I set down at the beginning, that my purpose was to record my days with the Son of Man. That I have now done. I did not see Jesus again, save once, briefly, mercifully briefly, as they hauled his cross upright, with his torn and tortured body nailed and lashed across it. I was a long way off, half crazy with grief, and wholly drunk. When I saw the cross lurch down into its socket, then a second later heard its thud and the thin scream, I fainted and rolled into a sewage ditch.
     I was rescued the next day, or the day after, by some holy hermit, an Essene from Qmran, where he later took me for healing and rest, I being in the grip of a delirious fever. It was he (strangely, I never knew his name) who gradually gleaned an account of the trials, the fiasco over Barrabas- I wonder if they ever let Pilate in on the Barrabas joke¹- the crucifixion, the burial, and the resurrection.
     Oh yes, there was a resurrection; my efforts were not in vain. Come then, Judas, you should be joyful- you are vindicated?
     No.
     I am guilty. I am still the betrayer. Ask my latter-day friends, ask the other disciples. Did they come running to seek me out, to embrace me, to tell me the good news?
     They did not!
     Instead they concocted a tissue of lies, not too hard and fast- a little fact, a little rumour. One of them must have found the satchel, that night, at Gethsemane, and realised the significance of the separate purse. The people are told that Judas, filled with remorse, had bought a field with the blood money, and promptly hanged himself in it. Is it true? Somebody definitely bought the Potter’s Field for thirty pieces of silver- that is a fact- he said it was to be used for the burial of foreigners.
     If I were to hang myself, would I bother to buy a field to do it in? Am I such a man of business? Yet another story tells that my belly swelled up and burst- would that be before or after I hanged myself?
     Enough of that rabble. No, I am unkind. They have kept alive the brotherhood of Jesus- what I am told is now called the Church of the Christ- ‘Christian’ is the new word, I believe, and for this I give them full credit, but their treatment of me hurts me still; their injustice will ever make my heart weep.
     The one over-riding charge that Jesus laid on them was to love all men, and in their treatment of me there has been no love. They could not share his burden, as I did, and they would not share mine.
     And of the resurrection? My knowledge is only hearsay- of how Jesus revealed himself to the women at the tomb, to the disciples at Emmaus, and at Galilee, and of how at Bethany, he rose into heaven.
     Until the news from Bethany, I had hoped- but when I learned that he had gone into his Kingdom, I knew that he had turned his face from me for ever. For two score years I have asked myself ‘why’ and I cannot find an answer. I do not even know why all those years were given to me. In all that time, all I have done is wander the Negev, despising and questioning myself, waiting to spend this last night in feverishly laying my account to rest in this scroll. Then I can give it the burial that none will give me. My corpse will feed the grass, or the dogs, and leave no trace. No matter.
     My name will live for all of time as the man who betrayed the Christ. In all the unborn years, no matter how much a man may sin, he will consider it nought to my sin. How you will comfort yourselves in the shadow of my infamy. How you will delude yourselves. When men of property cheat and manipulate the poor and the aged, they will be betraying and cheating him. When men lust for gold or power or flesh, they will be defiling him. When harsh guardians abuse children, they will be abusing him. When power-seeking fanatics wage war on innocents, they will be hammering the nails into his hands and feet- the blood they spill will be his. All men will betray him; all sin is a betrayal of his love.
     I remember, during the Passover meal, he said ‘Love one another, as I have loved you’; his one last great revolutionary message. Will any ever believe that Judas loved?
     I shall write no more- my tale is done and it would serve no purpose to dissolve into mere musings.
     The light is now quite clear in the east. I must begin my last journey, a journey of four or five days, mayhap- to Jerusalem. I have a notion to visit my property. Did I not tell you? Oh, yes, I have property in Jerusalem- a field. It has even been given a name, though not by me. It is called Akeldama- the Field of Blood. I have not seen it yet. It was acquired through the good offices of my agents. I am told it is a desolate place, but I have become used to desolation, now, and I shall not stay long. There is nothing of note in my field- a few grave markers, but I believe there is one very old olive tree- just one.
      I have a fancy to walk in my field, and to climb my olive tree. My limbs are quite sound, for a man of my years, and an old tree will offer plenty of footholds. I shall climb up to the top, so that I may look out at the city. Oh poor Jerusalem; I fear her grief will soon match mine. I shall say ‘goodbye’ to her, then I shall drop down from my tree, through the branches, through the grass, through the earth, the deep, black earth, down, down into Sheol, and there I may at last find rest.
     Not peace- I do not presume to seek for peace- just rest- nothing. Is the luxury of nothing available to me? I do not know. I know nothing-


I only know my name is Judas, and I am damned.


₁ bar abba- ‘son of a father’-sometimes used as a no name anonymity, or bar abbas-‘ son of many fathers’- a bastard, literally or disparagingly.