

  Young John had now finished anointing Jesus and turned inquiringly to the Baptist. The Baptist shook his head impatiently, as if to quash the notion that he might so pamper himself.

  Jesus took the alabaster box from John’s hand and kneeled before the Baptist.

  “As you have ennobled me before the Father, let me honor you this day.”

  The Baptist would have drawn away, but something in Jesus’ glance held him.

  “Only I, John, can annoint you for the journey you make.”

  The Baptist submissively lowered his shoulders, and the Master, carefully, lovingly, anointed the bare feet that looked as if they had never known sandals.

  “I anoint you with the Holy Spirit, John, for after tonight I shall not see
you on this earth.”

  The Baptist’s eyes glowed with a deep flame.

  “I have done what I came to do, I am ready.”

  They stood together and embraced, Jesus holding him as if he would keep him by his side always.

  With a sigh, he finally released him.

  John drew his two disciples to him. “I go to Salim, there to baptize in Judea for the last time, and then into Perea, where the wicked Herod and his whore Herodias pollute the air. From there, only the Lord knows whence.”

  We watched as he stalked off, his camel-hair skin fluttering in the night wind.

  “There,” said Jesus, “goes a prophet than whom there is none greater, for he has yielded himself up to his own prophecy.”

  The Zealots viewed his departure with a rueful eye, for with the exception of Zelotes, the Baptist was more their idea of a Messiah than he who told them to turn their cheek.

  “There,” said I, the words slipping out, “goes a fighter for freedom.”

  “Some speak of freedom,” said Jesus, “and make themselves a prisoner of this freedom.”

  Cestus looked at him doubtfully.

  “This seems a fine phrase to me.”

  “Often people do not act, but react, losing the freedom of action which wells up naturally from their own souls.”

  “You mean,” I suggested, “that in rebelling against tyranny we lose our freedom?”

  Jesus smiled. “You speak of tyranny, but this passion for freedom is an even greater tyranny, It governs mind and body and sets an erratic course which takes you anywhere.”

  “Then should we bend our backs to the lash, and bid the Romans scourge us and then nail us to a cross for the infamy of wishing to be free?”

  “Think not so much of freedom for itself, but free yourself from this yoke of freedom you have fastened around your neck.”

  “Then how. Master, do we find freedom?”

  “In existing for others we exist for God, and in God we find this elusive freedom.”

  Cestus shook his head slowly. “We exist for Israel and the Messiah who delivers Israel from her captors.”

  “So say you, but not God,” said the Master, and there was a great sorrow in his voice.

  Chapter Five

  THE ZEALOTS

  AN AIR OF TENSION settled over the campfire. Levi nudged me in the ribs. “Have you ever seen a more disreputable trio?” he said for my ears alone. Indeed, there was a fierceness about the Zealots that boded ill for any who crossed them on a dark night.

  Bar-Abbas, with his hooked nose and rough stubble of a beard, looked like some predatory bird poised over its prey. Cestus and Dysmas were like wild-eyed hawks, ready to take wing against any adversary at any time. They would give a good account of themselves in any battle.

  The Zealots, including Simon Zelotes, looked to bar-Abbas for the initiative.

  “How,” asked bar-Abbas, “can a carpenter from Galilee lead Israel against the mightiest army in history?”

  The Galileans bridled at his tone, and I took offense myself.

  “The Maccabean was but a shepherd,” I put in quickly.

  “I know,” bar-Abbas rejoined, “and David slew Goliath with a slingshot. But slingshots won’t do against Rome.”

  Jesus had been staring quietly into the fire, not appearing to listen. With a glance, he cut off any reply from his indignant supporters. He spoke mildly, still gazing into the flames.

  “Let me give you a parable, from the prophet Daniel, who saved himself and his people in captivity by correctly interpreting the dream of the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar. The king had been frightened by a most terrible image. The head was of fine gold, the breast and arms of silver, and the belly and thighs of brass. Then came stalwart legs of iron, but with the feet set in clay.

  “None of the wise men of Babylon could translate this dream, but to Daniel came a vision through the Lord. And this vision he told the King. ‘Together with your kingdom, you are this head of gold. But after you shall rise another kingdom, of silver, the Medes, inferior to you. There shall be still another kingdom, of brass, that of the Greek Alexander, which shall rule the earth. The fourth kingdom shall be strong as iron, insofar as iron breaks into pieces and subdues all things. But as the feet were partly iron, and partly clay, so the kingdom shall be partly strong and partly broken.’”

  He paused for a moment, musing into the fire, and we knew then he spoke of Rome, for what kingdom but Rome was mightier than the Grecian conquerors of Darius the Mede?

  “And the iron and clay shall mingle themselves with the seed of men, but they shall not cleave one to another, even as iron is not mixed with clay.”

  Again Levi whispered in my ear. “He speaks of the disunity of this Roman Empire, which will not weld into one, no matter how many Emperors and legions there are.”

  There was more.

  “And in the days of these kings,” the voice soared, “shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed. And the kingdom shall not be left to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all these kingdoms, and it shall stand forever.”

  There was a silence for a moment, and then Simon-bar-Jonah, the brother of Andrew, interposed with his usual obtuseness:

  “But, Master, if these kingdoms be consumed how can they continue?”

  The Master gave him a fond smile, “You, Simon, are my weather vane, for by your response, I know how the common man receives the message I impart.”

  While Simon’s rough-hewn face showed his bewilderment, his brother Andrew said gently:

  “We know what kingdom he speaks of.”

  Jesus’ eyes swept over the company. “You, Andrew, shall be my first disciple. As the oldest you shall advise the others. And you, Simon-bar-Jonah, shall be second, though you become first in many things.”

  The two Galileans smiled in their simple pleasure. “Thank you, Master,” they breathed.

  “Thank me not, for the road will be rough and tortuous, and the rewards not of this earth.”

  “We will follow you anywhere,” said simple Simon.

  Jesus’ face clouded for a moment. “And so you shall, though little you know what you say.”

  I longed more than any to be his disciple.

  “And how many disciples will there be, Master?” It was the first time I had spoken to him directly and my heart thumped wildly against my breast.

  “There will be twelve at first, Judah, representing not only each tribe of Israel but a cross-section of humanity, reflected in the universal zodiac. Our own sign is Pisces, the sign of the fish, for it depicts not only the conflict of two opposing forces, good and evil, swimming against each other, but the new age of worship.”

  “It is also your birth sign,” said Andrew, speaking as one who knew him from boyhood.

  I came forward with Levi. “We would serve with Andrew and Simon,” I said.

  “And so you shall, but first know that many are called but few are chosen.”

  I was dimly conscious of the disapproving glances of the Zealots, save for Zelotes, who seemed as eager to join as I was. But then, like Levi, he was a Galilean, and they had a provincial pride in regarding the Messiah as their own.

  Cestus and Dysmas had stepped forward as well. “We would be disciples,” said the Syrian, “if we could be sure that you were really the savior of Israel.”

  “If you are not now sure,” replied Jesus, “then you will never be sure, for God demands faith of his children.”

  “Is it not just,” argued Cestus, “that the Messiah prove himself before we risk all by following him?”

  “You risk more by not following him,” said Jesus enigmatically. “But follow and see for yourselves.”

  “You think little of Israel’s freedom,” said Dysmas dourly.

  “I think of nothing else, but it is not your freedom.”

  I had listened enough. “Did you not hear him say that his kingdom would consume Rome, and last forever?”
/>   The Zealots were not convinced.

  “I have never seen a Roman slain by a barrage of words,” said bar-Abbas.

  Jesus seemed unmoved by the criticism. And yet, earlier, he had reacted strongly to Sadoc’s attack. His next words quickly explained the distinction.

  “They speak from a love of Israel; let them be.”

  He now appeared to withdraw within himself, and Andrew signaled that the meeting was over.

  The Zealots went off to their own camp, telling me to Join them the next day. “Remember,” bar-Abbas grumbled under his breath, “you have thrown in with us for better or worse.”

  I sighed inwardly. Here I was, ostensibly an agent for the Sanhedrin, a Zealot committed to the revolution against Rome, and a would-be disciple of the Messiah of Israel. God forbid that any of these loyalties should get out of joint.

  “I will be there,” I said.

  Jesus’ eyes followed them down the hillside until their forms merged into the darkness.

  “The Prophets sing of God,” he said almost wearily, “but your friends march to their own tune.”

  I got up the courage to ask: “Is it wrong to be rid of the oppressor who keeps his foot on our necks?”

  “It is not wrong, Judah, and I would that Israel were as free as in the days of David and Solomon. But now the Lord asks more of us.”

  “How can we do more than spread his word through all lands?”

  “And how would you accomplish that?”

  “The Prophets say that the Messiah shall deliver us from the enemy and make Israel triumphant over seventy nations.” I hesitated lest I seem overbold. “If we do not accept the Prophets, then what hope is there in Israel for the Messiah?”

  “Ask better what hope is there in the world, for the same God that created Israel, Judah, likewise created all in heaven and earth.”

  The Galileans had been listening, their mouths agape.

  “In other words,” said a frowning Levi, “there is no distinction between Jew and Gentile.”

  “I did not quite say that, for we differ in the Torah and what we hold dear.”