CHAPTER VI.
Betraying Jesus with one hand, Judas took great pains to destroy his own plans with the other. He did not attempt to dissuade Jesus from embarking on that last perilous journey to Jerusalem, as did the women, he even inclined to side with the relatives of Jesus and with those of his disciples who considered the victory over Jerusalem indispensable to the complete triumph of the cause. But he stubbornly and insistently warned them of its dangers and depicted in vivid colors the formidable hostility of the Pharisees, their readiness to commit any crime and their unflinching determination either openly or privily to slay the prophet of Galilee.
Daily and hourly he spoke of it and there was not a believer whom Judas failed to admonish shaking his uplifted finger impressively and severely:
“Jesus must be guarded! Jesus must be guarded! Jesus must be protected when the time comes.”
Whether it was the boundless faith of the disciples in the marvelous power of their Teacher, or the consciousness of the righteousness of their cause or sheer blindness, Judas’ anxious words were met with a smile, and his endless warnings elicited even murmurs of remonstrance.
Judas managed to obtain somewhere a couple of swords, but only Peter was pleased with his foresight, and only Peter praised Jesus and the swords, while the others remarked disapprovingly:
“Are the warriors to gird ourselves with swords. And is Jesus a general and not a prophet?”
“But if they will want to slay Him?”
“They will not dare when they see that the whole people is following Him.”
“But if they should dare after all? What then?”
And John scornfully retorted:
“One might think, Judas, that thou alone lovest the Teacher.”
And, greedily clinging to these words, taking no offence, Judas began to question them eagerly, fervently, with a solemn impressiveness:
“But do ye love Him? Truly?”
And each believer who came to see Jesus he repeatedly questioned:
“And dost thou love Him? Dost thou love Him truly?”
And all answered saying that they truly loved Him. He frequently drew Thomas into conversation and warningly raising his bony forefinger crowned with a long and untidy finger nail he significantly admonished him:
“Look to it, Thomas. A terrible time is approaching. Are ye prepared? Why didst thou not take the sword which I brought?”
And Thomas sententiously replied:
“We are men unaccustomed to the use of arms. And if we take up the struggle with the Roman soldiers we shall all be slain. Besides didst thou not bring only two swords? What can be done with two swords?”
“We can get others. And we might take them away from the soldiers,” said Judas with a show of impatience, and even Thomas, the serious, smiled through his shaggy beard.
“Judas, Judas! What thoughts be these? And where didst thou procure these swords? For they resemble the swords of the Roman soldiers.”
“I stole them. I might have stolen more, but I heard voices and fled.”
Thomas answered reproachfully and sadly:
“There again thou didst wrong. Why stealest thou, Judas?”
“But nothing is another’s property.”
“Good, but the warriors may be questioned to-morrow ‘Where are your swords?’ and not finding them they may suffer punishment innocently.”
And later, after the death of Jesus, the disciples remembered these words of Judas and concluded that he had purposed to destroy them together with their Teacher by luring them into an unequal and fatal combat. And once more they cursed the hateful name of Judas of Kerioth, the Traitor.
And Judas, after such conversation, sought out the women in his anger and complained to them tearfully. And the women heard him eagerly. There was in his love to Jesus something feminine and tender and it brought him nearer to the women, making him simple, intelligible and even good-looking in their eyes, though there still remained a certain air of superiority in his attitude towards them.
“Be these men?” he bitterly denounced the disciples, turning confidingly his blind and immobile eye towards Mary, “No they are not men. They have not an obolus’ worth of blood in their veins.”
“Thou art forever speaking evil of people,” replied Mary.
“Am I ever speaking evil of people?” exclaimed Judas in surprise. “Well, I may sometimes say something evil of them, but could they not be just a trifle better? Ah Mary, stupid Mary, why art thou not a man to carry a sword?”
“I fear I could not lift it, it is so heavy,” smiled Mary.
“Thou wilt wield it, if men prove too evil to draw a sword. Didst thou give unto Jesus the lily which I found this morn in the hills? I rose at dawn to seek it and the sun was so red to-day, Mary. Was He glad? Did He smile?”
“Yes, He was very glad. He said that it was fragrant with the odors of Galilee.”
“Of course, thou didst not tell Him Judas had gotten it, Judas of Kerioth?”
“Thou badest me not to tell.”
“Truly, truly”, sighed Judas. “But thou mightest have mentioned it inadvertently, women are so prone to talk. Then thou didst not tell it Him by any chance? Thou wast so firm? Yes, yes, Mary, thou art a good woman. Thou knowest I have a wife somewhere. I should like to see her now: perhaps she was not a bad woman. I do not know. She used to say: ‘Judas is a liar. Judas, son of Simon, is wicked!’ And I left her. But it may be that she is a good woman. What thinkest thou?”
“How can I know, who have never seen her?”
“Truly, truly, Mary. And what thinkest thou, thirty pieces of silver ... is it a large sum of money?”
“I think it is not so much.”
“Truly, truly. And what didst thou earn when thou wast a sinner? Five pieces of silver or ten? Wast thou high in price?”
Mary Magdalene blushed and dropped her head till her luxuriant golden hair hid her entire face leaving merely the rounded white chin visible:
“How mean art thou, Judas. I seek to forget it, but thou remindest me.”
“No, Mary, thou shouldest not forget it. Why? Let others forget that thou wast a sinner, but thou forget not. It is meet that others forget it, but why shouldest thou?”
“I lived in sin.”
“Let him fear who has committed no sin. But he who has committed sin, why should he fear? Do the dead fear death and not the living? No, the dead mock the living and their fear of death.”
Thus cordially talking they sat together for hours, he, well on in years, gaunt hideous to behold, with illshaped head and weirdly disproportioned face, she youthful, coy, gentle, fascinated with life as though with some legend or strange dream.
But the time passed heedlessly and the thirty pieces of silver were reposing under the stone, and the terrible day of betrayal was approaching inexorably. Already Jesus had entered Jerusalem riding on the foal of an ass, and the people had acclaimed Him, spreading their garments in His path, with cries of triumphant welcome:
“Hosannah, Hosannah! Blessed be He that cometh in the name of the Lord.”
And so great was the jubilation, and so irrepressible was the love that strove heavenward in these welcoming shouts that Jesus wept and His disciples proudly exclaimed:
“Is this not the Son of God who is with us?”
And they also cried out in triumph:
“Hosannah! Hosannah! Blessed be He that cometh in the name of the Lord.”
And that night for a long time they remained awake thinking over the solemn and triumphant entry, and Peter was like unto a madman; he was as one possessed by the demon of merriment and pride. He shouted loudly, drowning the speech of others with his leonine roar, he laughed uproariously, flinging his laughter at the heads of others like large rolling boulders, he embraced John, and James and even kissed Judas. And he boisterously admitted that he had harbored fears concerning Jesus, but now feared no longer, for he saw the love the people bore for Him. The Iscariot’s unsteady eye strayed from face to face in amazement. He mused for a while, listened and looked around again, and then led Thomas aside. Then, as if impaling him against the wall with his piercing glance he questioned him with wonderment and fear not unmixed with some dim hopefulness:
“Thomas, and if He is right? If it be He that has the rock beneath His feet, and I merely shifting sand? What then?”
“Of whom art thou speaking?” inquired Thomas.
“What will Judas of Kerioth do then? Then I shall have to strangle Him myself to bring out the Truth. Who is playing Judas false, ye or Judas himself? Who is deceiving Judas? Who?”
“I cannot understand thee, Judas. Thou speakest in riddles. Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”
And shaking his head Judas repeated like an echo:
“Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”
And still more surprised was Thomas, and he felt even worried when during the night there rang out the loud and almost joyous voice of Judas:
“Then there will be no Judas of Kerioth. Then there will be no Jesus. There will be only.... Thomas, stupid Thomas! Didst thou ever wish to seize this earth of ours and raise it in thy hands? And then perhaps to drop it?”
“That were impossible, what sayest thou Judas?”
“That is possible,” replied the Iscariot with conviction. “And we shall seize it some day and lift it up in our hands while thou art asleep, stupid Thomas. Sleep. I am merry, Thomas. When thou sleepest, the flutes of Galilee play in thy nostrils, Thomas. Sleep.”
But already the believers had scattered throughout Jerusalem and disappeared within their houses, behind walls, and the faces of the people who still walked abroad were now inscrutable. The rejoicing had ceased Already dim rumors of peril crept out of some crevices. Peter was gloomily trying the edge of the sword given him by Judas, and ever sadder and sterner grew the face of the Teacher. Time was swiftly passing and inexorably approached the dread day of the Betrayal. Now also the Last Supper was over, pregnant with sadness and dim fears, and the vague words of Jesus of someone who would betray Him had been spoken.
“Knowest thou who will betray Him?” inquired Thomas gazing at Judas with his straight and limpid, almost transparent eyes.
“Yes, I know,” replied Judas, sternly and resolutely. “Thou, Thomas, wilt betray Him. But He does not believe Himself what He is saying. It is time. It is time. Why does He not call to His side Judas, the strong and the beautiful?”
And time, the inexorable, was now measured no longer by days but by fast fleeting hours. And it was even, and the stillness of even, and lengthy shadows gathered over the earth, the first piercing arrows of the impending night of great conflict, when a sad and solemn voice sounded through the darkness. It was Judas who spoke:
“Thou knowest where I am going, Lord? I am going to betray Thee into the hands of Thine enemies.”
And there was a long silence, and the stillness of even and piercing black shadows.
“Thou art silent, Lord? Thou commandest me to go?”
And silence again.
“Bid me stay. But Thou canst not? Or darest not? Or wilt not?”
And again silence, immense as the eyes of Eternity.
“But Thou knowest that I love Thee. Thou knowest all. Why lookest Thou thus upon Judas? Great is the secret of Thy beautiful eyes, but is mine the less? Bid me stay.... But Thou art silent. Thou art ever silent? Lord, Lord, why in anguish and with yearning have I sought Thee always, sought Thee all my life and found Thee? Make Thou me free. Lift from me the burden; it is greater than mountains of lead. Hearest Thou not the bosom of Judas of Kerioth groaning beneath it?”
And final silence, unfathomable as the last glance of Eternity.
“I go.”
And the stillness of even was not broken, it cried not out nor wept, nor faintly echoed the fine and glassy air—so still was the sound of his departing steps. They sounded and were lost. And the stillness of even relapsed into musing, it stretched its lengthening shadows, and blushed darkly, then suddenly sighed with the yearning rustle of stirring foliage; it sighed and was still, lost in the embrace of Night.
Other sounds now invaded the air, rapping, tapping, knocking: as if someone had opened a cornucopia of vivid sonorous noises and they were dropping upon the earth, not singly or in twos, but in heaps. And drowning them all, echoing against the trees, the shadows and the wall, enveloping the speaker himself roared the resolute and lordly voice of Peter: he swore that he would never leave his Teacher.
“Lord!” he cried, longingly, wrathfully. “Lord! With Thee I am ready to go to prison and even unto death.”
And softly, like the faint echo of someone’s departed steps, the merciless answer sounded:
“I say unto thee, Peter, that ere the cock crow thrice to-day thou wilt have denied me thrice.”