I, Judas

by Taylor Caldwell

  Caiaphas pointed a long finger at Jesus.

  “You were one of his Twelve, were you not, of the elite from whom he had no secrets?”

  “He had no secrets from anybody.”

  “So it would seem.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Did you consider him the Messiah?”

  “There was no doubt in my mind.”

  He frowned. “In your mind the Messiah is the Deliverer of Israel, is that not so?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “And from whom was the nation to be delivered?”

  I saw the trap, and lightly avoided it. “From its own wickedness and evil, so that it would find salvation before God in the Kingdom of Heaven he speaks of.”

  I smiled to myself at his show of temper.

  “You know very well that the prophecy for the Messiah calls for him to make this nation triumphant over seventy others. How can this be done in heaven? Play no games with me, sir.”

  I shrugged. “Then if he is not the Messiah, he cannot be the Deliverer, or the King of the Jews, for that matter.”

  I looked up and saw a gleam of interest in Jesus’ eyes.

  Caiaphas’ face had turned purple, but at a warning glance from Annas he quickly composed himself.

  “You have heard him say that he will destroy the Temple that was made with hands, and within three days would build another made without hands?”

  His voice boomed across the room, and a murmur came on cue from the contemptible claque.

  “Is it not blasphemy for him to speak of destroying the Temple and then building back in three days what took two generations?”

  “The Temple he speaks of is not the Temple you speak of. He speaks of his body, which, our fathers remind us, is the Temple of the mind and spirit.”

  Caiaphas’ eyebrows rose incredulously. “This is what he speaks of, and you take no offense? How does he propose to create this body in three days? Even his Father took longer to create man.”

  I could see the malicious smiles in the eyes of Sadoc, Ezra, and others in the tribunal.

  “He speaks of rebirth, such as the Pharisees are familiar with, and the belief that man is born again after death and lives in heaven until such time as God decides he should return to earth.”

  Though the Sadducees had no use for reincarnation, Caiaphas was too clever to discredit the belief before the few Pharisees at this hastily drummed-up session. Yet, as usual, he twisted what was said to his own advantage. “How can he accomplish his own rebirth in so short a time then, unless he is God?”

  How devious these priests were.

  “He was only speaking symbolically, as he often does.”

  He had carefully avoided asking me about the occasion when Jesus spurned the crown offered by bar-Abbas, for this would contradict the traitor’s testimony and tend to nullify it.

  I looked to Annas. “May I volunteer some information?”

  His beady eyes were like a reptile’s. “Answer only that which is asked. That is the custom.”

  Though I had said nothing to incriminate Jesus, Caiaphas seemed satisfied with my testimony. I saw a glance pass from the Magistrate, and the Prosecutor’s answering nod.

  “You are dismissed for the present,” he said. “We will now call the defendant.”

  My temper flared as I saw Jesus rudely shoved toward the witness stand. He made no effort to resist, nor did he seem upset by this treatment. If only he would fly into a rage and turn on his tormentors for once and for all.

  Caiaphas saluted him with mock reverence.

  “You are Jesus of Nazareth?”

  The Master barely moved his head.

  “You stand accused of blasphemy for your teachings, and this is punishable by death according to our law. Now in these teachings your disciples profess for you a wisdom and knowledge beyond any of the great teachers of Israel, including the venerated Gamaliel and Ezra. What say you of this charge?”

  Jesus considered him calmly. “I have spoken openly to the world. I have taught always in the synagogue, and in the Temple, where the Jews always resort. And I have said nothing in secret.”

  “You are not accused of secret doctrine, but of corrupting the people, the Amharetzin, and your own disciples, who in turn have corrupted others with lies and deception concerning your greatness.”

  “I claim no greatness, except what the Father makes great. But why do you ask me what I say? Ask rather those who have heard me, for they know what I said and can tell you, if it is the truth you want.”

  Caiaphas reared back in anger. “You dare take this tone with me?”

  He made a slight motion, and one of the Temple guards standing near Jesus struck him across the face. “Speak not this way to the High Priest,” he cried.

  I started forward angrily, but a guard halted me. “Hold still,” he said, “or it will go the worse with you.”

  Jesus retained his composure.

  “If I have spoken evil,” he said mildly, “then bear witness to the evil, and let it count against me, but if well, as I believe, why have you smitten me?”

  “You are not here to ask questions,” said Caiaphas roughly, “but to answer them. You give yourself great airs for a simple carpenter from Galilee. Now tell me who you claim to be.”

  “I claim nothing, except in the Father’s name. Even as you could be, so am I.”

  Caiaphas folded his arms in his frustration, and I could clearly see that he felt Jesus was toying with him.

  “Your disciples call you the Anointed, the Christ, the Son of the Blessed. How does this happen, unless this is what you call yourself?”

  Jesus looked back at him silently, his eyes seeming to bore right through the Prosecutor.

  Caiaphas appeared discomposed for a moment, then reacted angrily.

  “I adjure you by the living God to tell us whether you be the promised Messiah and the Son of God.”

  “If I tell you, you will not believe me,” Jesus said simply. “And if I should ask you, you would not answer me, nor would you let me go, whatever I answered.”

  “All who know you say you have made this claim to be the Son of God.”

  Jesus stood straight and proud, unflinching. “This you have said, not I. Nevertheless, you shall hereafter see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of the power of God and coming in the clouds of heaven.”

  A triumphant smile came over the evil face. ‘This man has established his blasphemy out of his own mouth. What further need do we have of witnesses, when we have it from his own tongue?”

  And then Caiaphas tore his clothes to show the traditional grief at an acknowledgment of blasphemy.

  “He has no shame, but confesses to our faces.”

  Only one voice was raised in protest, and that a familiar one.

  Nicodemus had arrived tardily and was now observing the proceedings grimly.

  “Our law condemns no one to death on his own confession,” he cried. “You are not to condemn this innocent man, for you will tear all Israel apart with this foul act.”

  Annas abandoned all pretense of impartiality. “He was arrested for practicing sorcery and inciting Israel to apostasy, and as a false prophet he is subject to death as stipulated in the books of Moses. If we let him alone, all men will believe in him in time, and the Romans shall come and take away both our place and our nation.”

  “You think of yourselves, not the nation,” Nicodemus cried, “or this trial would not be held stealthily at night as though you were a band of robbers.”

  They would have lain hands on him, rich as he was, but he fled from the palace, seeing he could accomplish no more.

  The trial was a mockery. For not only had it been held illegally at night, but both the Judge and the Prosecutor had manifested their belief in Jesus’ guilt at every instance. Bar-Abbas’ evidence was tainted, and there was no rebuttal of it, and there was no public defender named for Jesus, as there should have been in a capital trial.

  The vote was swift. All that was required w
as a majority of two to convict. As could be predicted, the vote was unanimous. No pretense was even made for the younger members to vote first, as was the custom, so as not to be influenced by the older.

  They did not take the time to deliberate. “Death, death, death.” It was almost a chorus. And each time the word rang out, I felt a lump in my throat. Not “guilty,” but “death,” they voted, though they could not execute the sentence themselves. Had this responsibility been theirs, perhaps they would have hesitated in their judgment.

  The verdict did not appear to affect Jesus. As he was being blindfolded as a condemned man, to be led away to Pilate, he made no protest. My eyes searched his imploringly, but he seemed not to notice. He was letting them do what they wanted with him. But I would not have it so.

  As they prepared to take Jesus off, I remembered what my father and Gamaliel had told me of Jewish justice, and I quickly stepped up to the tribunal before it could disband. They looked at me in disbelief.

  “In the event of capital punishment,” I cried, “the accused has the right of appeal. A second hearing must be held in twenty-four hours, when his friends may present what evidence they wish in his behalf.”

  Caiaphas would have had the guard on me but was restrained by a look from Annas.

  “Come forward,” he ordered peremptorily.

  As I moved up to the platform, he reached under his desk and brought out a pouch.

  “Come, take this,” he cried. “It is yours.”

  I stretched out my hand uncertainly. It was heavy and it jangled.

  “You must know what it is. You hold the purse strings for this company of beggars.”

  I suddenly realized what was in the bag.

  I shrank back. “I want none of it.”

  “Take it,” he commanded. “It is the price for your service, the traditional payment for information leading to the conviction of an enemy of the people.”

  He pulled me by the arm. “Count it well, there are thirty pieces of silver therein.”

  I shuddered and stole a look at Jesus. There was a faint smile on his lips, as though he remembered his words of only a few hours before.

  “Make haste,” bellowed Caiaphas, “the Passover will be here while you gloat over your reward.”

  “I do not want it,” I cried. ‘Take it from me.”

  “You have no choice,” said Annas, “it is the law. Put it in the bag with the money you have gathered for the Son of God and stop justifying yourself with talk of appeals.”

  I could have wept in my shame, for I had committed no betrayal, despite what it looked. Jesus could still save himself before Pilate, that I knew, if only he would consider the many who rested their hopes on him. I turned to him, but his eyes were covered and he saw no more.

  And so we made ready for Pilate, but not before Jesus’ captors had spat in his face and struck him, shouting in their perverseness: “Since you are a prophet, prophesy who it is that strikes you.” He did not turn away, or wipe the spittle from his face.

  As we came out of the palace, with Jesus pushed along in the lead, I saw Peter skulking in the shadows and then heard a cock crow in the gray dawn. Peter listened, too, and then a stricken look came into his face, and he ran off, tearing his hair in his despair. And so I saw for a last time the keeper of the keys, him whom they called the Rock.

  The procession moved swiftly through streets just beginning to stir. In the march there were the same Levites as before, with some added to make the multitude more impressive. Jesus had no sandals, and his feet were bleeding from the rough pavements, but they would not stop, nor would they let me give him my shoes.

  “He is the King of the Jews,” they jeered, “let him march like a King.”

  He could have ended all this in a moment, calmed them as he did the waves of Galilee, and disappeared as he had one day when the crowd forced itself on him. But, still, he did nothing.

  Few in Jerusalem knew Jesus’ fate as yet, for as it grew lighter he was hidden from the view of the curious, and it seemed just another religious procession led by Caiaphas and Annas.

  The guards had notified Pilate, and he was waiting with his retinue outside the Praetorium near the entrance of the Fortress. As always, there was a gibe in his darting eyes, and a sneer on the thin, bloodless lips. With his beaked nose, he looked like a hawk about to destroy its prey.

  He looked over the crowd curiously, nodding briefly to the High Priests, giving me a mocking look, and then I saw his face harden. His eyes had fallen on the bedraggled bar-Abbas.

  “Bring that man forward,” he cried.

  Bar-Abbas was jostled to a place between the two priests.

  Pilate’s face grew dark. “This man is twice a traitor. Death by crucifixion is too good for one who has betrayed a Rome that used him well.”

  Annas raised his hand in conciliation.

  “It but seems that way,” he said. “He has served us well, and if not for this man the Zealots would have done far more damage to Roman establishments. There was not a move that was made of which he did not keep us informed.”

  Pilate’s face was still grim. “He led attacks on our men in Jericho, and elsewhere.”

  “Only to put a face on things. Had his zeal been less, he would have been suspect long before.”

  How despicable, I thought, the deceit and treachery with which he had wormed our secret plans out of us.

  “Why do you fight for him?” Pilate asked.

  Annas squirmed for a moment. “Because in this land of malcontents and traitors, it would go hard for us if we were to discourage men like bar-Abbas.”

  Pilate digested this for a moment, then, as if there were no bar-Abbas: “Now what is it you want with Jesus of Nazareth?”

  “We have found him guilty of blasphemy and sentenced him to death.”

  “And so you come to confirm that sentence. But blasphemy against whom?”

  “Against the God of Israel.”

  Pilate shrugged, and I again noticed how he enjoyed taunting the Jews. “How can he blaspheme the invisible? You have seen my God, the invincible Tiberius, but no one has seen yours. So how can he be sinned against?”

  “He calls himself the Son of God, and as such stood ready to lead an uprising against the government.”

  “Now, that is different.” His face grew solemn as if it were all new.

  “We found him perverting the nation, forbidding the people, particularly the Amharetzin, to pay taxes to Rome, and saying himself that he is the Messiah, which is to say, the King of the Jews.”

  Pilate clapped his hands. “Bring the prisoner forward.”

  A path opened up in the crowd, and Jesus, his hands bound, was rudely pushed forward by the guards.

  I was never more proud of him than in that moment.

  He stood straight and strong, his eyes now revealed. Even in his simple robe he had a majesty that made others look ordinary. Pilate’s sneer faded before this dignity.

  “So you are the King of the Jews?” he said.

  Jesus returned his gaze evenly. “You say that, sir.”

  “They tell me you are the son of this invisible God the Hebrews worship.”

  Jesus made no reply.

  Pilate put the question again.

  “Do others tell you this, or do you know it of your own accord?” Jesus asked mildly.

  “Am I Jew to know this of myself? They bring you to me bound like a dangerous criminal, and so I must assume you have done something to merit this treatment.”

  “They prosecute me for reasons of their own.”

  Pilate smiled, his dark eyes moving like a cobra’s to the two High Priests.

  “And why would they do that?”

  “Because I speak of the Kingdom of Heaven, and they are of this earth only.”

  Pilate’s brow knit in a deep frown. “Now what proof have you of this Heavenly Kingdom?”

  “It is everywhere, within you and every man, for it bespeaks the Father within.”

  Pila
te’s frown grew.

  “You speak in riddles. Who is this Father, and what is he within? Know you not that you are on trial for your life?”

  “No man can take my life unless I lay it down.”

  Pilate laughed in his wicked way. “We shall see about that. But now tell me about this Father of yours.”

  “He is also your Father and dwells in you.”

  Pilate regarded him uncertainly, not sure whether Jesus was making sport of him. He pointed to Annas and Caiaphas, who were standing sullenly aloof.

  “These two priests who brought you before me in shackles, is this Father in them as well?”

  Jesus looked at the two with scorn in his eyes. “They mock the Father with their actions, yet they may still find salvation if they repent.”

  Pilate made an impatient movement. “We stray from our purpose. You are accused of resisting the authority of the Emperor and plotting insurrection. What say you to that?”

  Before Jesus could answer, Caiaphas spoke out. “Remember, he is charged also with blasphemy, claiming to be God himself.”

  “A proconsul of Rome,” cried Pilate, “cares not for your silly disputes among yourselves. You Jews are always squabbling.”

  As Caiaphas opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off sharply.

  “Let this man answer. This is no Jewish trial, where the accused is prejudged by some sniveling schemers, but a Roman trial, with justice our end.” His eyes moved over the assembly proudly. “We Romans stand for justice. If this prisoner were a Roman citizen he could appeal his sentence to the Emperor himself in Rome. But even so, I stand for the Emperor, and justice shall be served.”

  It was a noble speech, but I had seen enough of the Romans to know how they bent the truth.

  Had not Julius Caesar professed himself a lover of the Republic while plotting to become King? Augustus, while presuming to be a friend of the Senate, had subtly deprived it of all its powers. And would not the devious Sejanus, patron of this Pilate, be Emperor today if the Emperor himself were not more devious? Let Pilate amuse himself. It fooled nobody, nor was it meant to fool anybody. He toyed with us as if we were puppets.

  “Now tell me exactly how you sought to overthrow Rome.” As Jesus remained silent, he went on. “You must surely know it is as reprehensible to think treachery as it is to commit an overt act of rebellion.”