Read Online Iscariot: A Novel of Judas by Tosca Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tosca Lee
Tags: Fiction - Historical
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though he listened to an invisible someone standing before him--but there was something about the set of his jaw, the cast of his eyes as they dropped like shadows upon the shoulders of those clamoring below.
Something was wrong. The guards at the entrance to the fortress behind him seemed too still. And there were none at the platform's edge in front of him, between the procurator and the growing throng.
Shouts filled the air: "He steals from her treasury! Give back to the Lord what is His!"
Something landed on the platform an arm's length from Pilate's sandaled foot. A rotten piece of fruit. He flicked a glance at it, but did not move even as a few of those closest to the platform began to grasp at the scaffolding.
"We stand by while Rome desecrates our holy place!" someone shouted.
"Send Pilate back to Rome!"
Someone else picked up the refrain. Within seconds it echoed throughout the crowd. "Pilate back to Rome!" Fists pounded at the air.
Pilate sat unmoving. Not a scowl, not a dogged look of guilt. Nothing but the impassive face of a statue. And then he stood, gathered the hem of his toga, and calmly walked into the building.
There was a momentary cheer from a few of those behind me, as though Pilate had indeed fled to Rome. But it was cut short by a sudden cry, farther up, as a group surged back from the steps. It
66
took me only a moment to realize that either a riot had broken out, or that the crowd was under attack--but by whom? I had seen no Romans in the crowd.
Melee on all sides--the pushing of the throng. A woman ahead of me went down, and when the man with her tried to haul her up, the mob rushed over him like water flowing to fill a hole in the mud. A man brought a club down onto the head of another to my right. It caved like a summer melon, splaying blood in my eyes. I stumbled backward, almost falling to the stones in shock.
The man who had done it wore the clothing and beard of a Jew.
Shouts. Screams from the steps of the Temple.
Where before I had fought my way toward the Temple, I was now swept along with the rush of those running away from it. I stumbled to stay aloft, grabbing the shoulders of those beside me. I leapt up on a cart tipped over in the street and searched for a way around the sea of people.
Violence. Death. Chaos in every direction.
"Judas!"
I glanced down to see Simon, his face flushed.
"I have to get home!"
"Come!" He frantically motioned me. "Hurry!"
I got down and followed him, shoving through the crowd, heart thudding in my ears, ice in my gut. Past the Ephraim Gate. Together, we broke into a run.
"Isaac is dead!" he said. "Bludgeoned to death against the western wall."
Innocent and fresh-faced Isaac! I ran faster.
"By whom?" I had seen only Jews in the crowd.
67
"Samaritans," Simon said, his lips peeled back.
Revulsion rose up in me. Samaritan soldiers passing as Jews. Samaritan auxiliaries, doing the dirty work of Rome.
Until that day I had forgotten to be vigilant, the rhythm of my life having lulled me into the belief that Jerusalem was a safe place.
It was not.
We ran down the street. Almost home.
"Susanna!" I shouted, bursting into my house.
Her mother came into the front room. "Judas! Back so soon? What of your aunt--is that blood on your face?"
"Where's Susanna?" I demanded.
"She's gone to market for some things for the feast--Judas!"
I was already tearing out of the house, Simon on my heels, back through the gate toward the pavilions, shoving by those fleeing the riot, coming at me now like crazed and wild-eyed animals.
I could see it from a hundred paces off: the market in shambles, baskets of spices and produce upturned, amphorae of wine and oil smashed to the ground, looters grabbing anything they could as merchants quickly packed up whatever they could save.
We ran into the middle of the pavilions, turning, looking all around.
"Susanna!" I shouted, tearing at my hair, running down a small side street filled with the toppled stalls of
Something was wrong. The guards at the entrance to the fortress behind him seemed too still. And there were none at the platform's edge in front of him, between the procurator and the growing throng.
Shouts filled the air: "He steals from her treasury! Give back to the Lord what is His!"
Something landed on the platform an arm's length from Pilate's sandaled foot. A rotten piece of fruit. He flicked a glance at it, but did not move even as a few of those closest to the platform began to grasp at the scaffolding.
"We stand by while Rome desecrates our holy place!" someone shouted.
"Send Pilate back to Rome!"
Someone else picked up the refrain. Within seconds it echoed throughout the crowd. "Pilate back to Rome!" Fists pounded at the air.
Pilate sat unmoving. Not a scowl, not a dogged look of guilt. Nothing but the impassive face of a statue. And then he stood, gathered the hem of his toga, and calmly walked into the building.
There was a momentary cheer from a few of those behind me, as though Pilate had indeed fled to Rome. But it was cut short by a sudden cry, farther up, as a group surged back from the steps. It
66
took me only a moment to realize that either a riot had broken out, or that the crowd was under attack--but by whom? I had seen no Romans in the crowd.
Melee on all sides--the pushing of the throng. A woman ahead of me went down, and when the man with her tried to haul her up, the mob rushed over him like water flowing to fill a hole in the mud. A man brought a club down onto the head of another to my right. It caved like a summer melon, splaying blood in my eyes. I stumbled backward, almost falling to the stones in shock.
The man who had done it wore the clothing and beard of a Jew.
Shouts. Screams from the steps of the Temple.
Where before I had fought my way toward the Temple, I was now swept along with the rush of those running away from it. I stumbled to stay aloft, grabbing the shoulders of those beside me. I leapt up on a cart tipped over in the street and searched for a way around the sea of people.
Violence. Death. Chaos in every direction.
"Judas!"
I glanced down to see Simon, his face flushed.
"I have to get home!"
"Come!" He frantically motioned me. "Hurry!"
I got down and followed him, shoving through the crowd, heart thudding in my ears, ice in my gut. Past the Ephraim Gate. Together, we broke into a run.
"Isaac is dead!" he said. "Bludgeoned to death against the western wall."
Innocent and fresh-faced Isaac! I ran faster.
"By whom?" I had seen only Jews in the crowd.
67
"Samaritans," Simon said, his lips peeled back.
Revulsion rose up in me. Samaritan soldiers passing as Jews. Samaritan auxiliaries, doing the dirty work of Rome.
Until that day I had forgotten to be vigilant, the rhythm of my life having lulled me into the belief that Jerusalem was a safe place.
It was not.
We ran down the street. Almost home.
"Susanna!" I shouted, bursting into my house.
Her mother came into the front room. "Judas! Back so soon? What of your aunt--is that blood on your face?"
"Where's Susanna?" I demanded.
"She's gone to market for some things for the feast--Judas!"
I was already tearing out of the house, Simon on my heels, back through the gate toward the pavilions, shoving by those fleeing the riot, coming at me now like crazed and wild-eyed animals.
I could see it from a hundred paces off: the market in shambles, baskets of spices and produce upturned, amphorae of wine and oil smashed to the ground, looters grabbing anything they could as merchants quickly packed up whatever they could save.
We ran into the middle of the pavilions, turning, looking all around.
"Susanna!" I shouted, tearing at my hair, running down a small side street filled with the toppled stalls of
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