Judas by Frederick Ramsay

here.”
    I jumped. The voice seemed to be right on top of me, but I saw no one. I peered into the gloom, looking for a clue, a flicker of firelight, anything.
    “Now, Red Hair.”
    I had no choice. He could see me, but I could not see him, and that meant I had no hope of escape. I followed the sound into the dark and prayed to whatever gods ruled the land that when the sun rose again, I would still be alive. I stepped closer and saw he was waving me into a cave. Hand firm on the hilt of my knife, I stepped forward into either my last night on this earth, or the future I sought and had planned for since I left Caesarea years before.

Chapter Seventeen
     
    To this day, I do not know what I expected when I set eyes on the famous Jesus Barabbas—something akin to one of the Greek demigods, I suppose, like Achilles, not quite human and yet, not beyond mortal contact. Maybe I thought this rebel would be a Jewish Alexander the Great or David himself. Whatever possibilities ran through my mind were quickly dashed by the man who crouched before me and who, he announced proudly, was indeed that very famous Jewish rebel and raider.
    A small fire flickered in the deep recesses of the cave. I could make out baggage and bales deeper in. Close to its mouth, bundles had been arranged so that no light escaped to betray his presence. The result—a cave filled with smoke. Soon my eyes watered and I rubbed them with my sleeve. He laughed.
    “Now you know why the soldiers call us ‘red eyes.’ They think it is because we are mad. It is good they think that, but it is only the smoke.”
    I nodded. My eyes adjusted to the light. “There are no others with you?” I asked. I peered into the depths of the cave as hard as I could, but saw nothing that resembled a man, much less a group of them.
    “They are here…” he gestured vaguely, “and they are there…you understand how that must be.”
    He smiled. His teeth were broken and yellow and his grin looked like a wolf when it has chanced upon a flock of sheep. My hand found the hilt of my knife. He saw the movement and his eyes hardened, but only briefly.
    “Do not be afraid, Red Hair,” he said. “There is no need for that. You have been searching for me and now you have found me. Now, you will tell me why you have been seeking Barabbas.” He settled back on his haunches and peered expectantly at me through smoky firelight.
    I studied the man. I saw strength in him. Anyone could see that. A sane person would not want to meet him in one of the dark alleys of Corinth. Even hunched over in the gloom he appeared larger than life, swarthy and broad across the chest, his beard long, cut in the fashion of the men of this land, but unkempt and scraggly. His hair had a reddish cast to it. Not red like mine, but rusty. He pulled his torn and dirty cloak around his shoulders and looked like a man on the run, which, of course, he was. I saw no weapons in his belt, no evidence of one on his person, but I had no doubt a short sword or a knife lay somewhere close by.
    “I have come to make you an offer,” I said.
    “An offer? What sort of offer will this red-haired wanderer make me?” His eyes glazed over, and his expression became unreadable.
    “First, I wish to join you in your fight against the Romans.”
    “First? There is more?”
    “Well, yes, but I wanted to get that part said and agreed to.”
    “You wish to join my group of men and fight Romans. You did say Romans?”
    “Yes, of course, the Roman legions. I have heard all about you in my travels, in places as far away as Ephesus and beyond.”
    “They speak of me, of Barabbas, in these places?” His eyebrows soared.
    “Oh, yes, of Barabbas, the man who will drive the Romans out of this land.”
    Hearing of his fame so far away brought another frightening smile to his face.
    “And you wish to join me in this?”
    I felt more confident now. I believed he recognized me as someone who knew things and had been places. I