Barrabus

Something for the Easter season.

The odor—of degradation, urine, filth and disease—is all that fills the dark void in which he sits. Once upon a time, he had tried to discreetly relieve himself in the corner, straining the chains on his leg as he did so; but soon even that bare fight for his dignity was broken, and now he doesn’t think twice of relieving himself right on the straw where he sits. Why try, he’d decided one night (or day, he’d lost track of which)—the filth is everywhere, the odor is everywhere, he himself was filth everywhere, he might as well become one with it.

Once, he’d gloried in the odor and filth and darkness—passing through all tribulation for the cause of Israel, for the glory of God. He would sit in his spot in the prison in proud dignity. He’d called himself a Jeremiah, declaring the word from even the depths of the Roman beast, pricking, stinging the conscience of his captures, unable to forebear declaring their many iniquities, for the word was like a fire trapped within his bones.

But zealots like himself need crowds. He’d tried to yell at his captors before, but the dungeon door remained closed, mute, uncaring above him, like the darkness that surrounded him, like the odor that surrounded him, and with his voice growing hoarse and the silence indifferent, he’d soon fallen silent himself.

With nothing in the pitch black to distract his gaze, it was the odor that began to trouble him, vex him, gnaw at his senses, sink into his pores, his mind, and finally, his memory. He tried sifting through the straw, scratching at the brick wall, even finally, in a moment of weakness, crying at the prison door once more, crying for the guards, to take him out, move him to another cell, move him to another pit, to just kill him and be done with it, anything to escape the odor, the hideous, horrible odor around him. But the door simply stood there, stolid, mute, and indifferent, as it had in the beginning, as it always had.

Again and again he tried to pray, to quote the Torah—but the prayers would never come.

A face would come, you see—at first only in passing, as if out the corner of his eye, a faded memory. But the more he cast it from his mind, the stronger it returned, asserting itself, invading more his thoughts, stronger and stronger, till now it was all he saw. No matter on what he remembered or focused, always the face was there, always, always, whether awake or asleep (he’d long lost the distinction between the two), and the times had come when he longed to be troubled by only the odor as before.

But alas, it was too late—his nose had long ago become dulled to the odor, even as his pupils had long ago adjusted to the darkness, and all he could see anymore was the face.

“It is not fair,” he would still murmur on occasion, “it’s not fair, it’s not fair…” He’d been so idealistic once, had such dreams, that he’d shared with so many others. He’d remember being a headstrong youth (always with the face intruding now, though), chaffing under the burden of Rome, his imagination excited at once of the histories of the Maccabbee revolution, overthrowing the wicked Hellenic regime, and of the prophecies that promised the fulfillment to come, when God Almighty would pour out his wrath on all nations, and redeem once again Jerusalem, and all would be free at last.

His mind was aflame with thoughts of fire falling from heaven, consuming Rome and all the empires of the earth, with the sons of Jacob raising forth their swords in the power of God, slaying these tyrants that oppress, and with a horn iron, and hoofs brass, and beat in pieces many people

So full of passion was he, that he naturally fell in with the zealots, who promised him the chance to spill the blood of Romans, be a hero as even the Maccabbees, and liberate all of Israel and usher in the Kingdom of God, which never again would be taken from off the earth.

Oh, how they had dreamed! Around the fire, they spoke of going forth as a lion amongst the lambs and there is none to deliver, and so would they rage against the Romans, watering the barren ground with Latin blood. They swore horrible oaths against the heresy of the Sadducees and the hypocrisy of the Pharisees, for whose sake Israel was even now weak and subject to the intolerable yoke of Rome. They boasted how they alone, the zealots, were sufficiently pure in their faith and fierce in zeal, to merit the power of God in avenging themselves of Rome’s oppressions, cleansing the Temple, and restoring Israel to its rightful power, as in the days of David of old.

He had listened to the fiery rhetoric, and had even declared it himself in many a village, recruiting all to his standard, all the while burning for his chance to fulfill it himself. He looked on in awe and adoration on those arrested and slain in the cause, and in his heart saw the crowds thronging over his dead body, crying out his name with raised fists in the air, all at his sacrifice to bring about the kingdom of God.

Finally he hid a sword within his garments, as he and other zealots entered the city; and when the signal was given, they with one accord revealed their swords and raised them to the air. They cried out “ZION!”, and surged as one body into the Roman legion, all caught off guard by this sudden uprising. Disorganized, confused, they fell back as the sons of Israel charged forward in sacred fury.

But there was a problem—it was only the zealots charging forward, you see. The whole of the people, inspired by the cry of Zion, was supposed to rise up with them, and avenge themselves on all the oppressions of Rome. With this whole city uniting with them, a wildfire would spread all throughout Jerusalem, then Judah, then Israel, then all throughout the Empire, until all had been reduced to ashes and the reign of the Messiah inaugurated. But the crowd wasn’t rising, like they were supposed to. Instead, they were as confused and frightened as the Romans, running, screaming, panicking, in every direction.

And poor Barabbus, he was lost in the middle of this confused crowd, unable to join his fellow zealots on the outer perimeters, as they fell upon the Centurions. Barrabas had hoped by crying out into the midst of them, to have the feeling of the throng surround him and raise their arms along with him, as he led them on the glory and victory. But no such thronging occurred. In fact, just the opposite, and in the confusion he was unable to force himself to the front, where the fighting, the true glory, was happening.

Something’s not right, he thought, What is wrong? In frustration and despair and anger, he scanned the panicked mob for a culprit, a scapegoat, for their failure. It was then that he looked up, and saw a Pharisee, so proud and pious in his robes and hems and phylacteries, standing on the Temple steps over the crowd. He couldn’t hear him over the noise, but from his wild gesturing and stern face, he could tell that this Pharisee was preaching against the violence, against the zealots, against the movement! This Pharisee, this filthy hypocrite, dared preach against zealotry, who alone fight for the freedom of Israel, while he sits comfortable, in his seats of judgment, feasting on the fruits of Roman patronage, worshipping Caesar not God, while his brethren, his flesh and blood, suffer and starve!

The fact that the crowd wasn’t listening to the Pharisee any more than they were the zealots mattered not—Barrabas’ eyes burned as he stood there amidst the confused mass, staring at the insolence of the raving Pharisee. A rage rose in his breast, and before he knew himself, found himself pushing himself through the panicked crowd, then running up the Temple steps. As he raised in blade in rage, he heard at last the hypocritical cries of this Pharisee—

“This is madness, I say!” the man screamed, “Madness! Violence is not of the Kingdom, I say! It is of—” Then with a grunt, Barrabus thrust his sword through the man’s belly. The Pharisee hadn’t noticed Barrabas until he’d run his sword through him; it was then the man grabbed Barrabas’ arms, and looked him right in the eyes, his face contorted in terror and pain. Their eyes remained locked for a moment, a year, an eternity, as Barrabas, his teeth still gritting, his breathing still seething, watched as the life slowly slipped from the man’s eyes, then crumpled to the ground.

It was then that the world began to spin again (all time had stopped for him in that moment), and he heard the awful cries of “He has killed the priest!” “He has killed on the Temple porch!” “Murder! Murder!” Swiftly he turned around, his now blood soaked sword still in his hand, to see that the Romans had swiftly reinforced, and their swords were now falling down upon the remaining zealots. Enough order had been restored for people to behold his slaying in the broad light of day.

Barrabas looked around wildly, his eyes darting back and forth—no, no, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to find looks of adulation and glory, not anger, horror, disbelief. “Murderer!” “Killer!” “He’s slain the Priest!” came the heart-wrenching cries, “Stone him!” “Kill him! Kill him!”

“What I have done!” shouted Barrabas hysterically, “What I have done, I have done for Israel! What I have done I have done for Israel!

“This man,” he pointed quickly at the crumpled form at his feet, “This man, these men, these are the true traitors of all Israel! These are the betrayers of all Israel! They are our oppressors as the Romans! They are as the Romans! They must die even as Rome! They must all be slain, they must all be slain! He had to die he had to die he had he had—”

At this moment, the Centurion commander came forward on his horse, ensuring that the uprising had been put down. When he saw that the crowd was about to rush upon Barrabas, he ordered the Centurions to beat the people back, to prevent another outbreak. Seeing the dead man at his feet and the blood on his feet, he also ordered Barrabas taken into custody. He would have happily killed Barrabas as well, but he was in no mood to acquiesce to Jewish demands at this moment, even if it meant killing another.

And so Barrabas was carried before the Sanhedrin, then Pilate, to be judged of his crimes. He had maintained hopes he could raise an impassioned defense that would rally all the onlookers around him to revolution, but instead those whom he’d esteemed his brethren came out in mass to testify abundantly of his crimes. His name had swiftly become a hiss and a byword throughout Jerusalem, and Barrabas was still too dumbfounded by their strange reaction to mount the moving defense he desired. Pilate thus had no trouble sentencing him to be crucified, at some future date to be determined later.

That is when he was thrown into this dank dungeon, which only then did he start to rant and rave, calling the Romans the true criminals and declaring the people blind and enslaved and unworthy so on and so forth. But, as noted before, after a time, he’d so ceased that as well.

And though the crowds and the trials had long since faded from his mind, the face of the Pharisee, of the man he’d murdered, still stood before him in his mind. Try as he might, the terrible sight of the man’s face, looking upon him in terror, and the slow slippage of the light from his eyes, continually haunted, taunted, tortured Barrabas’ mind, until he wished to switch places with him.

“All I’ve done, I’ve done for Israel,” he whimpered pathetically, “For Israel, for Israel…

“But the man, that man, those men, why did they have to preach against us, against us, their own flesh and blood? Did they not wish to throw off the yoke of Rome? Why did he have to provoke us, provoke me, to mur—to slay him so?”

A single tear streamed ran down his cheek in the dark. “But why am I the murderer, when it is they who are the betrayers? It is Rome, not us, that are the murderers. What right have they to kill? What right have any to kill—”

“Oh, God!” he cried out from the depths of his tortured soul, “What have I done? What have I done, what have I done…”

He banged the back of his head against the wall. “Let me die now, take mine in place of his—it is just! But no, what good would it do? Where would I go then? For truly I am a murderer, and would only go to a hell worst then these…”

He cried out and gripped the sides of his face. “Will his face never leave me?! Free me, my God, my God, free me! All my life, I have wanted only to be free!”

His body began to convulse in sobbing, as the tears poured more freely from his eyes. “I have only wanted freedom, but now I have enslaved myself, and it is the fault of none but I! I have murdered and would give all my life to have never done so! Oh, I’ve only wanted to be free, to be free, to be free, and I’ve now nothing, nothing, nothing…”

His sobbings quieted down to mere weeping, as he shook his head back and forth. “I deserve nothing but the filth before me, dear God, I now freely confess, for it is the only freedom I have. Free me of his face, at least, dear Lord, for you are merciful, and as I burn in eternal flames, at least free me of his face. Oh, for the pains of fires without end, if it only mean I see no more his face, his face, his wretched, tortuous face… Oh, free me, dear Lord, oh free me, free me…” And he sobbed pathetically into the night.

Or at least, so he thought it was night. For suddenly a loud clang pierced the air, and Barrabas’ head jerked up in fear. A horrible rattling shook the silence, and Barrabas crouched in fear and trembling, wondering if the world was now ending and the judgment upon him.

Then even more suddenly, the prison door swung open. A blinding light poured in. Barrabas raised his hands over his eyes in fear, fearing the very wrath of God were about to fall upon him for his impudence and cries for mercy in spite of his monstrous crimes.

“Barrabas!” came the brute, Latin voice, “Stand yourself up, you beast!”

And with that, two Centurion shadows stood over them, gripping him roughly and forcing him to his feet. “Get up, you dog!” they intoned again. Still in a daze, Barrabas looked quickly from one shadow to the other, while one unlocked his chains, while the other tied his hands together so hard they bruised.

Barrabas tripped once as they took him up the steps of the cell, and was then brought back to his feet by his hair. Out in the broad light of day, Barrabas was escorted by the two centurions through the palace corridors, who pushed him gruffly along, not waiting for him to gain footing. “By the gods he smells,” hissed one, “They all do.” Although his eyes had still not yet adjusted, he could hear the cacophony of the jeering crowd in the distance, growing closer.

So has the time come then? Thought Barrabas. Oh, just let it end, dear God, please just let it end, although the thought of the prolonged crucifixion to come, all the while with the man’s face, that dreaded face that haunted him even now in the light, and would from the cross and into eternity, filled him with no delight.

Filthy and ragged, he was brought to stand before the yelling crowd, which cheered as he was presented before them. His eyes, finally adjusting to the light, could make out the board of the crucifix lying between him and the mob.

So they’ve come out in mass to see me crucified he thought in dejection, truly I am hated and despised of all men. So be it.

In the balcony above him, the familiar voice of Pontius Pilate, a voice he had once known and hated but now only noted indifferently, cried out, “Silence! All silence!”

The crowd quieted before him. “It is custom,” declared the voice, “To free one prisoner on this, your Passover…”

Passover! Thought Barrabas, Is it already the Passover! Oh would to God that I would be the Passover sacrifice, then might my death at least mean something, though my life was a waste—

“Which then of these two,” continued the voice above him, “Shall I release unto you, Jesus, or Barrabas?”

Jesus? For the first time, Barrabas lifted his head to notice another man standing, bound, but a few meters to his right. The man was a pitiful sight—open lashes criss-crossed his back, a crown of thorns pierced his head, blood streamed down his face—and then as a final act of mockery, a royal purple robe was draped over his bloodies shoulders. It would have been cruelly funny, if not for kingly dignity, calm and resigned, with which he stood—the same dignity to which Barrabus had pretended in prison, but had long ago lost, broken under the weight of his own conscious. This was a man who had committed no murders, Barrabus could see clearly. He could not help but be moved.

So then is this the final insult, the final mockery of my death? Thought Barrabas, gazing upon the man beside him, Place me before this pitiful man that one cannot help but be moved at the sight of, so that the people can all the more gleefully call for my death again? What cruel sport is this—

“Barrabas!” came the call, “Barrabas! Barrabas! We choose Barrabas!” Barrabas jerked his head from the man to the crowd before him. What? Had he misheard? But impossible! No, they must be calling for his death, not freedom—

“Free Barrabas!” came the call again, “Free Barrabas! Barrabas, Barrabas, Barrabas—”

Barrabas gaped with disbelief onto the crowd. Not contorted in anger, but rather their faces were raised in jubilation, in victory, calling his name—his name, Barrabas. And moving through the crowd could he pick out the phylacteries of the Pharisees, moving them, exciting them—for him! For him, the Pharisees called for his freedom, even the offended Pharisees called for him! Barrabas’ jaw dropped in bewilderment.

“Shall I crucify your king?” came the desperate voice from above. Barrabas looked back at the man in confusion. Your king? And what king was this?

“We have no king but Caesar!” roared the crowd louder. “Free Barrabas! We choose Barrabas—”

And for a small moment, all time stopped again, as he gazed upon the pitiful figure before him. Who was this king? Who was this man and what evil had done that he would be chosen over him? What evil could he have done, for he saw none in him, as he saw in himself—

The world again began to spin, as a centurion grabbed Barrabus by his arm, and turned him around roughly. Barrabus locked eyes with this cruel Roman, who looked at Barrabus in undisguised contempt, and pulled out a dagger and held it before his belly. Barrabas winced as he prepared to be run through as he had so cruelly run through the Pharisee before—when instead of forward, the dagger came up, cutting the bands from Barrabas’ hands. “You are free,” came the rough Latin accent, as the centurion shoved him forward.

But Barrabas faltered, stopped, and still unbelieving stared into the crowd before him, all cheering him wildly. This cannot be! He thought again, This cannot be! Quickly he looked back at the other man, wondering what was to become of him. All this while, the man’s cool gaze had not lifted from the crowd, but now his eyes slowly shifted to look at Barrabas. Slightly, subtly, he tilted his head towards the crowd. Barrabas looked back in further bafflement.

Again the man, not breaking his gaze with Barrabas, tilted his head towards the crowd, indicating he go…forward.

Suddenly comprehending, Barrabas jerked his body back around to face the crowd. No, he thought, it must be some trick, some deception, some ploy, to cruelly convince me of my freedom, so that I may run headfirst into the manic mob prepared to tear me to pieces! But how, how can such dignified eyes lie? What must—

The Centurion shoved him again. “You’re free to go, I said!” he shouted angrily, “So go, you dog!”

Thy will be done, oh Lord, thought Barrabas, breathing deeply, And not mine! And then, with a cry, he charged into the crowd, as they again erupted into applause.

As he ran into and among them, he instinctively covered his head, expecting the arms raised in jubilation to fall down in beatings upon his being. But instead they fell down as pats on his back, all rejoicing at his freedom. “Barrabas! Barrabas!” chanted they over and over, their faces aglow with the glory of his victory. Every where he looked, people smiled and raised their fists into the air, glorying in him, cheering him on, like he’d always imagined, like he’d always dreamed.

But Barrabas did not stop and exult in his triumph. He did not rally them all to arms in that moment, nor turn around and turn on their Roman masters and onward to the liberation of Israel. No, it is strange to relate, that he tore strait through the crowd, looking at none of them. And when he was through the crowd, he kept on running through the winding streets of Jerusalem, until he found the front gate, and then kept running through the shepherd’s fields beyond, and on and on into the horizon.

And if you had been wondering yourself the streets of Jerusalem that day, you would have seen a singular man, caked in dirt and filth, hot tears pouring down his cheek, muttering through sobs and laughter, “I am free! I am free! Praise be to God, I am free, I am free, I am free…"