Pathway to Japanese Literature

I submit. Master. That person is terrible. Terrible. Yes. He's a detestable man. He is a bad person. Ah. I can't stand it. I can't let him live.

Yes, yes. I will state this calmly. He must not be allowed to live. He is the enemy of the world. Yes, I will submit everything—absolutely everything—completely. I know that person’s whereabouts. I will lead you there immediately. Cut him to pieces and kill him, please. That person is my teacher. He is the Lord. But he is the same age as me. He is thirty-four. I was born just two months later than him. There shouldn’t be much of a difference. There shouldn’t be such terrible discrimination between people. And yet—how cruelly I’ve been driven by that person until today! How I’ve been mocked all this time! Ah, I can't take it anymore. I have endured as much as I could endure. If you don’t get angry when you should, there’s no worth in being human.

How much I had secretly protected him all that time. No one knew. Even that person himself hadn't noticed it. No—that person knew. He knew full well. Precisely because he knew, that person all the more spitefully despised me. That person was arrogant. Because he received such great care from me, that very fact was galling to him. That person was foolishly narcissistic. He had convinced himself that receiving care from someone like me was some terrible flaw of his own. That person acted as if he could do everything himself—he wanted desperately to be seen that way by others. It was absurd. The world wasn't like that. In this world, if you were going to survive, you absolutely had to kowtow to someone—there was no other way but to painstakingly suppress people step by step as you went. What could that person possibly accomplish? He couldn't do anything at all. From my perspective, he was just a greenhorn. If I hadn't been there, he would have long since perished in some field with those incompetent bumbling disciples of his: "Foxes have dens and birds have nests—but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." That was it—that was it—that was it. He'd gone and made a proper confession.

What could Peter possibly do? James, John, Andrew, Thomas—that gaggle of fools trailing after him, spouting sickeningly sweet flattery that chilled my spine, obsessively believing in that ridiculous notion of heaven—did they all think they’d become chancellors or grand ministers when that kingdom arrived? Utter imbeciles. They couldn’t even secure bread for the day—were they all just going to starve to death unless I managed things for them? I made him preach, pocketed coins from crowds on the sly, collected offerings from village magnates, handled lodgings, procured daily food and clothing—I did all these bothersome tasks without complaint. Yet not only he, but even those idiot disciples never uttered a single word of thanks to me. Far from gratitude, he pretended ignorance of my hidden daily struggles while making outrageous demands—even when we only had five loaves and two fish, ordering me to feed the entire massive crowd before us—and through my desperate scheming in the shadows, I somehow scraped together the provisions he commanded. In short, I had served countless times as that person’s miracle assistant, the backstage helper for his risky magic tricks. I might appear this way, but I’m no miser. On the contrary, I’m a man of exceptionally refined tastes. I consider that person beautiful. From my view, he’s as desireless as a child; even when I painstakingly saved money for our daily bread, he made me squander every last copper on frivolities. Yet I bear no grudge for that. That person is beautiful. Though originally a poor merchant, I believe I understand what it means to be spiritual. That’s why no matter how foolishly he wasted every penny I’d scraped together, I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind—but if that were so, couldn’t he have at least occasionally given me one kind word? Instead, he always spitefully prodded me. Once, as he wandered along a springtime shore, he suddenly called my name: “I suppose I’ll have to depend on you too.” “I understand your loneliness.” “But you mustn’t keep making that sullen face.” “Putting on a mournful expression when lonely—that’s what hypocrites do.” “You’re just theatrically changing your complexion trying to make people pity your solitude.”

“If you truly believe in God,” he said, “you should wash your face clean when lonely, anoint your head with oil, and keep smiling as if nothing’s wrong.” “Don’t you understand?” “Even if no one else comprehends your loneliness—if only your true Father in some unseen realm understands—isn’t that enough?” “Isn’t that so?” “Loneliness dwells in every heart.” When he spoke those words, I nearly wept aloud—no! Even if heaven’s Father remained oblivious, even if the world never knew—if you alone acknowledged me, that would suffice. I love you. However deeply the others might love you, my love eclipses theirs completely. I love you beyond measure. Peter and James trail after you like dogs sniffing for scraps. But I alone see clearly. I know following you yields no earthly gain. Yet still I cannot leave your side. What madness grips me? Should you vanish from this world, I’d perish that instant. Life would become unbearable. A secret fantasy haunts my solitude—that you might cast off those witless disciples, abandon your sermons about heaven’s Father, and live out quiet years with only your mother Mary and me. My village still holds my humble home. There wait an aged father and mother.

There was also a rather vast peach orchard. Now in springtime, the peach blossoms were blooming magnificently. You could live in comfort all your life. I wanted to always remain by your side and serve you. You ought to take a proper wife. When I said that, that person smiled faintly and said, “Peter and Simon are fishermen. They have no beautiful peach orchards either. James and John are paupers among fishermen. Those people have nowhere—no land where they might live out their days in comfort,” he murmured quietly as if to himself, then continued walking silently along the shore. Yet before or after that moment, I only ever had that one heartfelt conversation with that person; afterward, he never again opened his heart to me. I love that person. Should that person die, I too would die with him. That person belongs to no one. He is mine. Rather than hand that person over to others, I would kill him myself first. I abandoned my father, abandoned my mother, abandoned my birthplace, and have followed that person until today. I do not believe in heaven. I do not believe in God. I do not believe in that person’s resurrection. Why should that person be King of Israel? The foolish disciples believe that person to be God’s Son, and whenever they hear from him about this so-called gospel of God’s Kingdom, they impudently prance about with joy.

I know they will be disappointed soon enough. That person promised that "those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted," but does the world really work so easily? That person is a liar. Everything that person says—from start to finish—is utter nonsense. I don’t believe a single word of it. But I believe only in that person’s beauty. A person as beautiful as that does not exist in this world. I purely love that person’s beauty. That is all. I am not thinking of any reward. I have no such base ambition as to follow that person, wait for heaven to draw near, and then think, “Hail! Now I shall become high minister or chief minister!” I simply do not want to be apart from that person. I simply need to be by that person’s side, hear that person’s voice, gaze upon that person’s form—that alone would suffice. And if possible, I want that person to stop preaching and live a long life alone with just me. Ahhh, if only that could happen! How happy I would be. I believe only in the present, this-worldly joy. I am not afraid in the least of the judgment of the next world. Why does that person not accept my unrewarded, pure love? Ah, please kill that person.

Master. I know where that person is. I shall guide you. That person disdains me and harbors hatred toward me. I am hated. I handle the bread provisions for that person and the disciples, saving them from daily hunger—yet why do they despise me with such cruel contempt? Please listen.

It was six days ago. That person was having a meal at the house of Simon of Bethany when Mary—that Martha wench’s sister from the village—sneaked into the banquet room carrying an alabaster jar filled to the brim with nard perfume. Without warning, she splashed the oil over that person’s head, even soaking his feet. Yet instead of apologizing for her rudeness, she calmly crouched down and meticulously wiped his wet feet with her own hair. The scent of perfume filled the room, creating such a bizarre spectacle that I found myself inexplicably enraged. *How dare you act so disrespectfully!* And I yelled at her sister. “Look! His garment’s soaked through like this! And you’ve gone and spilled such costly oil—don’t you know what a waste this is? What a fool you are! “This much oil would cost three hundred denarii! If you’d sold it and made three hundred denarii—if you’d given that money to the poor—just imagine how overjoyed they’d have been!” “You shouldn’t do such wasteful things,” I scolded her thoroughly. Then, that person fixed me with a sharp look and said, “You must not scold this woman. She has done a very good thing. “Giving alms to the poor is something you all can do as much as you like from now on, can you not? “I can no longer give alms. “I need not explain why. “Only this woman knows. “This woman pouring perfume on my body has prepared for my burial. “You all had better keep this in mind. “Throughout the world, wherever my brief life is recounted, this woman’s gesture today will surely also be commemorated in the telling.” When he finished saying that, that person’s pale cheeks flushed slightly red. I do not believe that person’s words. I thought it was just another instance of exaggerated theatrics and could calmly dismiss it, but more than that—at that moment, I sensed something profoundly strange in that person’s voice and the hue of his eyes unlike anything before. I became momentarily confused, then thoroughly scrutinized his faintly flushed cheeks and eyes glistening with thin tears—and suddenly realized something. Ah, abominable—merely giving voice to it is utterly mortifying. That person surely isn’t in love with this wretched peasant girl—absolutely not—but could he have harbored something perilously close to such a dubious emotion? That someone like him would—!

If that person felt even a flicker of special affection for such an ignorant, wretched peasant girl—what an utter blunder that would be. An irreparable catastrophe of a scandal. I am a man naturally skilled at detecting emotions that bring shame to others. Though I myself consider it a vulgar instinct—indeed find it repulsive—I possess a keen talent for unerringly discerning people’s weaknesses with just a fleeting glance. That person—even if only faintly—having stirred special feelings toward that uneducated peasant girl was undoubtedly true. My eyes could not be mistaken. That was certainly true. Ah, it was unbearable. Unbearable. I concluded that even that person was beyond saving in such a disgraceful state. I thought it was the height of disgrace. That person had always been beautiful and calm as water, no matter how women adored him. He had never shown the slightest sign of losing composure. He came undone. He was so undisciplined. That person was still young too—one might say it was only natural—but then so was I. Moreover, I had been born two months later than that person. There should have been no difference in youth. Even so, I endured. I had devoted my heart to that person alone and had never had my heart stirred by any woman until now.

Mary, the sister of Martha—while Martha was a peasant woman with nothing to recommend her beyond her sturdy frame as large as an ox, rough temperament, and clumsy bustling about—was altogether different: delicate-boned, with skin of a translucent pallor; plump yet petite hands and feet; large eyes as deep and clear as a lake that always gazed dreamily into the distance; a girl so noble that the entire village marveled at her. I had thought so too. When I went to town, I had thought of secretly buying something like white silk as a gift. Ah, I no longer understand anything. What am I saying? That’s right—I am resentful. I don’t know why—I don’t understand. I am so bitterly resentful I could stamp the earth. If that person is young, then I am young too. I am a talented young man of splendid standing, with both a house and fields. Even so, I have discarded all my privileges for that person’s sake. I was deceived. That person is a liar.

Master. That person took my woman. No—that’s wrong! That woman took that person from me. Ah, that’s also wrong. Everything I say is nonsense. Please do not believe a single word. I no longer understood. Forgive me. I ended up spouting utter nonsense. There isn’t a shred of such shallow truth. I blurted out something ugly. But I am resentful. It was so mortifying I wanted to claw at my chest. I don’t know why—I cannot understand. Ah, jealousy—what an unbearable vice. Even though I have adored that person with such abandon—to the point of throwing away my life—and followed him until today, he hasn’t granted me a single kind word, yet went so far as to flush with emotion defending the circumstances of that lowly peasant girl. Ah, after all—that person is so undisciplined. He’s come undone. That person is beyond hope now.

He was a mere mortal. He was just a man. Even if he died, it would be no loss. When I thought that way, I suddenly began considering something terrible. I might have been possessed by the devil. From that moment on, I resolved to kill him with my own hands. He would undoubtedly be killed eventually. Moreover, even he seemed to be deliberately compelling others to kill him—I caught glimpses of such behavior. I would kill him with my own hands—as a mercy. I didn’t want him killed by others’ hands. I would kill him and die. “Master,” I thought, “I am ashamed to be crying.” “Yes,” I vowed, “I’ll cry no more.” “Yes, yes.” Steadying myself, I prepared to speak respectfully.

The following day, we finally set out toward our longed-for Jerusalem. A vast multitude—old and young alike—followed in that person’s wake until, as Jerusalem’s temple drew near, he found an aged donkey by the roadside, smiled and mounted it, then declared to the disciples with triumphant airs that this very act fulfilled the prophecy—“Daughter of Zion, fear not; behold, your king comes seated on a colt, the foal of a donkey”—yet I alone felt a strange unease. What a pitiful sight it was. The long-awaited Passover—this grand entry into Jerusalem’s temple. Was this truly the form of David’s heir? Was this wretched spectacle—that person straddling a decrepit donkey and plodding onward—the glorious culmination of his life’s ambition? I could feel nothing but pity. It seemed I watched some wretched farce—ah, now even he had fallen from grace. Each day he survived would only expose more foolish disgrace. A flower remains a flower only before it wilts. It must be cut while still beautiful. That person—the one who loves him most is me. Let them hate me however they will. That I must kill him swiftly—I could only steel myself to this agonizing resolve. The crowd swelled moment by moment; along his path they cast red, blue, yellow and motley garments, strewed palm branches across his way, roaring welcomes in jubilation. They pressed ahead and trailed behind, swarming from right and left until they clung like tidal waves, jostling both donkey and rider as they chanted fervently: “Hosanna to David’s Son! Blessed is he who comes in the Lord’s name! Hosanna in the highest!” Peter, John, Bartholomew—all those foolish disciples—behaved as though heaven itself lay before them, embracing like attendants to a conquering hero, exchanging tear-soaked kisses while that obstinate Peter clutched John and wailed with joy. Watching this, even I—who’d endured hardships alongside these disciples spreading teachings—found myself recalling our days of patient poverty, unwitting heat rising behind my eyes. Thus that person entered the temple, dismounted, seized a rope—who knows his intent—swung it about, overturned money changers’ tables and dove-sellers’ stalls, drove out all oxen and sheep for sale with that rope whip, then shrilled at the merchants thronging the courts: “Out! All of you! You shall not turn my Father’s house into a den of trade!” That gentle soul committing such drunken violence—I could only conclude madness had taken him. When bystanders gasped “What’s happening?” he panted back: “Tear down this temple! I’ll rebuild it in three days!” Even those simple disciples gaped dumbstruck at such recklessness.

However, I knew. After all, it must have been nothing more than that person's childish bravado. No doubt he wanted to demonstrate to people the full extent of his resolve—that through his so-called faith, nothing would be impossible. Even so, brandishing a rope whip and chasing powerless merchants—what a petty, wretched display of defiance. "Is the ultimate rebellion you can muster merely this?" I even thought of asking mockingly. "Just overturning dove sellers' stools?" This person was beyond saving. He had become utterly reckless. He had forgotten all self-restraint and dignity. Since he seemed to have gradually realized he could no longer achieve anything through his own power, he must have wanted to be deliberately captured by the chief priests and bid farewell to this world before his flaws became too apparent. When I thought that, I was finally able to decisively renounce that person. And then, I could readily laugh at my own foolishness for having single-mindedly loved that pretentious young master all this time.

Before long, that person stood before the great crowd gathered at the temple and incoherently ranted—the most appalling, insolent outburst among all words he had spoken thus far. Indeed, he was truly acting out of reckless abandon. I even came to think that figure looked grubby. He was itching to be killed yet feigning reluctance. “Woe unto you, hypocritical scholars and Pharisees! You cleanse the outside of cups and dishes, yet within you are filled with greed and self-indulgence. Woe unto you, hypocritical scholars and Pharisees! You are like whitewashed tombs—outwardly beautiful to behold, yet within are full of dead men’s bones and all manner of filth. In this way do you too outwardly appear righteous, yet within are filled with hypocrisy and lawlessness. Serpents! Brood of vipers! How shall you escape the punishment of Gehenna? Jerusalem, Jerusalem—you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you! How often I have longed to gather your children as a hen gathers her chicks under wings, yet you would not.” Ridiculous. Preposterous. Even mimicking those words feels detestable. What outrageous things this fellow says. That person had gone mad. On top of that came sheer nonsense—famines would come, earthquakes arise, stars fall from heaven, the moon lose its light, eagles gather around earth’s corpses to peck at them, men wailing and gnashing teeth—truly outrageous statements spewed heedlessly from his mouth. What thoughtless words! Utterly presumptuous! Foolish. He knew no measure of his station. How full of himself he was.

That person's sin could no longer be escaped. Crucifixion—without fail. It was decided.

I heard from a street vendor yesterday that the chief priests and elders of the people had secretly gathered in High Priest Caiaphas’s courtyard and resolved to kill that person. I also heard that if they were to arrest that person before the crowd’s eyes, the crowd might riot—so they would give thirty pieces of silver to whoever found where he was staying with only his disciples and informed the authorities. There was no more time for delay. That person would die regardless. Rather than leaving it to others to hand him over to the officers, I would do it myself. This was my final farewell to the undivided love I had devoted to that person until today. It was my duty. I would betray that person. A painful position indeed. Who would ever properly understand this single-minded act of love? No—it mattered not if none understood. My love was pure. Not love meant to be comprehended by others. Not such base love indeed. I would forever incur mankind’s hatred. Yet before this pure love’s voracity, neither punishment nor hellfire’s infernal flames held any meaning. I would live out my own way of being. I resolved with such fierceness it made me shudder. I had been secretly biding my time for the right moment. At last came the day of the festival. We thirteen disciples arranged to rent a dim second-floor banquet room in an old hillside restaurant for our festival feast.

When everyone had taken their seats at the table and we were about to begin the festival supper, that person suddenly stood up and silently removed his outer garment. As we watched in bewilderment, wondering what he intended to do, he took the water jar from the table, poured its water into a small basin that stood in the corner of the room, then wrapped a pure white towel around his own waist and proceeded to wash each disciple’s feet with the water from the basin. The disciples, unable to comprehend the reason for this, were so beside themselves that they could do nothing but pace about in confusion; however, I somehow felt I could grasp that person’s hidden intentions. That person is lonely. His spirit has grown so weak that he must now feel compelled to cling even to his ignorant and obstinate disciples. Poor thing. That person knew his own inescapable fate. As I watched that scene unfold before me—suddenly—I felt a violent sob surge upward into my throat. Suddenly, I wanted to embrace that person and weep together. Oh, how pitiful—how could I ever condemn you? You were always kind. You were always right. You were always an ally of the poor. And you were always radiantly beautiful. You are indeed the Son of God. I know that. Please forgive me. I have been trying to sell you and looking for an opportunity these past few days. Now I don’t want to anymore. What an outrageous thing I was thinking—to sell you. Please rest assured.

From this moment on, even if five hundred officers and a thousand soldiers come, I will not let them lay a single finger on your body. You are being targeted right now. You're in danger. Let’s escape from here right now. Come, Peter! Come, James! Come, John! Everyone, come! Words of love from the depths of my heart—“Let us protect our gentle Lord and live out our lives together long into the future”—though I could not voice them aloud, boiled within my breast. Struck by a sublime spiritual inspiration I had never felt until today, hot tears of apology streamed comfortingly down my cheeks, and then that person quietly, tenderly washed my feet too, wiping them soft with the towel wrapped around his waist—ah, the sensation of that moment— Yes—I might have seen heaven at that moment. After mine came Philip’s feet, then Andrew’s, and next in order was Peter’s—but Peter, being such a foolishly earnest man, could not conceal his bewilderment: “Lord, why would you wash the feet of someone like me?” he asked with a somewhat discontented pout. That person said, “Ah, what I am doing—you would not understand.” “You will understand it later,” he calmly explained, kneeling at Peter’s feet—but Peter stubbornly refused, saying, “No—you mustn’t!” “You must never wash my feet forevermore.” “It’s too much!” he insisted, pulling back his foot. Then, that person raised his voice slightly and declared with startling forcefulness, “If I do not wash your feet, then you and I will have no relationship whatsoever.” At this, Peter panicked utterly and pleaded abjectly, “Ah, forgive me! Then wash not only my feet but my hands and head as well—as much as you please!” I couldn’t help bursting out laughing, and the other disciples also smiled quietly, making the room feel somehow brighter. That person also said with a slight laugh, “Peter, if I wash just your feet, then your whole body is clean. Ah, not only you—James, John, all of you have become bodies without stain, clean.” “But—” he began, then suddenly straightened his posture. For an instant, he wore a look so pained and sorrowful it seemed unbearable, then tightly shut those eyes and spoke without opening them. “If only everyone were clean…” I jolted. I’ve been found out!

He was talking about me. He had seen through the dark feelings I harbored until moments before scheming to sell him. But at that time, I was different. Absolutely different! I had become pure. My heart had changed. Ah—he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know. "Wrong! It’s wrong!"—the scream rising in my throat was swallowed by my weak, servile heart like gulping down spit. I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say anything. When faced with his words, a spiteful admission—"Maybe I’m still impure after all"—surfaced in my mind; then before my eyes, this servile self-reproach swelled into an ugly, black mass, coursing through my innards until smoldering fury erupted in flames instead. No! This is no good. I—no good. He detests me from his very core. I’ll sell him. I’ll sell him. I’ll kill him. Awakening anew to my long-held resolve—"Then I too shall die with him"—I became a full-fledged demon of vengeance. He showed no sign of noticing the cataclysmic upheavals within me—upended again and again—and soon donned his outer garment, adjusted his attire, sat leisurely down, and with deathly pallid face began: "Do you know why I washed your feet?"

“You call me Lord and Teacher—and rightly so. “Since I—your Lord and Teacher—have washed your feet despite this, you too must now strive to wash one another’s feet amicably. “I may not be able to stay with you forever, so I have taken this opportunity to show you an example now. “Just as I have done, you all must strive to do likewise. “Since a teacher is necessarily superior to disciples, you must listen well to what I say and not forget it.” In an utterly listless tone, he finished speaking and began eating soundlessly, then suddenly—face lowered—uttered in a voice that seemed to groan, to sob with anguish, “One of you will sell me.” At this, all the disciples recoiled in shock, kicked their seats to stand in unison, and gathered around that person, each clamoring, “Lord, is it me? Lord, do you mean me?” That person faintly shook his head like a dying man and said, “I will now give a morsel of bread to that person. That person is a very unfortunate man. “Truly, it would have been better had that person never been born,” he said in an unexpectedly clear tone, then took a morsel of bread, stretched out his arm, and pressed it unerringly against my mouth. I, too, had already steeled myself. I chose hatred over shame. I hated that person’s belated spitefulness. To publicly humiliate me before all the disciples like this has been that person’s custom up until now.

Fire and water. A destiny that will never reconcile exists between me and him. As if feeding a dog or cat, he pressed a pinch of breadcrumbs into my mouth—was that his paltry way of venting spite? Hmph. He’s a fool. “Master,” he told me, “Quickly do what you must do.” “I immediately ran out from the banquet hall, dashed headlong along the dusk-shrouded road, and have now come here.” “Thus I hastened to report everything exactly as such.” “Now—punish that person.” “Do as you please—punish that person.” “Arrest him! Beat him with clubs! Strip him naked and kill him!”

I can’t take it anymore—I just can’t take it anymore! That person is a detestable fellow. He’s a terrible person. He tormented me so much all this time. Ha ha ha ha, damn you bastard! That person is now beyond the Brook Kidron, in the Garden of Gethsemane. The Last Supper in that second-floor room had already ended; he went to the Garden of Gethsemane with his disciples, and by now, it must surely be the hour when he offers prayers to heaven. There was no one else besides the disciples. Now they can capture that person without difficulty. Ah, the birds are crying; it’s so noisy! Why are the night birds’ voices so intrusive tonight? Even in the forest I passed through while rushing here, birds were chirping shrilly! Birds that sing at night are rare! With childlike curiosity, I wanted to catch a glimpse of those birds’ true forms! I stopped in my tracks, tilted my head, and peered through the treetops! Ah—I’m saying such trivial things! Forgive me! “Master—have you finished preparing?” Ah—how delightful! Feels wonderful!

Tonight is my last night too. Master—Master—watch closely tonight as I stand shoulder to shoulder with him in glory. I’ll show you I can stand equal with him tonight. I don’t need to fear him. I don’t need to grovel. We’re the same age. Both of us—excellent young men. Ah, these birds won’t stop shrieking. Their cries cling to my ears—so shrill. Why are the birds so restless tonight? Chirping nonstop—what’s all their fuss about? Wait—what’s this money? You’re giving me—me—thirty silver coins? Ah, I see. Ha ha ha ha. No—I refuse. Better tuck away that money before they beat me for refusing. I didn’t accuse him for money. Put it away! No—forgive me—I’ll take it. Right—I was always a merchant.

Because of money, I had always been despised by that elegant person. I'll accept it. I am, after all, a merchant. With this money I've been scorned for, I'll exact splendid revenge on that person. This is the means of revenge most fitting for me. Serves you right! With thirty pieces of silver, that guy gets sold. I'm not crying at all. I do not love that person. From the very beginning, I hadn't loved him even a speck. Yes, Master. I told nothing but lies. I was following that person because I wanted money. Oh, that must be it. Because I realized tonight that person wouldn't let me profit at all—so, being a merchant, I swiftly switched sides. Money. The world runs on nothing but money. Thirty pieces of silver—how magnificent! I'll accept it. I am a stingy merchant.

I can't help wanting it. Yes, thank you kindly. Yes, yes. I neglected to mention it. My name is Judas the merchant. Heh heh. Judas Iscariot.