When Judas is drunk, Gallio questions him about the miracles of Jesus.
‘Saw them all.’ His lips are black, and he squints at the level of wine in the bottle, rotates the base in tiny increments. ‘Makes no difference. Who’s going to believe us?’
Gallio organises a press conference in which Judas sits in front of foam microphones and denies witnessing miracles. He does not believe that Jesus has come back from the dead. He overturns his glass of water, then re-rights the glass but it’s empty. The Speculator expense account buys Judas new clothes to reassure him he’s doing the right thing, and Gallio hopes other potential informers will notice and be impressed.
He bribes Judas onto the best table at Canela. This news will get out, get around. Among the Jerusalem high-achievers, the bankers and the journalists, the rich, the leaders, here is Judas reaping his rewards. He has co-operated with the occupying forces to enable the arrest of a terrorist. Good man. He is clapped on the back, an obvious success, an incentive to any right-minded citizen with information about the corpse of a convicted insurgent.
Come forward and all this can be yours. The restaurant, Gallio wants to say, the gossip. This is how winners have their story told. No one comes forward.
‘Judas?’
The next morning at the safe house Gallio finds Judas slumped in the shower, sitting on the tiles as the water batters the bald spot on the back of his head. The disciples are up early again, declaiming in turns on the Temple steps, honing their version of events in which Jesus comes back from the dead. Judas, on the other hand, is in the black grip of a long night’s wine. Gallio leans in and flips the water to cold. Judas wakes, panics, blows out his cheeks, tries to stand. Gallio holds him down.
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? We have work to do.’
In the street Gallio tells Judas to stop worrying, he’ll be fine. All Cassius Gallio wants him to do is to stand up for the truth, remind people there are contrary opinions about Jesus among his closest followers.
‘Remember, even when you can’t see us we’ll be watching. You’re totally safe. They can’t hurt you, and they’re cowards. They’re not going to throw the first stone, you know that.’
‘Can I have a drink?’
‘No.’
They stop on the way for a stiffener, Judas in his fresh expensive clothes with his recently washed hair drinking two to Gallio’s one. They leave with the bottle, Judas a public drunk, swigging as they approach the Temple. Gallio pushes him forward through the crowd gathered at the Temple steps.
One of the minor disciples, Simon or Jude, is promising the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.
Judas objects, which is all Cassis Gallio has asked him to do. He shouts out his own name, fronts up to the idea of the living Jesus. He challenges Philip or Bartholomew to measure the size of their inheritance, and Gallio questions the wisdom of the drink. Judas holds up his wallet, richer than the other eleven disciples put together. He shoves a blind man across the back of a mobility scooter, sings chants for Beitar Jerusalem FC, proves his Jewishness categorically undimmed.
Then he loses interest, because he has more entertaining places to be. Does he? He has things to do. He’s hungry, and he can eat what he wants. Can he? He remembers he can. He’s hungry and he’s thirsty. He doesn’t have to stand here stating the obvious. No one has come back from the dead.
One month after the incident at the tomb Cassius Gallio promises Judith, his wife, that when this is over he’ll pay for a weekend in Rome. Just the two of them, for a whole week. The three of them. The baby can see a big-city specialist, they’ll book her in. Ten days. A doctor for the baby and a family holiday, the three of them together, plenty of time to see the sights. He promises he’ll take two weeks away from the office. He’ll leave his phone.
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
First, though, that body needs to come to light. Gallio writes a provisional report, explaining his strategy and his confidence that a breakthrough is imminent. He is using Judas to provoke the disciples into an act of retaliation, and when they crack he’ll pick them up, one by one if necessary. Gallio has to go through Pilate but he attaches a second confidential copy of his report to Valeria. He wants her to feel included, and she’ll see that everything’s under control. He has behaved erratically, but he’s had his reasons and he’s on the way back, the same Speculator she once thought was amazing. He clicks Send.
‘I’ve read your report,’ Pilate says. There is a squared-off printout on the desk in front of him, old school. ‘I’m not signing it off.’
‘The disciples can’t keep this farce going for ever. No one comes back from the dead. We can break them apart, and I’ve set up a public debate with Judas head-to-head against Peter. Peter has a temper on him. Let’s push him over the edge.’
‘Can’t risk it.’ Pilate has aged, or needs more sleep. He seems to have lost weight. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, then swipes the air beside his head, as if pestered by an insect. ‘Judas will probably warn them in advance. They’ll have some stunt ready.’
‘Judas barely leaves the safe house. He’s drunk. He’s ours.’
‘You increased the reward money. Ordered a new print run of posters.’
‘Every disciple has his price. We know that from Judas.’
‘Dead or Alive, that’s what your posters say. Wanted, Jesus, Dead or Alive. You fatigue me, Gallio. You acted without my authority. You’re supposed to be looking for a body, not a ghost.’
‘I’m covering the angles. We’re making progress.’
‘You haven’t found the body, which by now will be in a severely perished condition. It’s in everyone’s interests to sort this out. I want you to bring me Judas.’
‘To the Antonia?’
‘In the usual way.’
Pilate squares off the pages of the report, even though they’re square. Gallio feels exposed, alone: the next time Judas enters the Antonia he won’t be coming out.
‘I promised him our protection,’ Gallio says. ‘He’s essential to my strategy.’
‘I promised him nothing. Certainly not the most visible table at Canela. He knows more than he’s saying. He’ll talk.’
‘Will he?’
Torture hadn’t worked with Jesus: overdo the pain and he’d confess to anything. I’m hurting, Jesus said, but they kept on until he swore he was the son of god, if that’s what they wanted. Gallio is convinced he has a better approach: ‘Your authorisation for Joseph to take away the body is in my report. You may have noticed.’
‘Is that a threat? I’ll send you to Moldova where you’ll dig latrines.’
‘Where’s Moldova?’
‘Exactly. No fucking idea.’
Pilate shouldn’t be speaking to him like this, not to a Speculator sent from Rome. ‘Why did you let a senior Jew take charge of the body? This is material information.’
Pilate fends again at thin air, but can’t brush away an imaginary insect. ‘Politics. You wouldn’t understand. Do a bad thing, send a man to his death. Then do a good thing, agree to a reasonable request from a senior member of the local priesthood. Keep a balance, keep the peace. Politics.’
‘In that case, politically, let me have Judas for one more week.’
Pilate considers the balance, the this-way-and-that. Gallio adds weight to his side of the scales. ‘I’ll assume full responsibility.’
‘One week. But don’t let anything happen to him. Find the body in the next week or your career is finished.’