The Last Temptation of Christ

  Jesus halted outside the tower’s great door. “Centurion,” he said, “you owe me a favor. Do you remember? The time has come for me to demand it of you.”

  “Jesus of Nazareth, to you I owe all the joy of my life,” Rufus answered. “Speak. What I can, I’ll do.”

  “If they seize me, if they put me in prison, if they kill me—do nothing to save me. Will you give me your word?”

  They were now passing through the tower gates. The guards lifted their hands and saluted the centurion.

  “Is what you ask of me a favor?” said Rufus, astonished. “I don’t understand you Jews.”

  Two huge Negro guards stood outside Pilate’s door.

  “Yes, a favor, centurion,” said Jesus. “Do you give me your word?”

  Rufus nodded to the Negroes to open the door.

  Pilate sat reading on a raised throne which was decorated with grossly carved eagles. Crisp, clean-shaven, with low forehead, hard gray eyes and sword-straight narrow lips, he lifted his head to look at Jesus, who was standing in front of him.

  “Are you Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews?” he hissed teasingly, putting the perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils.

  “I am not a king,” Jesus answered.

  “What? Aren’t you the Messiah, and isn’t it the Messiah that your fellow countrymen the Abrahamites have been waiting for over so many generations—waiting for him to free them, to sit on the throne of Israel and to throw out us Romans? Why, then, do you say you’re not a king?”

  “My kingdom is not on earth.”

  “Where, then: on the water, in the air?” asked Pilate, bursting into laughter.

  “In heaven,” Jesus calmly replied.

  “Fine,” said Pilate. “You can take heaven as a present, but don’t touch the earth!”

  He removed the thick ring he was wearing on his thumb, lifted it high into the light and looked at the red stone. Carved upon it was a skull surrounded by the words, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you die.”

  “I find the Jews disgusting,” he said. “They never wash themselves, and they have a God in their own image: long-haired, unwashed, grasping, boastful, and as vindictive as a camel.”

  “Know that this God has already lifted his fist over Rome,” Jesus said, again calmly.

  “Rome is immortal,” Pilate answered, yawning.

  “Rome is the huge statue which the prophet Daniel saw in his vision.”

  “Statue? What statue? Whatever you Jews yearn for while you’re awake, you see in your sleep. You live and die with visions.”

  “That is the way man begins his campaign—with visions. Little by little the shade thickens and solidifies, the spirit dons flesh and descends to earth. The prophet Daniel had his vision, and because he had it: that’s that!—the spirit will take on flesh, descend to earth and destroy Rome.”

  “Jesus of Nazareth, I admire your audacity—or is it idiocy? It seems that you don’t fear death, and that’s why you speak with such freedom. ... I like you. Well, tell me about Daniel’s vision.”

  “One night the prophet Daniel saw a huge statue. Its head was of gold, its breast and arms of silver, its stomach and thighs of bronze. Its shins were of iron, but its feet, at the very bottom, were of clay. Suddenly an invisible hand slung a stone at the earthen feet and shattered them; and immediately the entire statue—gold, silver, bronze and iron—rolled to the ground. ... The invisible hand, Pontius Pilate, is the God of Israel, I am the stone, and the statue is Rome.”

  Pilate yawned once more. “I understand your game, Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews,” he said wearily. “You insult Rome in order to make me angry, so that I’ll crucify you and you’ll swell the ranks of the heroes. You prepared everything very cleverly. You’ve even started, I hear, to revive the dead: yes, you’re clearing the road. Later on, in the same way, your disciples will spread the word that you didn’t die, that you were resurrected and ascended to heaven. But, my dear rascal, you’ve missed the boat. Your tricks are out of date, so you’d better find some new ones. I’m not going to kill you, I’m not going to make a hero of you. You’re not going to become God—so get the idea out of your head.”

  Jesus did not speak. Through the open window he watched Jehovah’s immense Temple flash in the sun like a motionless man-eating beast with multicolored flocks of men moving and entering its black gaping jaws. Pilate played with his delicate golden chain and did not speak either. He was ashamed to ask a favor of a Jew, but he had promised his wife he would, and now had no choice.

  “Is that all?” Jesus asked. He turned toward the door.

  Pilate rose. “Don’t leave,” he said. “I have something to tell you—that’s why I called you here. My wife says she dreams about you every night. Because of you she hardly dares close her eyes. She says you complain to her that your compatriots Annas and Caiaphas seek your death and you beg her every night to speak to me and convince me not to let them kill you. Last night my wife screamed, woke up with a start and began to cry. It seems she pities you (I don’t know why: I keep my nose out of female nonsense). Well, she fell at my feet to make me call you and tell you to go away and save yourself. Jesus of Nazareth, the air of Jerusalem isn’t good for your health. Return to Galilee! I don’t want to use force—I’m telling you as a friend. Return to Galilee!”

  “Life is war!” Jesus answered in the same resolute, always tranquil voice, “and you know it because you’re a soldier and a Roman. But what you don’t know is this: God is the commander and we his soldiers. From the moment that man is born, God shows him the earth and upon the earth a city, village, mountain, sea or desert, and says to him, ‘Here you shall wage war!’ Governor of Judea, one night God seized me by the hair, lifted me up, brought me to Jerusalem, set me down in front of the Temple and said, ‘Here you shall wage war!’ I am no deserter, Governor of Judea—it is here that I shall wage my war!”

  Pilate shrugged his shoulders. He already regretted that he had asked the favor and revealed a household secret to a Jew. As was his habit, he went through the motions of rinsing his hands.

  “Do as you please,” he said. “I wash my hands of the whole matter. Go!”

  Jesus raised his arm and took his leave. But as he was crossing the threshold, Pilate called to him teasingly, “Hey, Messiah, what is this fearful news I hear you bring the world?”

  “Fire,” Jesus replied, again tranquilly, “fire to cleanse the earth.”

  “Of Romans?”

  “No, of unbelievers. Of the unjust, the dishonorable, the satiated.”

  “And then?”

  “And then on the scorched, purified earth, the new Jerusalem shall be built.”

  “And who is going to build the new Jerusalem?”

  “I am.”

  Pilate burst into laughter. “Well, well, I was right when I told my wife you were mad. You must visit me now and again—it will help me pass the time. All right now: go! I’m tired of you.”

  He clapped his hands. The two colossal Negroes entered and showed Jesus to the door.

  Judas was waiting anxiously outside the tower. Some hidden worm had been eating the master lately. Each day his face grew more wrinkled and fierce, his words sadder and more threatening. He often went and stayed all alone for hours on Golgotha, a hill outside of Jerusalem where the Romans crucified insurgents; and to the degree he saw the priests and high priests around him grow frantic and dig his grave, by so much—and even more—did he assault them and call them venomous adders, liars, hypocrites who trembled at the thought of swallowing a mosquito and then went ahead and swallowed a camel! Every day he stood from dawn to dusk outside the Temple and uttered wild words as though deliberately seeking his death; and one day when Judas asked him when he would finally throw off the lambskin so that the lion could appear in all its glory, Jesus shook his head, and never in his life had Judas seen a bitterer smile on human lips. From that time on, Judas had not left his side. Even when he saw him mount Golgotha, he went secretly behind les
t some hidden enemy lift his hand against him.

  Judas paced up and down outside the accursed tower and glanced fiercely at the motionless Roman guards with their armor of brass and heavy boorish faces; and at the godless standard behind them which, with its eagles, waved back and forth at the top of a high pole. What did Pilate want with him, he asked himself, why had he called him? Judas knew—the Zealots of Jerusalem kept him informed—that Annas and Caiaphas went continually in and out of this tower and that they accused Jesus of wanting to start a revolution in order to chase out the Romans and make himself king. But Pilate did not agree. “He’s completely insane,” he would say, “and he doesn’t mix himself up in Rome’s business. I once purposely sent men to ask him, ‘Does the God of Israel want us to pay taxes to the Romans—what’s your opinion?’ And he, quite truly, quite intelligently, . answered, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s!’ He’s not as crazy as a saint,” Pilate would say, laughing; “he’s crazed by saintliness. If he steps on your religion, punish him—I wash my hands of the whole affair. But he does not concern Rome.” This is what he always told them, and then he sent them away. But now ... Could he have changed his mind?

  Judas halted and leaned against the wall opposite the tower, nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.

  Suddenly he gave a start. Trumpets blared, the crowd made way. Four Levites arrived and gently placed a gold-inlaid litter in front of the tower door. The silken curtains parted and light-skinned Caiaphas, wearing a yellow all-silk gown, slowly descended. He was so fat that globs of blubber formed cocoons around his eyes. The heavy double doors opened exactly as Jesus was coming out, and the two men met face to face on the threshold. Jesus halted. He was barefooted, his white tunic full of patches. Perfectly motionless, he stared deeply into the high priest’s eyes. The other lifted his heavy eyelids, recognized him, eyed him rapidly from head to toe. His goatish lips parted. “What do you want here, rebel?”

  But Jesus, still motionless, stared down on him severely with his large, afflicted eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of you, high priest of Satan,” he replied.

  “Throw him out!” Caiaphas screamed at his four litter-bearers. He proceeded into the courtyard, a fat, bow-legged pygmy whose immense behind nearly scraped the ground.

  The four Levites closed in on Jesus, but Judas dashed forward. “Hands off!” he bellowed. Shoving them aside, he took the teacher by the arm.

  “Come,” he said, “let’s go.”

  Judas pushed through camels, men and sheep, clearing a path so that Jesus could proceed. They strode under the city’s fortified gate, descended into the Cedron Valley, climbed up the opposite side and took the road to Bethany.

  “What did he want with you?” Judas asked, squeezing the master’s arm in an agony.

  “Judas,” Jesus answered after a deep silence, “I am now going to confide a terrible secret to you.”

  Judas bowed his red-haired head and waited with gaping mouth. “You are the strongest of all the companions. Only you, I think, will be able to bear it. I have said nothing to the others, nor will I. They have no endurance.”

  Judas blushed with pleasure. “Thank you for trusting me, Rabbi,” he said. “Speak. You’ll see: I won’t make you ashamed of me.

  “Judas, do you know why I left my beloved Galilee and came to Jerusalem?”

  “Yes,” Judas answered. “Because it is here that what is bound to happen must happen.”

  “That’s right; the Lord’s flames will start from here. I can no longer sleep. I wake with a start in the middle of the night and look at the sky. Hasn’t it opened yet? Aren’t the flames flowing down? Daylight comes and I run to the Temple, speak, threaten, point to the sky, command, beseech, invoke the fire to descend. But my voice is always lost. The heavens remain closed, mute and tranquil above me. And then suddenly one day ...”

  His voice broke. Judas leaned on top of him in order to hear but could detect only stifled breathing and the rattling of Jesus’ teeth.

  “Go on! Go on!” Judas gasped.

  Jesus caught his breath and continued. “One day as I was lying all alone on the top of Golgotha, the prophet Isaiah rose up in my mind—no, no, not in my mind: I saw his entire body in front of me on the rocks of Golgotha, and he was holding a goatskin sewn up and inflated, and it looked just like the black he-goat I met in the desert. There were letters on the hide. ‘Read!’ he commanded, stretching out the goatskin in the air in front of me. But as I heard the voice, prophet and goat disappeared and only the letters remained—in the air, black with red capitals.”

  Jesus lifted his eyes into the light. He had turned pale. He squeezed Judas’s arm and clung to him. “There they are!” he whispered, terrified. “They’ve filled the air!”

  “Read!” said Judas, who was also trembling.

  Panting, Jesus began hoarsely to spell out the words. The letters were like living beasts: he hunted them and they resisted. Continually wiping away his sweat, he read: “’He has borne our faults; he was wounded for our transgressions; our iniquities bruised him. He was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth. Despised and rejected by all, he went forward without resisting, like a lamb that is led to the slaughter.’ ”

  Jesus spoke no more. He had turned deathly pale.

  “I don’t understand,” said Judas, standing still and shifting the pebbles with his big toe. “Who is the lamb being led to slaughter? Who is going to die?”

  “Judas,” Jesus slowly answered, “Judas, brother, I am the one who is going to die.”

  “You?” said Judas, recoiling. “Then aren’t you the Messiah?”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t understand!” Judas repeated, and he lacerated his toe on the stones.

  “Don’t shout, Judas. This is the way. For the world to be saved, I, of my own will, must die. At first I didn’t understand it myself. God sent me signs in vain: sometimes visions in the air, sometimes dreams in my sleep; or the goat’s carcass in the desert with all the sins of the people around its neck. And since the day I quit my mother’s house, a shadow has followed behind me like a dog or at times has run in front to show me the road. What road? The Cross!”

  Jesus threw a lingering glance around him. Behind him was Jerusalem, a mountain of brilliantly white skulls; in front of him, rocks and a few silver-leafed olive trees and black cedars. The sun, filled with blood, had begun to set.

  Judas was uprooting hairs from his beard and tossing them away. He had expected a different Messiah, a Messiah with a sword, a Messiah at whose cry all the generations of the dead would fly out of their tombs in the valley of Joshaphat and mix with the living. The horses and camels of the Jews would be resuscitated at the same time, and all—infantry and cavalry—would flow forth to slaughter the Romans. And the Messiah would sit on the throne of David with the Universe as a cushion under his feet, for him to step on. This, this was the Messiah Judas Iscariot had expected. And now ...

  He looked fiercely at Jesus and bit his lips to prevent an unkind word from escaping them. He began again to shift the pebbles, this time with his heels. Jesus saw him and pitied him.

  “Take courage, Judas, my brother,” he said, sweetening his voice. “I have done so. There is no other way: this is the road.”

  “And afterward?” asked Judas, staring at the rocks.

  “I shall return in all my glory to judge the living and the dead.”

  “When?”

  “Many of the present generation will not die before they have seen me.

  “Let’s go!” said Judas. He increased his pace. Jesus panted behind him, toiling to keep up. The sun was at last about to tumble down behind the mountains of Judea. Far away, from the Dead Sea, the first wakening jackals could be heard.

  Judas rolled on ahead, bellowing. Within him was an earthquake: everything falling away. He had no faith in death—that seemed to him the worst road of all; resurrected Lazarus, who appeared to him deader a
nd filthier than all the dead, made him nauseous; and the Messiah himself—how could he possibly manage in this fight with Charon? ... No, no, Judas had no faith in death as a way.

  He turned. He wanted to object, to throw out the grave words which were burning on his tongue. Perhaps they would make Jesus change his route and not go by way of death. As he turned, however, he uttered a cry of terror. An immense shadow fell from Jesus’ body. It was not the shadow of a man but of a huge cross. He grasped Jesus’ hand. “Look!” he said, pointing.

  Jesus shuddered. “Quiet, Judas, my brother. Do not speak.”

  And thus, silently, arm in arm, they began to mount the gentle incline to Bethany. Jesus’ knees sagged and Judas held him up. They did not speak. Once Jesus leaned over, picked up a warm stone and held it for a long time tightly in his palm. Was this a stone, or the hand of some beloved man? He looked around him. All the soil, which had died during the winter: how it sprouted grass now, how it blossomed!