Good-enough Friday

by

Greig Olivier

10153 Jefferson Hwy / Baton Rouge, LA / 70809 / 225-291-5914 / go@greigolivier.com / www.greigolivier.com

“Stop pushing, Ju, I know what I'm doing.” “Forgive me, Brother, the Roman doesn't belong with us. He's a dick head like the rest of them. Even though he's wounded, he's still strong, and he's arrogant beyond belief.” “In that he resembles you, Judas. Don't worry, baby, I got it under control. We'll all enter Paradise together, we got Daddy's word on that.” “I don't buy it, Teach, I'm afraid that when he regains his voice he'll rat on us and those who follow. Maybe he can't talk but he watches, he's making mental notes.” “He ain't that smart, Ju, you said so yourself,” said Jesus laughing, “I got plans, I'm always planning, you know that, Ju. I ain't scared of him,” he said pointedly, “there are greater dangers nearer at hand.” The two stared at each other. Jesus turned and greeted Mary, who just entered the room, with a hug and a large smile. “What's for supper, Mar,” he asked, “I could eat a goat.”

From a far, Jesus and Judas resemble each other. They are average size Jews of similar height and weight. But up close one looks wild: Judas is like an animal raised in a desert. The other, Jesus, could grace a movie poster. One, you would say, lives in a cave, the other owns a penthouse. Two people who could never be friends because the chemistry of friendship is absent. It may not be friendship, but a high voltage charges the air around them. They are colleagues pulled together from different departments on different floors to work together on the same project for the good of the company. If you are only mildly perceptive, with adequate eyesight, you'll notice that Jesus is clearly the Man in Charge. Besides his dress--which, in fact, resembles a Prada frock (he'd call it a robe) , richly embroidered, starched, pressed, pleated...but, clothing aside--his gaze is steady, forehead smooth and his mouth quick to smile. And equipped with two good hands which reveal nothing of the carpentry he is reputed to have practiced as a youth but which mold easily into a firm handshake or a practiced dramatic swish capable of dragging demons of darkness into light, a skill he is particularly proud of. When he walks, you observe the gait of a leader, his stride confident and firm. His body, not as muscled as his companion, but more supple: what can't he can squeeze out of? Jesus's hair is fine and neatly brushed; his beard short and tended. A handsome man, GQ-ish.

The other guy is a man you instinctively walk around or--with lowered glance and a vacuous look--allow to pass. Don't boss him, don't cross him... wild! His eyes are angry, full of sparks. Dark, large-pored skin stretches drum tight over a gritty, bony skull. Muppet-like lips slice across his face where both frowns and smiles are out of place and look the same. His mouth fills with curses that Jesus religiously ignores. His muscles are sinewy and elastic; his fingernails are uneven, striated, caked black underneath. His ragged tunic is streaked with fresh Judean dust churned together with the soil of Galilee and Samaria. Rough sandals, worse than a campesino's car-tire model, protect his rough feet. His hair is black and wild like late Brother John's, but coarser and kinky-er, like an abandoned sheep from the hills, like a homeless mad woman's, like Jesus' nightmare; he wears a knotted beard that has never been shorn or combed. No way these two can be friends. They are not friends. Theirs is a relationship bound by unusual knots. They are ‘believers', zealous believers. Mostly, they believe in themselves...and swear by sweat they are ready to die and kill for their beliefs, they will wear the belt and use it. And, of course, they believe in Daddy.

How the Roman soldier came among them depends on your point of view. He was either saved or captured...or, dropped into their midst like a chess piece by Big Daddy.

His regiment was stationed in Sephorris (you don't need to remember this), charged with leading a garrison whose sole, troubling mission was to maintain order twelve leagues either side of a trade corridor between Judea and Samaria. It was challenging duty: Yids were nothing but trouble. He slept with one eye open.

Wouldn't you know it, once, when trouble arrived. he was asleep. Nationalists rebels, of a Maoist bend, raided the garrison at Sephorris intent on tumbling the aplomb of Roman arrogance. The fight went better than expected, hence the opportunity presented itself of actually killing everyone in camp How it happened that the soldier survived the slaughter is interesting...not that they intended to let him live, but in a fight like this details often go awry. For instance, an apprentice warrior might mistake a jab for a slicing motion. That simple! It sounds silly but often the simplest explanation is the best. Oddly enough, that is exactly what happened. One of the rebels attempted cut our Roman's throat (there were several witnesses) but it was so ineptly done the man survived. The soldier was more stabbed than sliced with the result that his vocal cords were irreparably damaged, beyond even the ability of a modern specialist to repair, but his life was not in jeopardy. This was an unexpected godsend for all concerned. Along with copious bleeding came staccato grunting and growling, indecipherable cries so comical they needed no interpretation, which amused the rebel commander to no end and the other attackers as well, even the perpetrator who initially wanted another try and had to be forcefully persuaded that perception trumps reality and the Roman soldier was actually worse off wounded than dead . They watched the soldier stagger around holding both hands over the wound. The sounds of rage and fear never reached his lips. Instead the air passed directly from the stab wound to his wet, loosely closed fingers making a barrage of tiny farting sounds. They would have surrendered half their booty for a camera or tape recorder. The result was belly laughs all around; the apprentice soldier had a story he would repeat past retirement, hobbling on one leg, gesturing his story with energetic waves of a fingerless hand. The idea came to the rebel commander to share this sight with his countrymen, to make this Roman a living testament to his prowess. He ordered an iron be heated. In mis-spelled, semi-literate Greek they seared into the soldier's back the ironic message: “Soldier of Rome, ruler of Jews,” which came out more like “Zoljer d' Romi, rulJuju.” Bleeding from the throat, gagging and coughing and stumbling around senseless, they stripped him naked, tied his hands to his throat and roughly shoved him down the road, a walking billboard declaring the absurd arrogance of Rome's occupying force in smudged illegible letters which the totally illiterate Jews he encountered could only wonder at. So, deep in shock, the soldier lurched down hill as fast as he could, away from Sephorris, toward further adventure.

In a land where each village was no more than an hour's walk from the next he soon met representatives of the local population. At first he scared them–what a sight! When they saw he was helpless, fear was replaced by its obverse, cruelty. Just look at him, what an ugly mess! Take that, pig! And that, also! A walking horror! Push, shove, hit. And a Roman to boot, that was obvious. For one thing, he wasn't circumcised: Trying to scare our women, are you? Take that! That! That! Yet, they also, let him live. Why? That's speculation. The soldier continued on as if divinely guided. Night fell and so did he.

Exhausted, tortured by terrible thirst and nausea induced by shock, he rolled over into a smelly ditch wet with gooey sewage. As he collapsed, the wound at his neck reopened with a sharp, searing pain. He lay trembling a long time unable to free his hands from the rope and coagulated blood glueing them in place. He was shaken by a terrible chill. He began to hallucinate. Believing he was still with the rebels he begged for death, then for life, cursing them for being Jewish dogs, then swearing he would never harm the hair of another Jew if they would just help him. He couldn't remember who he was nor where. His inner ear was unreliable: Was he floating? Flying? Upside down, in air or under water? All of a sudden he was no longer scared: fear required logical thought, different synapses.

Very gradually, through a series of subtle temperature changes, he became conscious of spreading warmth. He lay on his stomach; his legs and back grew increasingly hot, his wounds felt like fire. Noises filtered through half consciousness, familiar sounds of people and animals came to him with the sun. Undulating air waft across his body, moving the small hairs on the backs of his legs, sending a shiver through his entire body. Then he became aware of shouts nearby. Touches! He was forcibly and roughly turned over. He opened his eyes blinking repeatedly against the bright sunshine. His hands were pulled from his throat which caused him to scream with pain. His lips were dry and cracked; his entire body a rack of pain. Forcing open his eyes, he looked around, wild with returning fear. Two young men were prodding him with poles, gesturing him to get up and pointing down the road. His nakedness was partially hid by dirt and grime and his chest was sticky with a mixture of fresh and coagulated blood. Contrasting sharply with the blood now turning black, and the deep sunburn on arms and face, was the skin of his belly and thighs, shining ludicrously white. It was very early morning, a clear, ice blue sky added coolness to the air. The sun slanted acutely toward the horizon made huge sloping shadows from the one and two storey mud buildings, whose coarse wooden doors and darkly curtained windows were barely visible in the gloom. He was aware of a strong, all pervading smell both strange and unpleasant, the stench of cabbage mingled with raw sewage. He had no idea how long he lay there but the pain in his throat was steadily getting worse while his back was burning and his stomach was chilled and wet. Of the preceding battle, a bare twenty four hours past, he remembered nothing.

Two more men, lightly armed with cudgels, hurried toward him. With practiced motion they jerked him to his feet and tied his hands roughly behind his back. They pushed him in a direction between two decrepit huts down, a path littered with trash and lined with filthy urchins who, along with wrinkled old women, watched grinning ear to ear. They marched him in silence, pushing roughly to direct him left or right. After ten minutes they threaded him through a small doorway that led to a large but dilapidated stone structure with dangerously leaning walls. Once inside a dusky inner courtyard shiny with green mold, his bonds were removed. Crossing the courtyard was a shallow ditch channeling another little river of piss and shit. It was quiet and stifling hot. Flies buzzed. The floor was slippery, the air gagging. He was the only prisoner in sight.

A strong hand shoved him wordlessly into a cell, a tiny room with a barred door of crocheted iron-mesh screen, small and rusting. The squealing door slammed shut with a loud explosive bang. The pain wracking his body gradually built in magnitude until it ruled him and he could think of nothing else. He wanted to scream but only a bubbly gurgle climbed out his mangled throat. He fought to control his panic which threatened at any moment to overwhelm him. He faced death before but never like this, not helpless like a fucking slave, no weapon, not even an enemy to fight. Self pity spread through his body like a virus; a feeling of helplessness brought choking sobs to his chest, cries which sounded ridiculous in this warrior's body, like a Barbie doll in orgasm. Pity gradually turned to anger; anger fused into rage and a desire for revenge. Backing into a corner, he drew his legs tight against his stomach, both to hide his nakedness and ward off the clammy cold. Eventually, he fell into twitching, troubled sleep.

He slept the day through and then the night. Next morning his captors pulled him into the small courtyard. The sun shone bright hurting his eyes and making the shadows black. One of his captors, wearing a kind of ski mask, grabbed his face with both hands and looked him in the eye. “Romi go home!” he shouted in pig Latin, showering the soldier with spittle, “Romi go home!” They tied him to a post and whipped him hard. Afterwards, they stuffed him into a dirty tunic, dragged him outside and tossed him across the back of a donkey which they led to the edge of town. He was dumped onto the ground, kicked once viciously in the side, then abandoned. More dead than alive. Fearful lest a movement inspire more beatings he remained motionless til he was sure his tormentors had gone. Very quietly, under his breath, he began to curse. He cursed himself, kikes, Rome, gods, Palestine, all people everywhere from the beginning of time. Savagely, he vowed terrible revenge on them all. The utterly foul taste in his mouth remind him of events that seemed far off, but in fact were only two days old.

Whimpering like a child, his stolid self command evaporated. The fear he felt was new and uncontrollable, unlike the fear of battle where at least he could slash back and scream at his opponents. He forced himself upright and stumbled on without food or water, every step tearing at the wound in his throat. The ragged tunic he wore stuck to the open gouges on his back. He encountered no one on the road as if the word had gone out to avoid him. Approaching midday he neared a village. A few travelers appeared, shepherds with flocks crossing the road, merchants in carts driven by donkeys eyed him nervously, everyone gave him a wide berth. Foot traffic increased. He tried begging for help. Some pretended not to notice, and rushed to get on with their business. Now and then younger men accidentally ran into him, roughly shoving him off the road blaming the too bright light for not seeing him, then offering a mock bow of apology. Never mind the sky was overcast. When he responded with animal sounds they laughed aloud, high fiveing each other with gusto and “Hey, Bro!” all around.

An almighty thirst had him half crazed. He was begging for water but the words never reached air although ‘water' was one of the few words he knew in Aramaic besides obscenities. He stopped at the edge of the village and sank to his knees next to a well, without the strength, without even little girl's strength, to pull up a jug of water. He folded his arms around his knees, lowered his head into the muck edging the stones and cried silently to himself like a forsaken child. He slept or passed out, drained and hungry, sucking the wet earth into his mouth without thinking about it.

He woke uncertain that he lived. His terrible thirst convinced him he yet had life. He turned onto his back with difficulty. An old woman whose house stood on the edge of the village furtively watched him from her window and seemed to take pity on him. Seeing his cracked lips and weakened body, dried blood smearing his neck and chest, she brought him a gourd of black and reeking water some hard bread and a chunk of moldy cheese, throwing them at his feet before moving quickly away. At once he emptied the gourd, devoured the food. Less shaky with something in his stomach he hauled himself up and looked around. Under a grey sunless sky the cool light of an overcast sky that threw no shadows made the world appear two dimensional. Clay walled houses, shuttered and closed and seemingly rooted into the grey soil like bare stunted tree trunks, scattered up a low hill. Slim tendrils of smoke rose from each house and flickering lamp light edged past roughly hewed doors.

With a clearer mind but still uncertain of his direction or his goal, the soldier forced himself up. He continued down the road hoping to see Roman troops along the way who would deliver him from these shitty little people.

An hour later without warning, the food he had eaten began to act violently on his system. The awful contractions of imminent diarrhea gripped his abdomen. He half fell, half pushed himself into a doorway with barely time to lift his tunic. He was totally out of control; his body took charge. He felt miserable, helpless and humiliated.

Some people stopped and jeered, pointing and laughing at him in obvious derision. A child threw a small ball of manure, hitting him squarely in the face which made him jerk back, opening again his neck wound and causing him to bray loudly which elicited more sarcastic laughter from the towns people. More people appeared, some seeming to lecture him. Others, holding their noses, made crude gestures. Out of frustration he began to talk back to them, sounding ferocious like some exotic animal in a terrible rage, the sounds getting shriller and more frantic every second as he gasped for breath. There were people everywhere, all talking at once, gesturing, laughing, hooting. The door behind him opened suddenly and just as suddenly slammed shut again, causing a stinging pain on his lower back bringing more raucous jeers. The noise became deafening. He feared again for his life.

All at once the noise lessened, then subsided. The mass of bodies directly before him parted letting through a group of men evidently held in high esteem. As the din died down shouts of “Lord, Lord!” were heard. One of the advancing men removed a shawl from his shoulders, bend towards the soldier and began to clean him gently and thoroughly. Another brought water, clear and pure. The crowd stood mute, staring. Others from the group quietly began dispersing the gathered people who obeyed readily. The soldier saw and felt what was happening to him dimly, as if in a trance.

The man, the leader, smiled, soft with reassurance. He touched the soldier with hands that were deft and practiced at cleaning, like a mother's; long agile fingers ended in sharp, shiny pink nails with cuticles showing–a practically unknown part of the body in those days. Each nail was cut bluntly but evenly at the tips. He wore chocolate hair long, parted in the middle and trimmed to dangle just brushing his graceful shoulders. His complexion was coffee milk brown with interesting cherry highlights glowing out each high boned cheek. His lips held the delicate hue of split, ripe figs. He was thin and affable and smiled broadly as he spoke and his words were punctuated with a laugh holding the resonance of a helden tenor. In strongly accented, but perfectly correct and understandable, Latin, the man said: “To the people you are an animal. You talk like one. You look like one. They believe you are possessed by a devil. Besides,” he laughed, “all Romans are devils, nicht wahr? That's their experience.”

The distressed soldier could only make gagging sounds in reply. He wanted to communicate with this person who helped him. In his desperation to talk, he recoiled as his neck wound hurt him more, it felt like a burning ember soaking into his skin. The Jew–he was obviously a Jew--placed two fingers on the soldier's neck, “Hurt no more,” he said, sending a twinkling smile to the wounded man, “Pain...such a drag. Come with us and hurt no more, brother.” He again touched the soldier on his neck, brushing down the wounded back with friendly solicitude.

The pain ebbed, returned, flickered then finally left him like a lamp sucked dry of oil. He was helped to his feet and half carried along by two burly men who despite seeming to find the job distasteful treated him gently. They arrived at a structure not far away that was more compound than villa, with high walls no windows and a single massive wood door. Later, he was allowed to bathe and given clean clothes. He was invited to eat with them and was assured the food would not give him problems. The only one who spoke to him was Jesus; although the pain had abated significantly, the soldier could still only growl a conversation.

He spent the next few days living as one of them. His wounds healed, the pain retreated for good. He thought he understood when everyone addressed the leader either as “Lord” or “Master.” These are noble words; they sounded odd and repugnant to him when addressed to such shitty little people. “Next they'll be calling him ‘Caesar,'” he thought. Jesus appeared before the soldier only rarely, but always smiling and friendly.

Exactly who these people were, precisely what terrorist sect they belonged to, the soldier couldn't decide. None appeared to work, yet everyone had enough to eat, clean clothes and a place to sleep. Wine was served at every evening meal, even to him. There were almost as many women as men, maybe more, it was impossible to tell as everyone kept busy and people were constantly coming and going. There were many children of all ages. It was hard to know who belonged and who was visiting. Each morning all the men got up early, Jesus also, and were gone the whole day, returning after dark for supper and long discussions. Discussions led by Jesus. Harangues, really. Jesus did 90% of the talking. He had a good voice, no one seemed to tire listening to him. Strangely, sometime the soldier understood all that Jesus said, even when he spoke Aramaic...but just sometimes. Other times everything was imponderable, like Greek. He thought Jesus was making this happen. Another magic trick. He considered that Jesus wanted him to know he held some power over the Roman and could exercise it at will.

Everyone treated the soldier as if he belonged, although nothing special was done for him. Like the women, though, he was excluded from the evening meetings. He lacked no essential and spent all of his time in a state of restlessness, either thinking--a fresh experience--or pacing to and fro within the compound confines. There was always a guard at the gate and it was made crystal clear that he was not allowed out. Everyone else came and went freely.

What he thought about mostly is how he hated these prissy little people with their capital ‘G' God and better-than-thou attitude. Every Roman soldier stationed in Palestine knew about their “chosen” people attitude. That's why at Sephorris a Jew was always chosen for latrine duty. But after experiencing first hand the deadly hostility of Yids the soldier grew to fear them. What puzzled him greatly was why they held on to him. What's the point? Why not free him...or kill him? He felt totally fucked. They had good reason to hate him, and vice versa. Who are these people, who is Jesus? His followers are a group of what? Terrorists? Bandits? Maybe that's it; the men are gone all day and no one seems hurting for spending money. And how many are they? Unaccustomed as he was to independent thought (he usually just followed his dick) his thoughts took on a life of their own. Their kindnesses to him, he realized, were fluff, intended to lull him into an un-armed state, a lack of awareness about their rebellious or criminal intentions. These people were not very sophisticated and neither was he, but he saw through them. These runty little creatures didn't fool him. They wanted something from him. Whatever it was, he wouldn't give it! Just days previously, he was killing Jews, any Jews – women, children, it made no difference. And he would do it again. Living with them made no difference. Living with them made it certain.

Jesus was the leader. Everyone looked up to him, hung on his every word and obeyed without question, especially the women. Jesus laughed a lot, joking with everyone, he even talked to the half-feral dogs hanging around the courtyard, growling at them, sounding a lot like the soldier, til they were in a frenzy. The soldier watched Jesus carefully alert for any sign of change in the apparent friendliness that he showed, but found none. Rarely, however, did Jesus talk directly to him. In fact, hardly anyone talked to him, understandable because of the language problem, but no one paid him much attention of any kind. He was just there, to be approached cautiously, perhaps, because, like the dogs, he also was half-feral.

As best he could the soldier attempted to think the problem through, however he knew the distillate of all mental activity had to be action. He was a soldier, passivity wasn't natural. Physically, he was back to normal, except, of course, he couldn't speak. As reminders of the rebel attack only rough, hard scars remained. Most frustrating of all was not being able to speak.

When action came it was not what he expected and not of his own choosing. The whole household was moving south to Judea. He was not asked, but told politely and firmly by Jesus that he would remain with the men throughout the trip which would be made on foot with just a few asses for supplies and for one of the women, a woman from Magdala , who was pregnant with the child of one of the men, the roughest, dirtiest of the lot. This man, Judas, was respected by his comrades but was a loner, conversing at length only with Jesus who always listened to him intently.

The trip lasted two or three times longer than it should have. Cheering, whistling crowds repeatedly blocked the roads waving palm leaves and mutton pies. Solemn groups carrying people in litters, carts and on their backs also stopped the entourage to plead with Jesus for a mere touch. More and more they encountered lonely crazies crying out for release from inner turmoil. At each distraction Jesus would stop and mingle, shaking hands, kissing babies, healing, exorcizing, resurrecting the freshly dead. He and his twelve core followers set up camp each evening exhausted.

The journey was hard on everybody especially the women who handled most of the travel preparations in addition to their regular chores. At times, even Jesus appeared near a breaking point, complaining a little bit, seemingly to himself, whining at the air, a glossy vestige of tears rimming his eyes. At those times he would seek out Judas; they would huddle holding hands, talking late into the night. The Madalene would bring hot tea which they sipped noisily and quickly to the dregs and which never failed to calm them and even cheer them up a bit. After these intense discussions with Judas, Jesus would rise smiling vacuously and retire, at peace again with the world. The other man, rough looking Judas, unchanged after these meetings, would return without comment to the others in the group.

Once they arrived in the vicinity of Jerusalem Jesus took a stronger interest in the soldier, going out of his way to talk with him, to be extra friendly and to comfort the man who had become to regard himself a prisoner. They spoke of the few subjects Roman and Jew had in common: sports, the weather, food.

The group set up lodgings in a large house just outside the city walls, on a little hill overlooking an olive orchard next to a narrow, winding trail leading toward the city. There was much hustle and bustle the week after arrival. Activity within the group tripled; the mood was upbeat and highly positive. It was easy to make someone laugh, you just had to say the magic word: ‘messiah.' The response was a loud, spontaneous, “Yes!” with hugs and knuckle punches all around. Clearly, something was afoot, something eagerly anticipated by all. The soldier thought ‘messiah' meant something like ‘Super Bowl.' Only Jesus, drinking more than usual, was at times seen wearing a forced smile.

The soldier, always watchful, ears pricked like cauliflower antenna, received the nuances of change with some alarm. Though restricted in movement, his life was not bad, he viewed any change that didn't include freedom as a downer. Underlying all contact with his captors was the fact that he still regarded them as shit heads, ass holes and circumcised scum. However, before leaving, he would like to dick the bitch from Magdala.

Then, one evening the men returned much later than usual. The women were not told and they were cross because supper was getting cold. As the men clomped wearily into the large meeting room, all wore serious expressions, especially Jesus who said nothing at all and was uncharacteristically short tempered. Pushing open the small door to the room the soldier shared with two others Jesus slouched in the doorway and stared silently at the soldier for a long time, motionless, eyes lost in the shadows of the room lit only by a few flickering oil lamps. “I wish,” he said at last in very cultured, affected Latin, “I could really read your twerpy little mind, Romi.” Jesus was drunk. “You and Daddy in cahoots?” he asked. “Don't answer that,” he said quickly, with a stand-up comic smile.

The large house, though filled with people, was abnormally quiet. A few coughs, the muffled scrapping of a stool on the dirt floor, sounds from the kitchen of women cleaning the remains of supper replaced the normal evening uproar. And still the man stood there watching the Roman who in turn was becoming more agitated by the minute. Something had happened and it concerned him, he thought. One of the twelve, it was Judas, approached Jesus and spoke a few hurried words in his ear. When Jesus responded with a wave of dismissal Judas, fuming, slipped away into the interior darkness of the house. Jesus appeared tired and passive and content to lounge in the soldiers doorway forever. With a leaden hand he motioned for the soldier to follow then turned into the dark interior. They entered a long, low-roofed austere room used both for dining and sleeping by the men. Almost the entire company was assembled, men and women. The children were absent. Most sat cross-legged on the floor around the communal table, a massive low-to-the-ground structure assembled from rough wood and stained heavily with the residue of many meals. One, Judas, rested on his heels, towering above the others. The women were segregated to one side talking softly together. Everyone crowded each other for a few inches of space. There were no windows in the room. A dozen or so oil lamps resting in niches carved into the walls radiated as much gloom as light, a light that struggled through air oppressively humid and reeking of sweat and oxidizing olive oil. Everyone wore black. A few, women, draped head to toe in black, resembled Ninjas. Only Jesus, in a fine white tunic and cerulean cloak, shone like a mirage at midnight, he appeared actually to glow in the dark. The dusky faces assembled about him absorbed his light but remained themselves deep in shadow. The women, hushed now and looking anxious, remain motionless with their backs pressed against the flaking wall. A hurried conference of Jesus and Judas ended when Jesus signaled to the women. Donning a great smile, throwing his voice as low as he could, he said, “Ladies? Ladies, would you please leave us...would you...please? For a little bit? We'll miss your lovely faces, but...thank you, thankyou, thankyouuuu. Yes, you too, Mary. Please, hun.” this latter was addressed to the pregnant Magdalen who appealed with her eyes to Judas who merely shrugged. The women left with little noise. Soon, only men were present.

The air was pungent with left over dinner smells, boiled cabbage, savory mutton and spilled wine. As the last woman left the room, it was like a signal to the men to converse. A change of ambience was palpable. Everyone spoke at once, but in serious, conversational tones. Still, the hum of voices was not normal, but rather took on the quality of a disturbingly edgy noise, like continuously shattering pottery. Strain showed on several faces. John, the youngest, was close to tears. None looked at Jesus who remained aloof and introspective. Carafes of thick red wine appeared and shallow clay beakers brought out. The soldier also was given a share. Jesus took none. Soon, one or two of the followers began to sway rhythmically, as if tuned to inner music. At first, as individual lamps hissed out, they were refilled with olive oil and lit again by one of the apostles. Eventually, even this minor disturbance to the meditative stillness of the group ceased and the lamps either burned low or went out without notice, but the light from Jesus never diminished.

Jesus rose from his confined place in a corner, cleared away some utensils from a large stool standing centrally, stepped up upon it, then sat down again, folding gracefully into the lotus position. He sat motionless, hands on knees, thumb and forefingers closed in a circle, eyes shut, like a very skinny Buddha awaiting gilding. Presently, he opened his eyes and inspected the faces of those around him then signaled the soldier, who hugged the periphery, to find a place close by. “This concerns you as well, Romi m'boy. Just be quiet...and patient,” he stage whispered. None of the others payed attention to this remark. Judas looked up momentarily inspecting the two men with interest, then turned away. The room grew darker. Conversation flagged. A few fell asleep in their sleeves. Silence crept through the room until the only sounds were Jesus's regular breathing and the creak of someone repositioning himself. Although his back stayed ramrod straight as if pressing against a solid wall of air, it was as if Jesus slept. One hand now rested casually on John's shoulder. John, who leaned slightly in Jesus's direction, no longer appeared upset. When Jesus finally spoke it was without opening his eyes. The others responded immediately to his voice, becoming rigidly attentive. To the soldier, it was as if his ears were plugged, he heard nothing but a garbled hum.

Darkness flooded the corners of the room. Two oil lamps placed on nearby stools cast nervous, upward shadows making Jesus' face and hands shine bright while his lower body distilled into blackness. The others hovered in and out of view, competing for space with the gloom. During the pauses in Jesus's words, the silence was a solid force pressing in on them all. He spoke slowly, deliberately, stretching each syllable as if reluctant to let it leave his trembling lips. He looked in turn at each one, addressing them individually, pleading with each, his body alternately going rigid and limp. When he stopped talking the others seemed to expect or hope for more words. John, of course, wept continuously but softly. He was the only apostle who carried a handkerchief. When Jesus spoke again it was an aside to the soldier in Latin, not looking at him. The others watched seriously even though they could not understand a word spoken.

“You are here, Romi” said Jesus, “because my Father says you belong here. You must believe that. He needs fighters as well as peacemakers. The Lord knows” he said with mock exasperation” I can't do everything. Fortunately for many, there is a place set aside in the kingdom for everyone. A place for you too, buddy, if you have faith in His Chosen One, i.e., me!” These last words were choked out and seemed to tire him greatly. He left off speaking. He seemed to be in a trance. When he continued it was in a voice hoarse with emotion, speaking each word as if each contained life itself. “I - saved - you. I saved you. You owe me one, soldier!” His glow faded suddenly, as if the effort of speaking Latin drained his energy. “If some will have their way,” he continued weakly, “my time is up.” The soldier listened, trying to make sense of the man's words while the others continued to ignore this discussion between the two most improbable persons in the room. Jesus resumed in a slightly louder voice, “Others, however, believe my Daddy would rather I continue with His work for a little bit longer...a good deal longer, I might add.” In a sincerely but incongruously high pitched squeal he added, “I pray for guidance, but He refuses to speak clearly to me!” The shriek subsided to a near whisper. “His words are loud yet sound strangely to me. He answers my prayers with questions I don't understand!” Jesus became visibly agitated, sweat ran freely down his face. Without leaving the stool he lunged at the soldier, grabbing the man's tunic in a vice like grip that surprised and startled the soldier by its strength and ferocity. He touched the man's neck and back with both hands, speaking rapidly without pausing. “You are strong again. Through me , Poppa has cured you. Through me He will cure all mankind. Through the intercession of the Son of Man y'all will all rise again to worship Us on that final day.” He loosened his grip on the soldier's tunic. “The Father is mysterious. No one knows that more than me...even I don't understand Him all the time. But He doesn't hide from His children. And, He would never lie to me. You, soldier, I understand you. He gave me you and you may be His answer. You are a soldier, accustomed to controlling men. Even when your orders sound like a barking dog, other men jump. Don't think I haven't noticed. Even if you are the whore of my enemy, this night you will redeem yourself if you choose to serve your Lord.” He paused long enough to look the soldier in the eye. “Don't turn your head,” he suddenly ordered “but there is one man here who is a threat to me.” Instantly the soldier knew who that was, it could only be one man. “I think you know who he must be. His name is Judas. Don't look around! Tonight, Romi, you must control Judas. If the Father has truly sent you, keep Judas in the garden tonight when we go out to pray. Do this for love of me and do not wonder. Soon, I promise, soon you will be able to return to where you belong, among your own. And with a profit. Silver. You know what I mean?”

Without waiting for a response, Jesus padded the man's shoulder fraternally and beamed, all agony gone from his face which became smooth once again. He turned towards the others, switching fluently to Aramaic. He spoke at length, gesturing with hands and head, haranguing the twelve men, badgering them. He spoke passionately non-stop, foamy bits of spittle gathered at the corners of his full lips. At one point they all turned and looked at the soldier. One continued to stare after the others looked away, Judas, whose gaze was cooly analytical.

It was half time. The women were summoned to carry in more food, then dismissed once again. The men ate automatically, without appetite, nourishing themselves steadily with wine. As before, only Jesus spoke. He began cautiously, hesitatingly, measuring his words carefully for greatest effect. The men were spellbound. He took a loaf of unleavened bread. Holding it above his head where all could see, he broke it into small, equal portions which he passed to each man ritualistically, touching that person's hand and making firm eye contact. He included the soldier in this ritual which had a strange effect on Judas who looked surprised. Shifting position slightly, Jesus reached down for a clay jug of wine standing next to his stool. Holding it with both hands for all to see he raised it to his lips and took a long pull straight from jug ending with a loud, breathy ‘ahhhhhhh'. Every man passed his beaker to Jesus, some of the men hastily emptied theirs first. Jesus poured a small portion into each container, talking softly all the while. None drank until Jesus raised his cup, cradled in both hands, and gave the signal: he vocalized a long, mournful chant that filled the room and made the shadows vibrate. It was a cry of pure emotion, penetrating each man to his very marrow. It brought a purifying breeze to that window-less room; it stirred the dust and made the lamps glow brighter, and brought tears to the eyes of the twelve followers. To the soldier, it had a chilling effect. He felt his hackles rise and an unfamiliar feeling suffused his body. Jesus' strong voice coursed through the dark house like a heady fog. Next door one of the women screamed a shrill lament in sympathy.

The soldier shuddered understanding nothing. This man, this fop, this cur and his primitive litter of Jewish dogs was reaching into him, touching something inside–or, worse, injecting something that didn't belong–something he didn't comprehend on any level. And didn't want. He wanted none of their infection. He tried to keep his thoughts to himself, his mind blank, superstitiously believing that Jesus could read his mind despite the claims he made earlier.

The soldier was ignored as they ate, but he couldn't take his eyes off Jesus who looked like a youth, cheeks flushed, eyes pale blue, limpid as a Rocky Mountain lake. He looked noble. Jesus' soft black beard shown shiny and moist. His long hair bounced lightly and was bordered by a suffusing glow woven through it and into it, like a pulsing neon crown.

Jesus was rapturous. Dispensing blessings with long-fingered gestures in a voice raspy with effort and emotion. To the soldier, Jesus looked like the king of Elysium. His emotional state was evident in his glowing eyes, his trembling hand, his dignified mournful visage. At one point, just when everything was urgently serious, a roach ambled across the table in front of him. Jesus stopped talking and watched it. Slowly, he placed a finger in its path and let it crawl unto his shaking hand before placing it on the floor allowing it to continue its determined journey within the maze of straw. Turning to the soldier he said wearily, “Any of us could have stopped that insect from doing Daddy's will, even by accident. You know, innocently stepping on it. You know? Yet my Father protected it as He does all His creatures...every single one without exception. He instructs them how to proceed. And He has His own way of doing things, mysterious ways, strange ways that maybe confuse us. Yes sir, He watches over you and He watches over me and He watches over that roach. And the mysterious thing, Romi, is that He watches over me through you .” Speaking now with increasing energy, “You are His tool , man, His eye , hand , shield ...SWORD! Acknowledge Our power, baby, over you and live forever! (Shouting each word staccato) For-I-uh- am-the-uh-Son-a-of-the-uh-living-God-ah-and-when-I-speak, He-a who rules the world speaks-a and I say unto you if you hear my words one-day-you-will-reside-uh-in-my-kingdom, Our kingdom, sitting on my right hand...for all eternity.” This speech took everything out of him, he was near breaking. Summoning a last reserve of strength, looking directly at the soldier, he continued with words all could understand, “The Lord of all things commands you to protect His son!” At this injunction, the apostles broke out in exuberant applause, smiling broadly at the soldier. Some whistled drunkenly. A few attempted to high five each other missing widely. Judas rose in disgust and left the room leaving the door open, through which could be heard joyous giggly laughter from the women who were eavesdropping in the next room. “Romi, Romi, yeaaa, Romi,” they rah-rahed.

Jesus completely broke down. Crying and laughing simultaneously, nodding his head, rocking back and forth so wildly everyone feared he would fall from his stool. The apostles looked on helplessly. On the other hand he was beautiful and the men watched him adoringly. A network of sweaty hair clung to his forehead like glossy surf foam; his eyelids, thin almost to transparent, fluttered nervously over dancing eyes; an aura of light, divinely hued, enveloped his head with a pulsing rheostatic glow. He was never more loved. Just as these men belonged to Jesus, so was he theirs.

All this met a fantastic reception within the soldier whose solitary thought was the man's mind was “loose as the semen of Zeus!” Jesus slowly began climbing down from his exuberant high. First by gradually ceasing his swaying motions; then, calming his breathing; last, opening his eyes, docking a lock of hair behind an ear and smiling broadly to one and all. Outwardly, the soldier met his gaze firmly; inside he quivered with indecision and doubt...and fear.

“Listen up, Romi,” Jesus barked at him totally recovered, “ Operation Plenary Indulgence: your mission: stay with Judas! Don't let him leave the orchard tonight.” Seeing sarcasm descending on the soldier's fractured face, Jesus changed tack. “Oh, Romi” he whined “it isn't me, but the Spirit of my Father who asks... commands. ” Making his case: “You know (and verily I know you know) it has often been said a man's strongest enemies reside squarely within his own household. Well, that's what we got here, guy. A domestic dispute, baby, in excelsius deo . No jive. Will you help me who has helped you...and helped so much? Huh?” “Urrrrah,” replied the soldier. “Oh, baby, baby I'm sorry” cooed Jesus. Reaching toward the soldier's throat Jesus gently commanded, “Speak, man.” “I will,” croaked the soldier, shocked by his ability to utter words, gravelly and hoarse though they were. “I will help you. Don't worry about Judas.” (What a sudden turnaround. What did the soldier think, what did he know? Nothing. It was a response dictated by an autonomic reflex and common politeness...in a word ‘manners': he wanted to please.) Something crushing was near, he felt it, but was not afraid. “Thanks, Romi. You won't regret it. Now I gotta scoot, but we'll be in touch real soon,” said Jesus, light as a feather and showing his famous talk show host smile once again.

The mood didn't last. It couldn't, the strain was too great. Jesus's face sagged into a weary smile. Slowly, reluctantly, like an old man, he stood up, grimacing as his knees straightened and blood flowed unimpeded toward his feet. The others followed. They all began to shuffle out, some sighing, some talking together in low voices. Jesus waved a listless hand for the soldier to follow. Once outside in the moonless dark breathing the starlight cooled air, conversation inevitably picked up. The men shook themselves like wet dogs, trudged downhill on the well-worn path leading into the orchard directly below the house. Jesus paused at a narrow gate bounded on one side by a low stone wall, on the other by irregular rows of twisted, skeletal olive trees older than memory. Everyone grew silent and serious. Judas walked up front next to Jesus. The soldier, flanked by two apostles, brought up the rear. With a final muttered word to the group of men, Jesus withdrew to one side, wandering alone out of sight. The others sat on the moist ground or spread their long robes for protection against the chilly ground and lay down. Some distance away the soldier followed suit, curious and expectant.

In the dark, under ancient olive trees King David may have touched, the men made room for themselves among the many rocks and clutter of stones, preparing for sleep. They knew to a man something was afoot, an electrical event was loading soon to be discharged. And they were ready. The time they worked so long for, the difficult, endless apostolic labor, was at last at hand. Their breasts swelled with love and anticipation. Their silent cry was the same for each: Jesus, Rabbi, Lord, an Unworthy thanks you!

With slow, mechanical, but deliberate, strides, Judas crossed the orchard and sat down heavily next to the soldier. In the darkness they were barely able to make out each other. The air was heavy with moisture. A gentle wind lazed through the foliage scarcely rustling the slim leaves. Soon all restlessness of the men within the orchard ceased and a few snores were heard among the buzz and click of insects. The weather changed; stars were blocked now by thick clouds. Nothing seemed to move or breathe outside the small troop of men. The whole world was contained within the low stone walls of the orchard.

With a start, the soldier felt the hot, sour breath of Judas brush his cheek. In rough but clear Latin the man spoke, “Even as you watch me, brother, I watch you.” Taken aback, the soldier could only groan. Barely perceptible in the darkness was Judas' smile. “The Father has more than one son, Roman...and more than one wife,” he laughed softly. Ruefully: “Jesus takes after his mother.” Smiling: “I favor Daddy.” Switching subjects abruptly Judas said, “Soon we Jews will outnumber the Emperor's sons of bitches and kick the entire litter into the sea...those who aren't already drowning in the cess pits.” The soldier shifted position angrily. Judas laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “We–you and I–are not enemies. Not yet. Talk to me a while. Romi? Is that your name, Romi?” The soldier choked with rage. Judas cooed him calm. “Did Jesus tell you why he brought you here?” “No,” croaked the soldier, sounding like a string pulled through a cardboard box, “only that I should watch you.” “Of course, of course. Jesus is super subtle, always has been, can't just come out with it. He gives them stories not even he understands. Rabbi Riddler, Peter calls him. Of course, that's Peter, who can't tell cauliflower from broccoli.” He laughed comfortably. “Our Rock!” The night wind increased, the air cooled further. Somewhere distant came a quiet moan: Jesus. “He wants you to restrain me. He wants you, a Roman, to prevent me, his brother, from pointing him out to the Temple police, Jews, who, in turn, want to turn him over to the Procurator, a Roman, who they hope will crucify him...Roman, Jew, Roman, Jew, what nonsense, eh boy?” ‘I ain't your boy.” “Why? Did you ask ‘why'? Because, boy, he is the Messiah...or he can be if he plays his cards right. Jews need a Messiah as much as Rome needs an Emperor. More. Rome is highly organized, it has an Emperor and a Senate. What do we got? Yahweh! Big Daddy! We are the Chosen People? Chosen Rabble, more to the point. Everybody hates everybody else. Our last king was a lunatic...and a Roman puppet. We got a chance with Jesus to pull it all together. He's going to be our Messiah and you keep the fuck out of it! ” “Fuck you, asshole.” “Tough guy. You sound like a Roman whore with no legs. Jesus thinks that when we found you it was a sign from Daddy.” “I shit on your Daddy,” gurgled the soldier. “In one way you're no different from most of us, you're a warrior, a fighter, you've killed people...Jews. Jesus should hate you. That's his big problem, he loves everyone! What makes you useful besides your pecker au natural is that you're a Roman, an outsider. You're disinterested, indifferent, neutral. And a warrior. Not that he wants you to kill anyone, he wants...” Judas' laugh broke through the night like rolling thunder, “he wants you to prevent others from killing him . You're a bodyguard, for Chris sake, totally expendable!” The soldier looked interested, “You? Its you? You want to kill him?” “Nooo. Nooo, not kill him, I just want him to die. It is written, the messiah must die. Jesus knew that from the beginning. His Father wants him to die. We all want him to die. Personally, I wouldn't hurt a curl. ” “All Jews are crazy.” Judas got angry, “We're the goddamned chosen people, boy. We were living here, right here! while you Romans were still sucking dog tit. So, crazy Jesus will be king of crazy Jews, what's it to you, Jack? Go away, leave us, let him die today. He ain't nothing to you anyhow. Let us have our dead Messiah, our King, it is not the business of Rome. What can Jesus give you that you cannot take for yourself, anyhow?”

The Roman paused. He hated this man. And he hated Jesus. He felt resentment. “He promised me eternal life.” “Hah! Haven't you heard, Rome is eternal, not Romans. His little joke. Let him die, Romi, die on the cross. It's our business, our sin, let it be on our heads. I know from the Father, we will have our messiah. It is written; don't muck it up, kiddo. You are not needed. Go! You're free.” The soldier cursed through his scarred throat sounding like a platoon of deflating sheep bladders. Roughly he pushed Judas away. He stood up and walked toward the midst of the others who slept soundly still while Judas slipped away over the wall.

The hours passed slowly. The rumble of quiet snoring mixed polyphonously with tree crickets' irregular chanting. Jesus returned quietly. His eyes searched the group and found one man missing. In a troubled voice he asked the air, “Where's brother Judas?” To the soldier, sternly “You shit, you were guarding him. What happened?” The soldier did not reply. Jesus regarded him a moment then closed his eyes and swayed. Finally, he sighed deeply and took a little water. Lowering his voice he asked, “Will you come with me a minute, keep me company a little bit? I was talking to Daddy, He's asked about you. He says you will watch my back. Will you, brother?” The soldier nodded assent.

As the wind picked up and the night deepened, Jesus led the way to the far end of the orchard where the trees grew sparse and the soil hard. Twice the soldier stumbled on loose rocks scattered about the ground. Arriving at the farthest wall, Jesus stopped and went rigid. He fumbled for the soldier's hand, when he found it he held on tight. The soldier pried his hand away just as Jesus collapsed to the ground, sobbing. They were alone; the blanket of night wrapped them together. Jesus remained silent as he knelt down, pressing his fiercely sweating head against the cool stone wall. He shifted his position trying to fit his knees between the many jagged rocks scattered about. Jesus held out his hand, “Take my hand, Romi.“ “No. I'm leaving,” said the soldier without moving. “You'll leave when I say so! Now take my hand!” The soldier paused for a moment unsure what to do with this crazy man. He leaned back against the low stone wall and tried to relax. Jesus smiled miserably at him, took his hand without protest and clasped it in both his own. The man was tortured, full of pain; his hair was a mess. The soldier listened as he talked in whispered, urgent conversation with someone who was either not there or hidden among the spare branches of olive trees.

The soldier tried to study Jesus but the darkness was too dirty. He felt nothing but disgust toward the man next to him. Again, he questioned why he was there, why Jesus needed him and why he should care.

Still clasped in Jesus's sweaty grip, the soldier felt with his free hand for a rock. There were many to choose from. He selected one with jagged edges all around, a star shaped rock whose points dug into his flesh. He tightened his grip. Without taking his eyes off the distraught man he straightened his other arm and swung mightily, bringing the rock down with all his strength on the man who now sat on his heels, eyes shut, head slowly nodding up and down, crying to himself like a chastised child. The blow struck Jesus' head just to one side, slashed off an ear and tore into his shoulder. He cried out and recoiled backward into the soldier. They fell together, one atop the other, against the wall. Blood quickly made the ground slippery causing the second blow to miss altogether. Blindly, he smashed at Jesus again and again and again. Each blow sounded like a gunshot, but neither man heard a thing: one was dead, the other in shock. Blood was everywhere. Everything was a dream. A tiny bit of sticky hair and skull clung unfelt to the soldier's cheek below his left eye. His fatigue was immense. He lay gasping hoarsely for breath, frantically gulping huge mouthfuls of air. It was a dream.

A blinding light tore at his eyes. Rough hands pulled at him; loud voices, screams and frightful shouts filled his ears. He was violently thrown backwards. The lightening sky silhouetted a man holding a long knife with both hands, shouting at him, gesturing threateningly, moving toward him, sword raised, aiming through tear brimmed eyes while the soldier lay there immobile as a broken automaton. The soldier knew what would happen and accepted it, there was no fight left in him. Another man intervened, jumping quickly between the two, he grabbed the sword hand and embraced the crying man, speaking with him, loud and hoarse, also crying. It was Judas, ragged, dirty Judas with long knotty hair and filthy tunic. He came back! And he took charge. He calmed the enraged man who handed over the weapon reluctantly, crying like a baby. Judas turned away and looked thoughtfully at the murderer. He spoke and pointed at him. The others bound the blood encrusted prisoner hand and foot, treating him roughly. He had a swollen lip and a throbbing ache in his head, but was alive. They didn't kill him. They didn't even really hurt him. Not yet.

Dawn arrived and with it frantic squealing women who came and saw. Jesus was wrapped in a long beautiful, pressed linen cloth that quickly became soaked with blood. The body was placed on a flat cart and moved off noisily into the warming day, accompanied by the shrilling wails of men and women announcing their deep sorrow. How ironic it was, the soldier thought: killed by the bodyguard. Not killed, murdered. The soldier began giggling, first to himself, then louder. He didn't think it was funny but couldn't stop even when the man who held the sword–he now saw it was Peter--came at him again. Again, Judas intervened. Judas?

A conference began. The twelve men gathered together in the open air and talked. They stood not three paces from where their leader's blood colored the rough ground and his murderer lay bound. It was an intense discussion with much gesturing and loud oaths and tears. Everyone was distraught. One, John, the youngest, got up and kicked the bound man violently in the back. This started the commotion all over again. Peter tried to retrieve the knife from Judas who wouldn't yield it. Odd that Judas was the one most in control. Odd, as well, that the others deferred to him when he spoke. The roughest, most fanatical looking of the lot became the only one who was able to function. Soon his voice was the only one audible. He talked emotionally but in measured tones and no one interrupted. Now and then he reached out to touch the person he spoke to, embracing him with comfort, looking directly into that persons eyes, just like Jesus had the night before. Eventually, calm was established. They all looked at Judas but in a peculiar way, like you'd look at wallpaper or a tired Impressionist print: with distance. They touched his grimy beard and stringy hair and tsk, tsk'd. Running through the garden from surrounding hills was a stream. Judas walked down toward it and disrobed. He proceeded to wash himself from head to toe. Upon returning, one of the twelve took sheep shears and began hacking at his matted beard. Another came over to where the murderer lay bound, cut the ropes, quietly spoke and gently pushed him away, eyes rimmed with tears. The soldier scrambled off without looking back, running headlong from the orchard, down the hill, past the city gates, through mazes of twisting streets and alleys, till he crossed the city and, panting, rushed out the farthest gate. No one stopped him. No one looked twice at the blood smeared running man: like, so what, man? Blood's cool here. He ran uphill and down hill until he could go no longer. He found a tree and rested beneath it. Panting furiously he tried to concentrate but couldn't. What had he done and why? Overwhelmed, his mind threw a rod and stopped working. He slept.

He slept until heat forced him awake and made looking for denser shade necessary. He climbed to a small wooded area atop a low hill. Directly across on his right lay the city of Jerusalem, about a quarter mile off. To his left, much closer, another hill faced him, bare and treeless, without shrub or grass, a rocky barren landscape well trodden but devoid of life.

He was overwhelmed by his action. It was neither guilt nor remorse he felt, but a sense he had done something momentous. He felt elated ! He killed a Jew ‘Messiah' (whatever that is) and lived to tell the tale. He felt terrific! He killed the man who helped him and who imprisoned him. The man who healed his wounds with a touch and who, with a touch, made his skin crawl. The man was a coward and a fag, and a rebel; he deserved to die. Once again, he slept.

He woke feeling like a god, like Thor. The sun was sometimes visible behind low, wind driven clouds and, judging by its position, the time was mid afternoon. Clouds threatened to soon cover the entire sky. Numerous translucent blue/black wisps tumbled by just out of reach. Filtered through this layer, sunlight took on a strange hue. Alien shadows emerged then disappeared along the ground path of the milling clouds which grew immense as battleships and he could actually hear the churning of their passage. The temperature dropped, the afternoon rivers of sweat which had mingled with blood from this morning's beating evaporated from his brow leaving sinuous pink trails etched upon his face like a Mardi Gras mask.

A commotion on the hill to his left caught his attention. People were gathering. He made out the muffled clatter of a far-off procession, approaching slowly. A sudden wind rose sending leaves and debris twirling, then changed directions in quick succession to steal close-by sounds from his ears while bringing distant noises near. The sky was now completely overcast with hundreds of low, clouds, solid as boulders, wildly chasing each other. Lightning, sharp as a knife, accompanied by deafening thunder, repeatedly sliced the air temporarily blinding all who watched, the cause of much murmuring. A sudden surge of air blew dust and leaves and sickening death-smells at the soldier making him gag. The temperature dropped. He began to shiver. He wrapped his arms across his chest and watched.

Something was happening on the bare neighboring hill. He rose to investigate, curiosity quickening his step. He made his way carefully downward, feeling a sudden need for the company of people, he felt inexplicably drawn to those on the hill opposite, a feeling that he belonged there, that he was part of that approaching procession, that he belonged with them. The top of the hill was now packed with people–Jews mostly, and a few lightly armed Roman soldiers. Looking up toward the apex he saw highlighted against the churning grey sky a small group of soldiers on horseback and numerous wooden posts packed upright into the barren ground. It was a familiar sight to him, crosses, crucifixions. This was routine duty. The clouds swooped lower threatening to envelope them all, like the flying dance of a mother bird warning off a predator. The air was thick with moisture and tension emanating from the milling crowds; the rough and almost disinterested Roman soldiers with a business-as-usual attitude pushing at people, forming them into orderly lines. A soldier sitting atop a large white horse held a slim standard that towered above everything else and flapped in the wind with a snapping sound. Vagrant grey wisps of cloud wrapped the flag in water vapor which ran down the shaft onto the soldier's arm. Most of the bystanders were women crying loudly and tearing at their clothes. Intermittent rain flicked across their faces, already wet with tears. As the soldier watched from the edge of the crowd, a few isolated but enormous rain drops slapped at his face, stinging like insect bites. It was only then that he realized he must still be covered with the blood of Jesus. The water made his hands feel sticky. Without warning he felt nauseated. The earth he stood upon emitted a stench that sickened him. Dropping to his knees he vomited bile. His breath tasted like the putrid smelling air coming from the mingled exhalations of unnumbered crucifixions. He struggled against the crowd toward the top where three new men were nailed, their feet twisted, knees raised, to offer a solid surface of heel bone for the carpenter soldier to nail through. Sudden lightening exploded making everyone jump. A shivering wind swept down from the summit. The soldier's teeth chattered uncontrollably. His body ached from blows received hours before. He slipped often. The blood on his hands mixed with mud; he looked like someone running from a crime, like he just murdered the earth. Arriving close to the crucifixion site one of the victimized men stood out from the other two by the fact he was covered in blood from hundreds of wounds to his head and torso. Clotted strands of blood dangled off his hands and feet like red icicles, his hair was pasted to his bloody face in thick impastoed streaks. At first, the soldier didn't recognize the crucified man, the scene was too bizarre. Recognition came slowly. Jesus? Impossible! Judas! It was Judas looking at him through tortured eyes, the same Judas who saved him from Peter's knife. Head and beard trimmed to Jesus's look, it was Judas fastened to the wooden beam. The man stirred feebly and looked at him. They stared at each other for a minute, then, to the soldier's surprise, Judas broke into a weary smile and spoke in hauntingly accented Latin, “My, my, my, the great assassin pays his respects.” “You!” “You did your job, Romi, scoot along now before I come down and whup your ass.” He faltered, unable to say more. His shallow breathing was loud and irregular. Then taking a mighty breath that drew his entire body up he looked around in dazed confusion and began talking, either to himself or to the saturated air as Jesus did last night in the garden, just before the soldier killed him. “Who are you talking to? Look at me, goddamn you, look at me!” With effort, Judas looked at the soldier, “Go away, you're not needed. Get lost. Vaya con dios, baby.” In obvious pain, Judas tried to dismiss the soldier by turning away but his mobility was limited. Whenever he allowed his body to sag his breathing faltered, bringing long, dragging coughs.

Judas' words and tone pissed him off. A dying Jew should be more humble. Apparently, all that mattered to Judas was giving the Yids a Messiah. Making Messiah's was a Roman prerogative! The soldier rushed toward a nearby guard grabbing the man's spear as he pushed him away. In a single stride he was back at the cross. Without a second's pause he stabbed Judas in the heart with such force the weapon cut through the body, exited out back, and fixed itself firmly into the heavy wooden upright. Judas, who watched abstractly while this happened, shuddered and died. The startled Roman soldiers standing nearby were first alarmed, but seeing no danger was posed to them (Jews settling old scores, they could have thought) jeered at both Judas and the guard whose spear was taken, who was rising angrily from the muddy ground. The soldier, our soldier, ran away unmolested.

As if in response to the events on the hill rain broke free of the clouds with such a force people were toppled. It rained, it hailed, the wind blew fiercely. He half ran, half slid down the hill knocking haphazardly into other people, not knowing where he was going. He ran on not stopping until he came to the orchard where it happened. Yes, it happened! Rain had washed the blood off rocks, but it happened! Yet Judas crucified didn't make sense; what idiot accepts such a horrible death voluntarily. He slid to earth staring at the jagged stones, mesmerized, remembering his attempt to kill the fucking messiah Jew. He was glued to the clayey earth, unable to move. He stayed, half-delirious; sounds came and went; he was washed with hot rain, then cooled to a shiver.

“Hey, bro,” a voice called, “are you a mean mutha or what?” It was Judas, still bearing the marks of his torment, the spear swinging wildly from his chest. A calm Judas, serene, a big birthday smile spread ear to ear. “But I ain't complaining, all things follow the will of Top Pop--which is just another way of saying ‘don't sweat the small stuff,' Romi. How's that grab you? Neato, right?” Judas was bursting with energetic enthusiasm. Gruesome as his appearance was-- especially disturbing was the blood splattered spear which knocked at low branches and bushes, but also the many scratches, contusions and abrasions over his entire body--he radiated bonhomie. Rubbing his hands together, “Many are called, man, but there's just one chair at the right hand of God. And I'll tell you one thing--and I learned this the hard way--being Jesus was easier than being Judas,” he hiccupped a laugh. Judas walked to the soldier and tried to sit down next to him but the spear got in the way so he kind of twisted to the left while leaning over to the right a little bit, “If we are called, man, we have no choice but to obey--as you have obeyed. You didn't do anything you weren't programmed for, did you know that? In a sense we short circuited your free will. But now, mon, you got to choose: either follow me or perish. Some choice, huh? But that's it, like it or not, because, baby, I am the way to salvation--even for Gringos. Tell me truly, how's this sound: ‘Judas Christ?'” He laughed. “Don't pull a Jesus. The keyword is ‘ Contentment ,' lovie. Be saved, be content with your lot. Follow me, baby.”

Judas turned and walked slowly up the hill to the villa, guiding the spear shaft with both hands. Half way he stopped once to coax, “C'mon, bubba, get right with God... now! ” Then marched on not looking back a second time.

The soldier could do nothing, say nothing, he was immobile. He felt cheated. Never before had someone he killed come back to life to taunt him--and, of course, it had to be a goddam Jew! He was overwhelmed with a disappointment bordering on despair. On the other hand, had he searched his soul for remorse he would have found no trace.

Another voice, this one harsh, anguished, megalomaniacal invaded his reverie. “You fucker!” a violent sound rushed at him. “Why? This was not my Father's will ....was it? I cured you, not Judas!” The horror the soldier felt was indescribable. He started to run but slipped and fell at Jesus' feet. Jesus loomed over the soldier cutting out the sky. He stared wide eyed at Jesus standing there, bending over him, breathing on him with stinking spasms. Never had such fear possessed him. The head of Jesus was mangled. One ear was missing, the flesh was pale and glistening ooze where each blow of the stone landed. His skull was misshapen, broken at the back. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with pink tears.

Jesus continued, obviously upset, “This cannot be. I am the One, goddammit! I...I who sent you? Wasn't that my idea, Paw? Not You! Not Daddy, not my Daddy!” Awkwardly he tried to raise his head to look up, skull bones creaking like trodden egg shell, screaming heavenward with visible anger. “Why? Why, Daddy? Why have you forsaken me?” he demanded pounding his fists into the thick, un-resilient air. Returning his gaze to the bewildered soldier Jesus hissed a whisper as if to impart a mighty secret, “You should never have been born! Never! I should have vetoed that.” Jesus' tears fell on the cowering murderer burning like napalm, his face contorted into a My Lai grimace.

Jesus took several deep breaths. Change was sudden. In a calm, meek voice or resignation, Jesus went on, “Well, Romi, I'm going home. I wasn't supposed to go like this, though,” gradually building a return to rage, “like a fucking victim. I was to be a messiah! You don't even know what that is, dumb ass Roman turd. Fucking king that's what it means!” Jesus almost toppled to the ground trying to kick the soldier and missing. With difficulty he stayed erect. With ironical calmness: “Father, who was once well pleased with me, who knows the past as well as things to come uses us– all of us–for his greater glory. Yes...“ as if forgetting his train of thought, “glory is important. Yes! But, true glory is more than walking around in golden robes and (singing) ** ‘ halo everybody halo ' + around your fucking head. Glory is what Judas has. Oh, Christ! Why him ?“ Defeated, battered head down, Jesus ascended the path in the footsteps of Judas to the villa atop the hill. “Oh, well,” he muttered, “oh, well, ohwellohwellohwell.”.

Supremely pissed off, and more than a little bit up in the air about all the commotion, the soldier slid into a sitting position to consider his feelings. Frustration led the list, followed by anger, disappointment...and failure. Killing Jesus was like blowing out one of those trick candles that re-light over and over. He didn't know what to do or where to go. True, Judas extended an invitation to stay with him...at the villa, he presumed. Life was considerably easier in this camp than the one at Sephorris. And his throat felt perfect, brand-baby new. He cleared his throat to test the timbre of his vocal cords. “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” A further test was needed. He tried a few bars of ‘ o sole mio ' and decided everything was fine. He got up and trudged up the hill with a sigh of surrender.

"Stop pushing, Ju, I know what I'm doing." "Forgive me, Brother, the Roman doesn't belong with us. He's a dick head like the rest of them. Even though he's wounded, he's still strong, and he's arrogant beyond belief." "In that he resembles you, Judas. Don't worry, baby, I got it under control. We'll all enter Paradise together, we got Daddy's word on that." "I don't buy it, Teach, I'm afraid that when he regains his voice he'll rat on us and those who follow. Maybe he can't talk but he watches, he's making mental notes." "He ain't that smart, Ju, you said so yourself," said Jesus laughing, "I got plans, I'm always planning, you know that, Ju. I ain't scared of him," he said pointedly, "there are greater dangers nearer at hand." The two stared at each other. Jesus turned and greeted Mary, who just entered the room, with a hug and a large smile. "What's for supper, Mar," he asked, "I could eat a goat."

From afar, Jesus and Judas resemble each other. They are average size Jews of similar height and weight. But up close one looks wild; Judas is like an animal raised in a desert; the other, Jesus, could grace a movie poster. One, you would say, lives in a cave, the other owns a penthouse. Two people who could never be friends because the chemistry of friendship is absent. Still, it may not be friendship, but a high voltage charges the air around them. They are colleagues pulled together from different departments on different floors to work together on the same project for the good of the company. If you are only mildly perceptive, with adequate eyesight, you'll notice that Jesus is clearly the Man in Charge. Besides his dress--which, in fact, resembles a Prada frock, richly embroidered, starched, pressed, pleated...but, clothing aside--his gaze is steady, forehead smooth and his mouth quick to smile. And equipped with two good hands which reveal nothing of the carpentry he is reputed to have practiced as a youth, but mold easily into a firm handshake or a practiced dramatic swish capable of dragging demons of darkness into light, a skill he is particularly proud of. When he walks, you observe the gait of a leader, his stride confident and firm. His body, not as muscled as his companion, but more supple. Jesus's hair is fine and neatly brushed, his beard short and tended. A handsome man, GQ-ish.

The other guy is a man you instinctively walk around or, with lowered glance and a vacuous look, allow to pass. Don't boss him, don't cross him. His eyes are angry, full of sparks. Dark, large pored skin stretches drum tight over a bony skull. Muppet-like lips slice across his face where both frowns and smiles are out of place. His mouth fills with curses that Jesus religiously ignores. His muscles are sinewy and elastic; his fingernails are uneven, striated and caked black underneath. His ragged tunic is streaked with the fresh dust of Judea, Galilee and Samaria. Rough sandals, worse than a campesino's car-tire model, protect his rough feet. His hair is black and wild like late Brother John's, like a sheep from the hills, like a homeless mad woman's; he wears a knotted beard that has never been shorn or combed. No way these two can be friends. They are not friends. Theirs is a relationship bound by unusual knots. They are 'believers', zealous believers. Mostly, they believe in themselves. And swear by sweat they are ready to die for their beliefs. And, of course, they believe in Daddy.

How the Roman soldier came among them depends on your point of view. He was either saved or captured. Or, dropped into their midst like a chess piece by Big Daddy.

His regiment was stationed in Sephorris (you don't need to remember this), a garrison charged with maintaining order along the trade route between Judea and Samaria. It was challenging duty: Yids were nothing but trouble.

When trouble did arrive he was asleep. Nationalists rebels raided the garrison at Sephorris intent on merely tumbling the aplomb of Roman arrogance. However, the fight went better than expected. Hence, the opportunity presented itself of actually killing everyone in camp and they decided to do so. How it happened that the soldier survived the slaughter is interesting. Not that they intended to let him live, but in a fight like this details often go awry, for instance, an apprentice warrior might mistake a jab for a slicing motion. That sounds silly but often the simplest explanation is the best. That is exactly what happened. One of the rebels attempted cut our Roman's throat-there were several witnesses-but it was so ineptly done the man survived. The soldier was more stabbed than sliced, with the result that his vocal cords were irreparably damaged, beyond even the ability of a modern specialist to repair, but his life was not in jeopardy. This was an unexpected godsend for all concerned. Along with copious bleeding came grunting and growling cries which amused the rebel commander to no end and the other attackers as well, even the perpetrator who initially wanted another try. They watched the soldier stagger around holding both hands over the wound. The sounds of rage and fear never reached his lips. Instead the air passed directly from the stab wound to his wet, loosely closed fingers making a barrage of tiny farting sounds. The result was belly laughs all around. They would have surrendered half their booty for a camera or tape recorder. The idea came to the rebel commander to share this sight with his countrymen, to make this Roman a living testament to his prowess. They took a hot iron. In mis-spelled, semi-literate Latin they seared into his back the ironic message: "Soldier of Rome, ruler of Jews," which came out more like "Zoljer d' Romi, rulJuu." Bleeding from the throat, gagging and coughing and stumbling around senseless, they stripped him naked, tied his hands to his throat and roughly shoved him down the road, a walking billboard declaring the absurd arrogance of Rome's occupying force in smudged illegible letters which the totally illiterate Jews he encountered could only wonder at. So, deep in shock, the soldier lurched down hill as fast as he could, away from Sephorris, toward further adventure.

In a land where each village was no more than an hour's walk from the next he soon met representatives of the local population. At first he scared them-what a sight! When they saw he was helpless, fear was replaced by its obverse, cruelty. Just look at him, what an ugly mess! Take that, pig! And that, also! A walking horror! Push, shove, hit. And a Roman to boot, that was obvious. For one thing, he wasn't circumcised: Trying to scare our women, are you? Take that! That! That! Yet, they also, let him live. Why? That's speculation. The soldier continued on as if divinely guided. Night fell and so did he.

Exhausted, tortured by terrible thirst and nausea induced by shock, he rolled over into a ditch wet with gooey sewage. As he collapsed, the wound at his neck reopened with a sharp, searing pain. He lay trembling a long time unable to free his hands from the rope and coagulated blood glueing them in place. He was shaken by a terrible chill. He began to hallucinate. Believing he was still with the rebels he begged for death, then for life, cursing them for being Jewish dogs, then swearing he would never harm the hair of another Jew if they would just help him. He couldn't remember who he was nor where. His inner ear was unreliable: Was he floating? Flying? Upside down, in air or under water? All of a sudden he was no longer scared: fear required logical thought.

Very gradually, through a series of subtle temperature changes, he became conscious of spreading warmth. He lay on his stomach; his legs and back grew increasingly hot, his wounds felt like fire. Noises filtered through his half consciousness, familiar sounds of people and animals came to him with the sun. Undulating air waft across his body, moving the small hairs on the backs of his legs, sending a shiver through his entire body. Then he became aware of shouts nearby. Touches! He was forcibly and roughly turned over. He opened his eyes blinking repeatedly against the bright sunshine. His hands were released from his throat which caused him to scream with pain. His lips were dry and cracked. Forcing open his eyes, he looked around, wild with returning fear. Two young men were prodding him with poles, gesturing him to get up and pointing down the road. His nakedness was partially hid by dirt and grime and his chest was sticky with a mixture of fresh and coagulated blood. Contrasting sharply with the blood now turning black, and the deep sunburn on arms and face, was the skin of his chest and stomach, shining ludicrously white. It was very early morning, a clear, ice blue sky added coolness to the air. The sun slanted acutely toward the horizon made huge sloping shadows from the one and two storey mud buildings, whose coarse wooden doors and darkly curtained windows were barely visible. He was aware of a strong, all pervading smell both strange and unpleasant, the stench of cabbage mingled with raw sewage. He had no idea how long he lay there but the pain in his throat was steadily getting worse while his back was burning and his stomach was chilled and wet. Of the preceding battle, a bare twenty four hours past, he remembered nothing.

Two more men, lightly armed with cudgels, hurried toward him. With practiced motion they jerked him to his feet and tied his hands roughly behind his back. They pushed him in a direction between two decrepit huts down a path littered with trash and lined with filthy urchins who, along with wrinkled old women, watched grinning ear to ear. They marched him in silence, pushing roughly to direct him left or right. After ten minutes they threaded him through a small doorway that led to a large but dilapidated stone structure with dangerously leaning walls. Once inside a dusky inner courtyard shiny with green mold his bonds were removed. Crossing the courtyard was a shallow ditch channeling another little river of piss and shit. It was quiet and stifling hot. Flies buzzed. The floor was slippery, the air gagging. He was the only prisoner in sight.

A strong hand shoved him wordlessly into a cell, a tiny room with a barred door of crocheted iron-mesh screen, small and rusting. The squealing door slammed shut with a loud explosive bang. The pain wracking his body gradually built in magnitude until it ruled him and he could think of nothing else. He wanted to scream but only a bubbly gurgle climbed out his mangled throat. He fought to control his panic which threatened at any moment to overwhelm him. He faced death before but never like this, not helpless like a fucking slave, no weapon, not even an enemy to fight. Self pity spread through his body like a virus; a feeling of helplessness brought choking sobs to his chest, cries which sounded ridiculous in this warrior's body, like a Barbie doll in orgasm. Pity gradually turned to anger; anger fused into rage and a desire for revenge. Backing into a corner, he drew his legs tight against his stomach, both to hide his nakedness and ward off the clammy cold. Eventually, he fell into twitching, troubled sleep.

He slept the day through and then the night. Next morning his captors pulled him into the small courtyard. The sun shone bright hurting his eyes and making the shadows blacker. One of his captors, wearing a kind of ski mask, grabbed his face with both hands and looked him in the eye. "Romi go home!" he shouted in pig Latin, showering the soldier with spittle, "Romi go home!" They tied him to a post and whipped him hard. Afterwards, they stuffed him into a dirty tunic, dragged him outside and tossed him across the back of a donkey which they led to the edge of town. He was dumped onto the ground, kicked once viciously in the side, then abandoned. More dead than alive, he remained motionless til he was sure his tormentors had gone, fearful lest a movement inspire more beatings. Very quietly, under his breath, he began to curse. He cursed himself, kikes, Rome, gods, Palestine, all people everywhere from the beginning of time. Savagely, he vowed terrible revenge on them all. The utterly foul taste in his mouth remind him of events that seemed far off, but in fact were only two days old.

Whimpering like a child, his stolid self command evaporated. The fear he felt was new and uncontrollable unlike the fear of battle where at least he could slash back and scream at his opponents. He forced himself upright and stumbled on til dark without food or water, every step tearing at the wound in his throat. The ragged tunic he wore stuck to the open gouges on his back. He encountered no one on the road as if the word had gone out to avoid him. Approaching midday he neared a village. A few travelers appeared, shepherds with flocks crossing the road, merchants in carts driven by donkeys who eyed him nervously, everyone gave him a wide berth. Foot traffic increased. He tried begging for help. Some pretended not to notice, and rushed to get on with their business. Now and then younger men accidentally ran into him, roughly shoving him off the road blaming the too bright light for not seeing him, then offering a mock bow of apology. Never mind the sky was overcast. When he responded with animal sounds they laughed aloud, high fiveing each other with gusto.

An almighty thirst had him half crazed. He was begging for water but the words never reached air although 'water' was one of the few words he knew in Aramaic besides obscenities. He stopped at the edge of the village and sank to his knees next to a well, without the strength, without even little girl's strength, to pull up a jug of water. He folded his arms around his knees, lowered his head into the muck edging the stones and cried silently to himself like a forsaken child. He slept or passed out, drained and hungry, sucking the wet earth into his mouth without thinking about it.

He woke uncertain that he lived. His terrible thirst convinced him he yet had life. He turned onto his back with difficulty. An old woman whose house stood on the edge of the village furtively watched him from her window and seemed to take pity on him. Seeing his cracked lips and weakened body, dried blood smearing his neck and chest, she brought him a gourd of black and reeking water some hard bread and a chunk of moldy cheese, throwing them at his feet before moving quickly away. At once he emptied the gourd, devoured the food. Less shaky with something in his stomach he hauled himself up and looked around. Under a grey sunless sky the cool light of an overcast sky that threw no shadows made the world appear two dimensional. Clay walled houses, shuttered and closed and seemingly rooted into the grey soil like bare, stunted tree trunks scattered up a low hill. Slim tendrils of smoke rose from each house and flickering lamp light edged past roughly hewed doors.

With a clearer mind but still uncertain of his direction or his goal, the soldier forced himself up. He continued on his way hoping to see Roman troops along the way who would deliver him from these shitty little people.

An hour later without warning, the food he had eaten began to act violently on his system. The awful contractions of imminent diarrhea gripped his abdomen. He half fell, half pushed himself into a doorway with barely time to lift his tunic. He was totally out of control; his body took charge. He felt miserable, helpless and embarrassed.

Some people stopped and jeered, pointing and laughing at him in obvious derision. A child threw a small ball of manure, hitting him squarely in the face which made him jerk back, opening again his neck wound and causing him to bray loudly which caused more sarcastic laughter from the towns people. More people appeared, some seeming to lecture him. Others holding their noses, made crude gestures. Out of frustration he began to talk back to them, sounding ferocious like some exotic animal in a terrible rage, the sounds getting shriller and more frantic every second as he gasped for breath. There were people everywhere, all talking at once, gesturing, laughing, hooting. The door behind him opened suddenly and just as suddenly slammed shut again, causing a stinging pain on his lower back bringing more raucous jeers. The noise became deafening. He feared again for his life.

All at once the noise lessened, then subsided. The mass of bodies directly before him parted letting through a group of men evidently held in high esteem. As the din died down shouts of "Lord, Lord!" were heard. One of the men removed a shawl from his shoulders, bend towards the soldier and began to clean him gently and thoroughly. Another brought water, clear and pure. The crowd stood mute, staring. Others from the group quietly began dispersing the gathered people who obeyed readily. The soldier saw and felt what was happening to him dimly, as if in a trance.

The man, the leader, smiled, soft with reassurance. He touched the soldier with hands that were deft and practiced at cleaning, like a mother's; long agile fingers ended in sharp, shiny pink nails with cuticles showing-a practically unknown part of the body in those days. Each nail was cut bluntly but evenly at the tips. He wore chocolate hair long, parted in the middle and trimmed to dangle just brushing his graceful shoulders. His complexion was coffee milk brown with interesting cherry highlights glowing out each high boned cheek. His lips held the delicate hue of split, ripe figs. He was thin and affable and smiled broadly as he spoke and his words were punctuated with a laugh holding the resonance of a helden tenor. In strongly accented, but perfectly correct and understandable, Latin, the man said: "To the people you are an animal. You talk like one. You look like one. They believe you are possessed by a devil. Besides," he laughed, "all Romans are devils, nicht wahr? That's their experience."

The distressed soldier could only make gagging sounds in reply. He wanted to communicate with this person who helped him. In his desperation to talk, he recoiled as his neck wound hurt him more, it felt like a burning ember soaking into his skin. The Jew-he was obviously a Jew--placed two fingers on the soldier's neck, "Hurt no more," he said, sending a twinkling smile to the wounded man, "Pain is such a drag. Come with us and hurt no more, brother." He again touched the soldier on his neck, brushing down the wounded back with friendly solicitude.

The pain ebbed, returned, flickered then finally left him like a lamp sucked dry of oil. He was helped to his feet and half carried along by two burly men who despite seeming to find the job distasteful treated him gently. They arrived at a place not far away that was more compound than villa with high walls no windows and a single massive wood door. Later, he was allowed to bathe and given clean clothes. He was invited to eat with them and was assured the food would not give him problems. The only one who spoke to him was Jesus and, although the pain had abated significantly, the soldier could still only growl a conversation.

He spent the next few days living as one of them. His wounds healed, the pain retreated for good. He thought he understood when everyone addressed the leader either as "Lord" or "Master." These are noble words. They sounded repugnant to him when addressed to such shitty little people. "Next they'll be calling him 'Caesar,'" he thought. Jesus appeared before the soldier only rarely, but always smiling and friendly.

Exactly who these people were the soldier couldn't decide. None appeared to work, yet everyone had enough to eat, clean clothes and a place to sleep. Wine was served at every evening meal, even to him. There were almost as many women as men, maybe more, it was impossible to tell as everyone kept busy and people were constantly coming and going. It was hard to know who belonged and who was visiting. Each morning all the men got up early, Jesus also, and were gone the whole day, returning after dark for supper and long discussions. Harangues, really. Jesus did 90% of the talking. He had a good voice, no one seemed to tire listening to him. Strangely, sometime the soldier understood all that Jesus said, even when he spoke Aramaic...but just sometimes. Other times it was Greek. He thought Jesus was making this happen. Another magic trick. He considered that Jesus wanted him to know he held some power over the Roman and could exercise it at will.

Everyone treated the soldier as if he belonged, although nothing special was done for him. Like the women, he was excluded from the evening meetings. He lacked no essential and spent all of his time in a state of restlessness, either thinking--a fresh experience--or pacing to and fro within the compound confines. There was always a guard at the gate and it was made crystal clear that he was not allowed out. Everyone else came and went freely.

What he thought about mostly is how he hated these prissy little people with their capital 'G' God and better-than-thou attitude. Every Roman soldier stationed in Palestine knew about their chosen people attitude. That's why at Sephorris a Jew was always chosen for latrine duty. But after experiencing first hand the deadly hostility of Yids the soldier grew to fear them. What puzzled him greatly was why they held on to him. What's the point? Why not free him...or kill him? He felt totally fucked. They had good reason to hate him, and vice versa. Who are these people, who is Jesus? His followers are a group of what? Terrorists? Bandits? Maybe-- the men are gone all day. No one seems hurting for spending money. And how many are they? Unaccustomed as he was to independent thought (he usually just followed his dick) his thoughts took on a life of their own. Their kindnesses to him, he realized, were fluff, intended to lull him into an un-armed state, a lack of awareness about their rebellious or criminal intentions. These people were not very sophisticated and neither was he, but he saw through them. These runty little creatures didn't fool him. They wanted something from him. Whatever it was, he wouldn't give it! Just days previously, he was killing Jews, any Jews - women, children, it made no difference. And he would do it again. Living with them made no difference. Living with them made it certain.

Jesus was the leader. Everyone looked up to him, hung on his every word and obeyed without question, especially the women. Jesus laughed a lot, joking with everyone, he even talked to the half-feral dogs hanging around the courtyard, growling at them, sounding a lot like the soldier, til they were in a frenzy. The soldier watched Jesus carefully alert for any sign of change in the apparent friendliness that he showed, but found none. Rarely, however, did Jesus talk directly to him. In fact, hardly anyone talked to him, understandable because of the language problem, but no one paid him much attention of any kind. He was just there, to be approached cautiously, perhaps, because, like the dogs, he was half-feral.

As best he could the soldier attempted to think the problem through, however he knew the distillate of all mental activity had to be action. He was a soldier, passivity wasn't natural. Physically, he was back to normal, except, of course, he couldn't speak. As reminders of the rebel attack only rough, hard scars remained. Most frustrating of all, was not being able to speak.

When action came it was not what he expected and not of his own choosing. The whole household was moving south to Judea. He was not asked, but told politely and firmly by Jesus that he would remain with the men throughout the trip which would be made on foot with just a few asses for supplies and for one of the women, a woman from Magdala , who was pregnant with the child of one of the men, the roughest, dirtiest of the lot. This man, Judas, was respected by his comrades but was a loner, conversing at length only with Jesus who always listened to him intently.

The trip lasted two or three times longer than it should have. Cheering, whistling crowds repeatedly blocked the roads waving palm leaves and mutton pies. Solemn groups carrying people in litters, carts and on their backs also stopped the entourage to plead with Jesus for a mere touch. More and more they encountered lonely crazies crying out for release from inner turmoil. At each distraction Jesus would stop and mingle, shaking hands, kissing babies, healing, exorcizing, resurrecting the freshly dead. He and his twelve core followers returned to the camp each evening exhausted.

The journey was hard on everybody especially the women who handled most of the travel preparations in addition to their regular chores. At times, even Jesus appeared near a breaking point, complaining a little bit, whining, a glossy vestige of tears rimming his eyes. At those times he would seek out Judas; they would huddle holding hands, talking late into the night. The Madalene would bring hot tea which they sipped noisily and quickly to the dregs and which never failed to calm them. After these intense discussions with Judas, Jesus would rise smiling vacuously and retire, at peace again with the world. The other man, rough looking Judas, unchanged after these meetings, would return without comment to the others in the group.

Once they arrived in the vicinity of Jerusalem Jesus took a stronger interest in the soldier, going out of his way to talk with him, to be extra friendly and to comfort the man who had become to regard himself a prisoner. They spoke of the few subjects Roman and Jew had in common: sports, the weather, food.

The group set up lodgings in a large house just outside the city walls, on a little hill overlooking an olive orchard next to a narrow, winding trail leading toward the city. There was much hustle and bustle the week after arrival. Activity within the group tripled; the mood was upbeat and highly positive. It was easy to make someone laugh, you just had to say the magic word: 'messiah.' The response was a loud, spontaneous, "Yes!" with hugs and knuckle punches all around. Clearly, something was afoot, something eagerly anticipated by all. The soldier thought 'messiah' meant something like 'Super Bowl.' Only Jesus, drinking more than usual, was at times seen wearing a forced smile.

The soldier, always watchful, ears pricked like cauliflower antenna, received the nuances of change with some alarm. Though restricted in movement, his life was not bad, he viewed any change that didn't include freedom as a downer. Underlying all contact with his captors was the fact that he still regarded them as shit heads, ass holes and circumcised scum. However, before leaving, he would like to dick the bitch from Magdala.

Then, one evening the men returned much later than usual. The women were not told and they were cross because supper was getting cold. As the men clomped wearily into the large meeting room, all wore serious expressions, especially Jesus who said nothing at all and was uncharacteristically short tempered. Pushing open the small door to the room the soldier shared with two others Jesus slouched in the doorway and stared silently at the soldier for a long time, motionless, eyes lost in the shadows of the room lit only by a few flickering oil lamps. "I wish," he said at last in very cultured, affected Latin, "I could read your twerpy little mind, Romi." Jesus was drunk. "You and Daddy in cahoots?" he asked. "Don't answer that," he said quickly, smiling briefly.

The large house, though filled with people, was abnormally quiet. A few coughs, the muffled scrapping of a stool on the dirt floor, sounds from the kitchen of women cleaning the remains of supper replaced the normal evening uproar. And still the man stood there watching the Roman who in turn was becoming more agitated by the minute. Something had happened and it concerned him, he thought. One of the twelve, it was Judas, approached Jesus and spoke a few hurried words in his ear. When Jesus responded with a wave of dismissal Judas, fuming, slipped away into the interior darkness of the house. Jesus appeared tired and passive and content to lounge in the soldiers doorway forever. With a leaden hand he motioned for the soldier to follow then turned into the dark interior. They entered a long, low-roofed austere room used both for dining and sleeping by the men. Almost the entire company was assembled, men and women. The children were absent. Most sat cross-legged on the floor around the communal table, a massive low-to-the-ground structure assembled from rough wood and stained heavily with the residue of many meals. A few, including Judas, rested on his heels, towering above the others. The women were segregated to one side talking softly together. Everyone crowded each other for a few inches of space. There were no windows in the room. A dozen or so oil lamps resting in niches carved into the walls radiated as much gloom as light, a light that struggled through air oppressively humid and reeking of sweat and oxidizing olive oil. Everyone wore black. A few, women, draped head to toe in black, resembled Ninjas. Only Jesus, in a fine white tunic and cerulean cloak, shone like a mirage at midnight, he appeared actually to glow in the dark. The dark faces assembled about him absorbed his light but remained themselves deep in shadow. The women, hushed now and looking anxious, remain motionless with their backs pressed against the flaking wall. A hurried conference of Jesus and Judas ended when Jesus signaled to the women. Donning a great smile, throwing his voice as low as he could, he said, "Ladies? Ladies, would you please leave us...would you...please? For a little bit? We'll miss your lovely faces, but...thank you, thankyou, thankyouuuu. Yes, you too, Mary. Please, hun." this latter was addressed to the pregnant Magdalen who appealed with her eyes to Judas who merely shrugged. The women left with little noise. Soon, only men were present.

The air was pungent with left over dinner smells, boiled cabbage, savory mutton and spilled wine. As the last woman left the room, it was like a signal to the men to converse. A change of ambience was palpable. Everyone spoke at once, but in serious, conversational tones. Still, the hum of voices was not normal, but rather took on the quality of a disturbingly edgy noise, like continuously shattering pottery. Strain showed on several faces. John, the youngest, was close to tears. None looked at Jesus who remained aloof and introspective. Carafes of thick red wine appeared and shallow clay beakers brought out. The soldier also was given a share. Jesus took none. Soon, one or two of the followers began to sway rhythmically, as if tuned to inner music. At first, as individual lamps hissed out, they were refilled with olive oil and lit again by one of the apostles. Eventually, even this minor disturbance to the meditative stillness of the group ceased and the lamps either burned low or went out without notice.

Jesus rose from his shadowed place in a corner, cleared away some utensils from a large stool standing centrally, stepped up upon it, then sat down again, folding gracefully into the lotus position. He sat motionless, hands on knees, thumb and forefingers closed in a circle, eyes shut, like a very skinny Buddha awaiting gilding. Presently, he opened his eyes and inspected the faces of those around him then signaled the soldier, who hugged the periphery, to find a place close by. "This concerns you as well, Romi m'boy. Just be quiet...and patient," he stage whispered. None of the others payed attention to this remark. Judas looked up momentarily inspecting the two men with interest, then turned away. The room grew darker. Conversation flagged. A few fell asleep in their sleeves. Silence crept through the room till the only sounds were Jesus's regular breathing and the creak of someone repositioning himself. Although his back stayed ramrod straight as if pressing against a solid wall of air, it was as if Jesus slept. One hand now rested casually on John's shoulder. John, who leaned slightly in Jesus's direction, no longer appeared upset. When Jesus finally spoke it was without opening his eyes. The others responded immediately to his voice, becoming rigidly attentive. To the soldier, it was as if his ears were plugged, he heard nothing but a garbled hum.

Darkness flooded the corners of the room. Two oil lamps placed on nearby stools cast nervous, upward shadows making Jesus' face and hands shine bright while his lower body distilled into blackness. The others hovered in and out of view, competing for space with the gloom. During the pauses in Jesus's words, the silence was a solid force pressing in on them all. He spoke slowly, deliberately, stretching each syllable as if reluctant to let it leave his trembling lips. He looked in turn at each one, addressing them individually, pleading with each, his body alternately going rigid and limp. When he stopped talking the others seemed to expect or hope for more words. John, of course, wept quietly. He was the only apostle who carried a handkerchief. When Jesus spoke again it was an aside to the soldier in Latin, not looking at him. The others watched seriously even though they could not understand a word spoken.

"You are here, Romi" said Jesus, "because my Father says you belong here. You must believe that. He needs fighters as well as peacemakers. The Lord knows, I can't do everything. Fortunately for many, there is a place set aside in the kingdom for everyone. A place for you too, buddy, if you have faith in His Chosen One, i.e., me!" These last words were choked out and seemed to tire him greatly. He left off speaking. He seemed to be in a trance. When he continued it was in a voice hoarse with emotion, speaking each word as if each contained life itself. "I - saved - you. I saved you. You owe me one, soldier!" His glow faded suddenly, as if the effort of speaking Latin drained his energy. "If some will have their way," he continued weakly, "my time is up." The soldier listened, trying to make sense of the man's words while the others continued to ignore this discussion between the two most improbable persons in the room. Jesus resumed in a slightly louder voice, "Others, however, believe my Daddy would rather I continue with His work for a little bit longer...a good deal longer, I might add." In a sincerely but incongruously high pitched squeal he added, "I pray for guidance, but He refuses to speak clearly to me!" The shriek subsided to a near whisper. "His words are loud yet sound strangely to me. He answers my prayers with questions I don't understand!" Jesus became visibly agitated, sweat ran freely down his face. Without leaving the stool he lunged at the soldier, grabbing the man's tunic in a vice like grip. He touched the man's neck and back with both hands, speaking rapidly without pausing. "You are strong again. Through me, Poppa has cured you. Through me He will cure all mankind. Through the intercession of the Son of Man y'all will all rise again to worship Us on that final day." He loosened his grip on the soldier's tunic. "The Father is mysterious. No one knows that more than me...even I don't understand Him all the time. But He doesn't hide from His children. And, He would never lie to me. You, soldier, I understand you. He gave me you and you may be His answer. You are a soldier, accustomed to controlling men. Even when your orders sound like a barking dog, other men jump. Don't think I haven't noticed. Even if you are the whore of my enemy, this night you will redeem yourself if you choose to serve your Lord." He paused long enough to look the soldier in the eye. "Don't turn your head," he suddenly ordered "but there is one man here who is a threat to me." Instantly the soldier knew who that was, it could only be one man. "I think you know who he must be. His name is Judas. Don't look around! Tonight, Romi, you must control Judas. If the Father has truly sent you, keep Judas in the garden tonight when we go out to pray. Do this for love of me and do not wonder. Soon, I promise, soon you will be able to return to where you belong, among your own. And with a profit. Silver. You know what I mean?"

Without waiting for a response, Jesus padded the man's shoulder fraternally and beamed, all agony gone from his face which became smooth once again. He turned towards the others, switching fluently to Aramaic. He spoke at length, gesturing with hands and head, haranguing the twelve men, badgering them. He spoke passionately non-stop, foamy bits of spittle gathered at the corners of his full lips. At one point they all turned and looked at the soldier. One continued to stare after the others looked away, Judas, whose gaze was cooly analytical.

The women were summoned to carry in more food, then dismissed once again. The men ate automatically, without appetite, nourishing themselves steadily with wine. As before, only Jesus spoke. He began cautiously, hesitatingly, measuring his words carefully for greatest effect. The men were spellbound. He took a loaf of unleavened bread. Holding it above his head where all could see, he broke it into small, equal portions which he passed to each man ritualistically, touching that person's hand and making firm eye contact. He included the soldier in this ritual which had a strange effect on Judas who looked surprised. Shifting position slightly, Jesus reached down for a clay jug of wine standing next to his stool. Holding it with both hands for all to see he raised it to his lips and took a long pull straight from jug ending with a loud 'ahhhhhhh'. Every man passed his beaker to Jesus, some of the men hastily emptied theirs first. Jesus poured a small portion into each container, talking softly all the while. None drank until Jesus raised his cup, cradled in both hands, and gave the signal: a long, mournful chant that filled the room and made the shadows vibrate. It was a cry of pure emotion, penetrating each man to his very marrow. It brought a purifying breeze to that window-less room; it stirred the dust and made the lamps glow brighter, and brought tears to the eyes of the twelve followers. To the soldier, it had a chilling effect. He felt his hackles rise and an unfamiliar feeling suffused his body. Jesus' strong voice coursed through the dark house like a heady fog. Next door one of the women screamed a shrill lament in sympathy.

The soldier shuddered understanding nothing. This man, this fop, this cur and his primitive litter of Jewish dogs was reaching into him, touching something inside-or, worse, injecting something that didn't belong-something he didn't comprehend on any level. And didn't want. He wanted none of their infection. He tried to keep his thoughts to himself, his mind blank, superstitiously believing that Jesus could read his mind despite the claims he made earlier.

The soldier was ignored for the rest of the meal, but he couldn't take his eyes of Jesus who looked like a youth, cheeks flushed, eyes pale blue, limpid as a Rocky Mountain lake. He looked noble. Jesus' soft black beard shown shiny and moist. His long hair bounced lightly and was bordered by a suffusing glow woven through it and into it, like a pulsing neon crown.

Jesus was rapturous. Dispensing blessings with long-fingered gestures in a voice raspy with effort and emotion. To the soldier, Jesus looked like the king of Elysium. His emotional state was evident in his glowing eyes, his trembling hand, his dignified mournful visage. At one point, just when everything was urgently serious, a roach ambled across the table in front of him. Jesus stopped talking and watched it. Slowly, he placed a finger in its path and let it crawl unto his shaking hand before placing it on the floor allowing it to continue its determined journey within the maze of straw. Turning to the soldier he said wearily, "Any of us could have stopped that insect from doing Daddy's will, even by accident, you know, innocently stepping on it. You know? Yet my Father protected it as He does all His creatures...every single one without exception. He instructs them how to proceed. And He has His own way of doing thing, mysterious ways, strange ways that maybe confuse us. Yes sir, He watches over you and He watches over me and He watches over that roach, that vermin. And the mysterious thing, Romi, is that He watches over me through you." Speaking now with increasing energy, "You are His tool, man, His eye, hand, shield...SWORD! Acknowledge, baby, Our power over you and live forever! (Shouting each word staccato) For-I- am-the-Son-of-God-and-when-I-speak, He who rules the world speaks and I say unto you if you hear my words one-day-you-will-reside-in-my-kingdom, Our kingdom, sitting on my right hand...for all eternity." This speech took everything out of him, he was near breaking. Summoning up a last reserve of strength, looking directly at the soldier, he continued with words all could understand, "The Lord of all things commands you to protect His son!" At this injunction, the apostles broke out in exuberant applause, smiling broadly at the soldier. Some whistled drunkenly. A few attempted to high five each other missing widely. Judas rose in disgust and left the room leaving the door open, through which could be heard joyous giggly laughter from the women who were eavesdropping in the next room. "Romi, Romi, yeaaa, Romi," they rah-rahed.

Jesus completely broke down. Crying and laughing simultaneously, nodding his head, rocking back and forth so wildly everyone feared he would fall from his stool. The apostles looked on helplessly. On the other hand he was beautiful and the men watched him adoringly. A network of sweaty hair clung to his forehead like glossy surf foam; his eyelids, thin almost to transparent, fluttered nervously over dancing eyes; an aura of light, divinely hued, enveloped his head with rheostatic expansion. He was never more loved. Just as these men belonged to Jesus, so was he theirs.

All this met a fantastic reception with the soldier whose solitary thought was madness!, madness!, madness! Jesus began his descent slowly. First by gradually ceasing his swaying motions; then, calming his breathing; last, opening his eyes, docking a lock of hair behind an ear and smiling broadly to one and all. Outwardly, the soldier met his gaze firmly; inside he quivered with indecision and doubt...and fear.

"Listen, Romi," Jesus barked at him, "your mission: stay with Judas! Don't let him leave the orchard tonight. Oh, Romi" he whined "it isn't me, but the Spirit of my Father who asks...commands." Making his case: "You know-and verily I know you know--it has often been said a man's enemies reside squarely within his own household. Well, that's what we got here, guy. Will you help me who has helped you...and helped so much? Huh?" "Urrrrah," replied the soldier. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry." Reaching toward the soldier's throat Jesus gently commanded, "Speak!" "I will," croaked the soldier, shocked by his ability to utter words, gravelly and hoarse though they were, "I will help you. Don't worry about Judas." (What did the soldier think, what did he know? Nothing. It was a response dictated by an autonomic reflex and common politeness). Something crushing was near, he felt it, but was not afraid. "Thanks, Romi. You won't regret it," said Jesus, now light as a feather and showing his talk show host smile once again.

The mood didn't last. It couldn't, the strain was too great. Jesus's face sagged into a weary smile. Slowly, reluctantly, like an old man, he stood up, grimacing as his knees straightened. The others followed. They all began to shuffle out, some sighing, some talking together in low voices. Jesus waved a tired hand for the soldier to follow. Once outside in moonless darkness, under a cloudless black sky, breathing the starlight cooled air, conversation inevitably picked up. The men shook themselves like wet dogs, trudged downhill on the well worn path leading into the orchard directly below the house. Jesus paused at a narrow gate bounded on one side by a low stone wall, on the other by irregular rows of twisted, skeletal olive trees older than memory. Everyone grew silent and serious. Judas walked up front next to Jesus. The soldier, flanked by two apostles, brought up the rear. With a final muttered word to the group of men, Jesus withdrew to one side, wandering alone out of sight. The others sat on the moist ground or spread their long robes for protection and lay down. Some distance away the soldier followed suit, curious and expectant.

In the dark, under ancient olive trees Abraham may have touched, the men made room for themselves among the many rocks and clutter of stones, preparing for sleep. They knew to a man something was afoot, an electrical event was loading soon to be discharged. And they were ready. The time they worked so long for, so hard for, was at last at hand. Their breasts swelled with love and anticipation. Their silent cry was the same for each: Jesus, Rabbi, Lord, an Unworthy thanks you!

With slow, mechanical, but deliberate, strides, Judas crossed the orchard and sat down heavily next to the soldier. In the darkness they were barely able to make out each other. The air was chilly and damp. A gentle wind lazed through the olive trees scarcely rustling the slim leaves. Soon all restlessness of the men within the orchard ceased and a few snores were heard among the buzz and click of insects. The weather changed; stars were blocked now by thick clouds. Nothing seemed to move or breathe outside the small troop of men.

With a start, the soldier felt the hot, sour breath of Judas brush his cheek. In rough but clear Latin the man spoke, "Even as you watch me, brother, I watch you." Taken aback, the soldier could only groan. Barely perceptible in the darkness was Judas' smile. "The Father has more than one son, Roman...and more than one wife," he laughed softly. Ruefully: "Jesus takes after his mother." Smiling: "I favor Daddy." Switching subjects abruptly Judas said, "Soon we Jews will outnumber the Emperor's sons of bitches and kick them into the sea...those who aren't already drowning in the cess pits." The soldier shifted position angrily. Judas laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "We-you and I-are not enemies. Not yet. Talk to me a while. Romi? Is that your name, Romi?" The soldier choked with rage. Judas cooed him calm. "Did Jesus tell you why he brought you here?" "No," croaked the soldier, sounding like a string pulled through a cardboard box, "only that I should watch you." "Of course, of course. Jesus is super subtle, always has been, can't just come out with it. He gives them stories not even he understands. Rabbi Riddler, Peter calls him. Of course, that's Peter, who can't tell cauliflower from broccoli." He laughed comfortably. "Our Rock!" The night wind increased, the air cooled further. Somewhere distant came a quiet moan: Jesus. "He wants you to restrain me. He wants you, a Roman, to prevent me, his brother, from pointing him out to the Temple police, Jews, who, in turn, want to turn him over to the Procurator, a Roman, who they hope will crucify him...Roman, Jew, Roman, Jew, what nonsense, eh boy?" 'I ain't your boy." "Why? Did you ask 'why'? Because, boy, he is the Messiah...or he can be if he plays his cards right. Jews need a Messiah as much as Rome needs an Emperor. More. Rome is highly organized, it has an Emperor and a Senate. What do we got? Yahweh! Big Daddy! We are the Chosen People? Chosen Rabble, more to the point. Everybody hates everybody else. Our last king was a lunatic...and a Roman puppet. We got a chance with Jesus to pull it all together. He's going to be our Messi