Judas had been distracted during dinner; the small room was close, sticky with tallow and the odors of a dozen men crusted with sweat and dust. Jesus, luminous as a candle. Now, running his tongue along his teeth, he could taste the barbed edge of horseradish, the soured dregs of wine.

Here, in the garden, the air was cool. The bruise of dusk had darkened to night. Still, Judas felt a heat like cinders beneath the skin on his neck, his muscles tensed in anticipation. The little he had eaten ground like pebbles in his gut.

The men were gathered again for prayer. Often one or the other would beseech the carpenter to lead them, as much to luxuriate in the timbre of his voice as to feel the power of his connection to the holy God. Tonight, though, none spoke out, each disciple ducking into the solitude of his own shadow, preferring to sit alone with his fears. For the first time Judas found himself unable to pray; he could only mouth Yahweh like a mantra. His blood thrummed like harp strings; without rising from his knees still he felt frenzied, as if running, like wild boars, possessed, leaping off of a cliff. Judas tried to slow his breathing. Yahweh, he murmured.

Jesus stood abruptly, as if he'd heard his name called aloud, though Judas had heard nothing– only ragged snores from Philip, asleep against a retaining wall. Always, when Jesus moved, Judas felt a stir in his own body, as if a silk cord connected them, a rope woven from hemp. He rose to approach the master, then heard the hammer of footsteps advancing from the byway. It was time.

The light from a lantern carved an ellipsis into the darkness, holding Jesus and several disciples in its gaze. "Judas Iscariot!" called a stocky man in front, aggressive, pushing the lantern bearer aside. Almost involuntarily Judas moved into the light. The thickset man stepped nearer, pressed a goatskin pouch into Judas's hand. "Deliver to us the Nazarene," he spat, the words curdled like rancid milk.

Like a knot poorly tied, Judas quickly uncoiled, turning toward the men in the garden. Thomas, and Andrew; James and John; Simon Peter, called by others “The Rock.” Peter, the perfect curls of his beard cupping his narrow chin; Peter, the smug assurance of his favored place at the Seder table, the seat he claimed at the master's feet. Judas felt dizzy, heard in his head the fury of a thousand angels’ wings, swelling like waves in the Galilee. And when they stilled, his way was clear.

Judas strode toward Peter. He took the taller man's shoulders in his hands, pulled him close, scraped a dry kiss against his cheek. Then released him. The riled throng surrounded him and bound his wrists. "Who--what? Let me go!" Peter sputtered. His voice spiraled like smoke as they drew him away. "Master!" he called. And then "I am not he!"

As though a storm cloud had broken, the air lifted and lightened, scented with cedar and Jerusalem pine. Like a drowning man pulled from the water, Judas drew breath and felt his life expand before him, a resurrection and a psalm. He looked toward Jesus. Jesus, inscrutable, eyes dark and wet as olives slow ripened in brine. Every muscle, every tendon, the marrow of every bone Judas felt melt with lust–adulation–surrender–love. Pieces of silver sifted through his fingers, water sprinkled in absolution. Judas reached out his hands--"Messiah!"--and Jesus grasped them, his face abloom like the rising sun. "Savior," he answered. Ecstatically, a rooster crowed, and dawn unfurled in bands of saffron and rose.