I waited, tense, dagger in hand. Below me, Romans marched by. They had the army, but we had the terrain, and we were desperate. The Roman dogs would pay this time. They bled us with tax and treasure, and everyone who resisted was crushed under their steel boots.
"A little closer," I muttered under my breath. "A little closer…" they suspected no ambush. My second, Gilead, had seen no sign of scouts. In the valley between Jericho and Jerusalem, many robbers waited. I would be a robber too, stealing back what rightfully belonged to our people.
"Now!" I yelled, and sprinted from my cover. The centurion had just enough time to look up before I was on him. My hair and beard had grown long, and I knew I was a fearsome sight. With a heavy forearm, I swept away his shield, sending it to the ground. He tried to reach for his sword, but I held his hand with mine, while plunging the dagger with the other. He fell lifeless.
All around me, my men were killing the surprised soldiers, stealing what they could, coins of the tax on the way to Herodium, where it would be counted. Thirty of us, filled with righteous fire, the fire of God, would take one hundred men.
But maybe not. Even without their leader, the soldiers rallied quickly, and we were soon surrounded in a ring of long spears. The second walked forward, his eyes hard. With a snarl, he reached for Gilead, who clutched a wound in his arm. His short sword flashed once, and then my companion lay on the ground, bleeding from a wound I knew was fatal. Another flash, and Gilead's struggling ceased.
"For you, no mercy," the centurion's second growled. "I know your face, Barabbas. You have stolen for the last time." I wanted to rush forward, to commit holy suicide, to be a martyr for my people, but two huge men held me, their hands like bands of steel. I knew what was coming. I had killed enough men to know my fate, and there was no more hiding.
Though it was warm underneath the Antonia fortress, I shivered. My clothes had been taken, and all that was left was a loincloth. But that was not what made me shiver. I shivered for loss and fear. I had lost my freedom, and soon, I would lose my life.
"Have you abandoned me, my God?" I asked to the silent, empty air. Rabbi Eleazer had taught me some of the Psalms, and that one came to mind. "They are your enemies. They curse your name. Where is the day of your vengeance?"
What judgment would be for me? I had never killed an innocent man. Even the Greeks who lived in Galilee I had left alone, for they did not steal, and rape, and kill as these Romans did. Would it count, that I touched only the enemies of God?
And if it did not? If it did not...I did not like the thought. I didn't want to think about the cross, followed by the empty halls of Sheol. I did not like these thoughts, but they crept into my mind and heart, like a slowly rising flood.
There was no escape from a Roman prison. Not for me. I had to face my fate, whatever would come. I would not cry out, but would face my fate as a man should. With honor. And maybe...maybe I could take even one of the Roman dogs with me. We could see Sheol together, him and I.
I was roused from my dark fantasy by the sound of marching feet. Had the time come already for my death? I steeled myself, preparing my mind and body for the torments to come.
This soldier was a brute, and had eyes the color of a stormy sea. Those eyes were stormy now. "On your feet," he said, spitting at my own. I wanted to rush him, but his fellows stood behind him. Not yet. Not yet. My chance would come.
Meekly, I held out my arms, and roughly, the soldiers bound me. The walk from the prison to the surface seemed endless, but in reality, we were still standing before Pilate's seat. The big one himself. The one to cause trouble for my people. If I could have, I would have ended his life there. But he was surrounded by many, many soldiers.
Pilate pointed to me. "Who do you want?" he said, his voice a cracking whip. "Who should I release to you? This robber, or the one called the King of the Jews?" His other hand pointed to a figure that barely looked alive, but I could see that brown hair and rough jaw. I knew who it was- Yeshua, the teacher. A traitor to his people, for I knew he had not raised his voice to Rome. But...an honest, kind man, using the power of Yahweh to bless and heal. I knew who the crowd would pick, even if I disagreed.
I was shocked when they cried my name. So I was to be let go? I was to be free? It didn't make sense! I knew even the Law was not on my side- for thieves and murderers were looked down on by the one above. I could not deny it. And the Romans were far harsher than the Law could ever be.
I stood, mouth agape, caught up in this drama. Obviously, Pilate was as shocked, but recovered quickly, trying to get the crowd to reconsider. They would not move, and finally, he washed his hands clean and handed Yeshua over.
The flat of a blade brought me to my own circumstances. "Get out of here, murderer," the same big brute said. "Leave, before I change my mind."
I saw the open gates of the fortress. I could leave. I could find more men, and restart the struggle to free my people. My mind began to fill with plans, and I moved toward the gate. Yeshua was leaving also, bearing his cross, bowed by its weight. Just then, he looked up, straight into my eyes.
I expected angry eyes, or eyes of sorrow. Yet they were not. It is a look that haunts me still, even to this day. They were eyes of compassion and pity. For me!
I was pinned by that gaze. It seemed to show all my secrets. All my pride and anger, bitterness and lust came to my mind. Then...a deep peace.
He went meekly to his death….
Like a sheep to the shearers was silent
He went...to take my sins
He was wounded for the transgressors
I had been in chains for a day. But my spiritual chains had lasted much longer. I had always been angry, and Rome was but a target for my rage. In quieter moments, I wished for different thoughts and feelings...yet it was always there, despite my best attempts. It was anger that had made my an outlaw...and anger that nearly led me to the cross.
And here was a teacher, a holy man, a prophet...going to his death. I knew he could have resisted, but he did not. How could I?
The soldier shoved me again...and I left. But not before promising to be different than I had been. Somehow, I would. This time, I would die, trying to be a better man. I had been given a second chance. I dare not waste it….but do all I could for Yahweh.
Just like the teacher who was also Messiah.
A/N: The fate of Barabbas remains unknown. I feel, though, that he is more sympathetic, or at least I read him that way. And even terrorists (or so he would be called today) can have a change of heart.
The scripture in Italics is part of Isaiah 53...which is an amazing chapter of prophecy. I encourage everyone to read it.