Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

‘And maybe why Lazarus and his sisters were so hospitable towards him. How mixed their feelings must have been: hidden guilt for the past and elation at being part of his fantastic journey.’

‘We have a tea-club meeting coming up next month, and still lack a speaker,’ Maria said. ‘Why don’t you air your theory then?’

Which is what Paul did. But he failed to convince anyone there that the Saviour who was God’s son and saw everything, was capable to the least degree of being hoodwinked. ‘What you’re saying,’ said a wag in the audience, ‘is that Lazarus killed Jesus.’

And there, at four o’clock in the afternoon in the Institute’s smaller lecture theatre, on a dismal March day in 1972, Paul’s great idea died.

Judas closed the door carefully behind him, but he could not prevent his hand from shaking or the catch from rattling. He stood with his back to it, breathing hard, while the pasty fragments of crust sticking to his palate released juices that seared his throat and tongue. Through the door he could hear muffled conversation. He pondered who – besides the Master – might know the reason for his leaving. Then he went below, his sandals clattering on the stone steps, and out into the moonlit street.

From here in the upper city he could see the vast silhouette of the Temple. Beyond it, black storm clouds gathered over the hill of olives. It was a scene familiar to him from the past, before he sought refuge and obscurity in the remote and quieter Galilee. Here, more than anywhere else he knew, the elements seemed able to organise themselves into an ordered canvas, the perturbed sky mirroring the afflictions of the souls trapped within the mass of the city below. Sometimes, even, instruction might be written there in God’s hand. And once, in a moment of rapt contemplation, it had offered a solution, and turned the heart and mind of this previously troubled man.

He found a low wall and slumped onto it, trying to make sense of his predicament. He yearned for solitude, something not easily had in the now seething city. Some of the passers-by were newcomers, walking the streets in wonder, climbing higher and higher to gaze at the Temple and finding themselves in this place by accident. Others seemed here by design, walking furtively. A few looked down on him in pity, for he was not well-dressed. He longed to have them stay, to tell him that they, too, could not see things remaining as they were. Two young men came by, Pharisees both. One pointed out to the other how, by squinting along the Temple precinct wall, the black mass of the Antonia Fortress could be seen blemishing the lines of the Temple. They joked about it, then, seeing him, became quiet, as if he might be in the employ of the Temple Police – or of Rome itself. He wanted to shout out that he was no threat, no spy, just a foot soldier of an obscure little army of the mind advancing to nowhere he could determine.

A week earlier – before their little band had plucked up courage to emerge from the desert and enter the city – it had all seemed clear. They had purpose, a message, prospects of influencing by example and deed. To their surprise, the crowds coming for Passover had multiplied their band a hundred-fold. Then, suddenly, the direction had changed. What had become of the humility, where the place of the poor and the sick? More puzzling still, why did the Master appear to have another agenda, involving shadowy persons and influences unknown to the Twelve? Perhaps he, Judas, was just the first to see – or the one most likely to snap through indignation. When they came there were people with whom he had spoken too freely – that he now realised. But then, what can a man from Galilee know of intrigue in the Temple and the city?

Yet the Master had known of his disquiet, somehow, and had sought him out, alone, to divine his thinking. It happened on the evening of the third day, as the band tramped back up the hill between the olive trees, their minds bereft of useful thought because of the battering they had received in the Temple. For Judas, a little older and more corpulent than most of them, progress was slower and he lagged behind. Anticipating this, the Master had chosen the place carefully.

Judas came upon him where the olives gave way to a small grove of larger trees offering deeper shade. He was sitting on an ancient stone seat from which the vast panorama of the city could be seen across the valley. He was quite still, his face dappled with pale sunlight that for the moment obscured the strain. His voice cut the air – paradoxically, Judas thought, because it was never loud or harsh.

‘Look back, Judas,’ he called. ‘The city is beautiful, is it not?’

Judas stopped and turned to look. ‘You were waiting for me, Master?’ he asked, still panting.

‘From here the balm of the evening can separate us from our tribulations so that we see them more clearly from a distance. The others have gone on ahead and won’t come looking for us. That was my thinking. Come, sit beside me.’

Judas did so. He had never sought, or truly experienced, the physical intimacy with the Master enjoyed by several of the disciples; never appreciated the courseness of the cloth garments compared with his own, or thought much about the odours of people on the move that characterised each of them. Now, above the sweat of exertion, Judas detected for the first time the faint but pungent stench of emotion and fear.

‘What is it you want to tell me, Master?’ he asked.

‘You are a thinker, Judas. Perhaps the only one of our band that I would so describe. And things do not generally pass you by. It is something I have valued in you. But your problem – no, don’t try to deny it – is that in our present predicament you do not have the knowledge to make judgements. You have looked to me to give you that knowledge. Because I have not done so, you have… well, let us say sought enlightenment by talking to those who may not have our best interests at heart. Am I close?’

Judas smiled ruefully. ‘I should have realised little can be hidden from you,’ he said.

‘My contacts in the city are more extensive than you can imagine,’ the Master continued, ‘and almost unknown to the others. Perhaps you find that a disturbing admission?’

‘It seems against the spirit of our brotherhood. But it doesn’t surprise me. It would account for many things that are… unexplained.’

‘Then where do you think our problems lie?’

It took a moment for Judas to summon his thoughts and his courage. ‘Three days ago, when we came, we passed close to this very spot. People were shouting and waving. They loved you, welcomed you as a leader they could follow. Now, somehow – I don’t know why – there is confusion.’

‘So when we came over the crest of the hill, just up there, and you saw the city below. Everything seemed clear to you? What we had to do?’

‘No, how could it? But we trusted you. We put our faith in you.’

A hint of impatience crept into the Master’s voice. ‘To do what? To walk into that fortress down there by the Temple and say ‘Romans go home’ and seriously expect them to, and then when that didn’t work create mayhem amongst the Judeans and attempt to overthrow Rome by force? Oh, it will be attempted, Judas, but not with me because it wouldn’t work.’

‘Not so blatantly as that,’ Judas protested. ‘Such things take time and careful planning, and require religious solidarity and…’

‘Whereas I have been treading a more… obscure… path?’

‘You tell us about things that are written, and we are impressed when they happen, but we don’t know why they happen, or how they advance our cause.’

‘An example?’

Judas thought for a moment, then said, ‘Lazarus.’