Pathway to Japanese Literature

“I must tell you.” “I must tell you.” “Master.” “That person is cruel.” “Cruel.” “Yes.” “He’s detestable.” “He’s wicked.” “Ah.” “I can’t endure it.” “He mustn’t be left alive.” “Yes, yes.” “I’ll tell you calmly.” “That person cannot remain alive.” “He’s the world’s scourge.” “Yes—everything—absolutely everything—I’ll disclose it all.” “I know where that person stays.” “I’ll guide you there at once.” “Rend him limb from limb and kill him.” “That person is my teacher.”

“He is Lord.” “But he’s my age.” “Thirty-four.” “I was born just two months after him.” “There shouldn’t be such a gap.” “No such chasm should exist between people.” And yet how spitefully had he exploited me until now! How relentlessly had he mocked me! Ah—enough! No more! I’d endured—endured beyond endurance. To not rage when wronged makes one less than human. All those years shielding him in secret! No one knew. Not even he noticed. No—he knew. He knew full well. That’s why he despised me all the more. Arrogant wretch. My care shamed him. That fool’s swollen with conceit.

He seemed convinced that receiving care from someone like me constituted some terrible disgrace upon himself. That person acted as though he could accomplish everything alone, yet burned with desperation for others to perceive him thus. Nonsense. The world doesn't operate that way. To endure in this world, one must grovel before someone—suppressing others through laborious steps—there exists no alternative path. What could he possibly achieve? Nothing whatsoever. To my eyes, he remained a greenhorn. Had I not been present, that person would have perished long ago in some wilderness field alongside those inept, bumbling disciples. "Foxes have dens, birds have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head." There—precisely there! He dares confess it outright! What capability does Peter possess? James, John, Andrew, Thomas—that congregation of fools—trailing after him while spewing saccharine flattery that chills the spine, fervently believing in absurdities like Heaven's Kingdom. Should that kingdom materialize, do those idiots truly imagine themselves becoming Right Ministers and Left Ministers? Pathetic wretches. They couldn't even secure daily bread—were it not for my management, they'd all starve to death! I permitted his preaching, surreptitiously collected offerings from crowds, exacted tributes from village magnates, arranged lodgings, procured food and clothing—all without complaint—yet neither he nor those imbecilic disciples ever uttered one word of gratitude. Far from thanks, he'd feign ignorance of my covert struggles while making extravagant demands—even when we possessed merely five loaves and two fish, commanding "Feed this entire multitude"—through agonizing behind-the-scenes efforts verging on collapse, I somehow procured the required provisions. In essence, I've repeatedly served as stagehand to his miracles—accomplice in his perilous conjuring tricks. Though appearances suggest otherwise, I'm no miserly man. Rather, I possess exceptionally refined tastes. That person—I regard him as beautiful.

From my perspective he was as free of desire as a child—even when I painstakingly saved money to secure our daily bread he made me let him squander every last coin on frivolities without a second thought. But I did not resent it. That person was indeed a beautiful being. Though I was but a poor merchant by origin I believed I understood those of spiritual inclination. And so no matter how foolishly that person squandered the small coins I painstakingly saved grain by grain I did not mind it at all. I did not mind it at all but then—you'd think he might occasionally have offered me a single kind word—yet that person always spitefully lashed out at me. Once that person was strolling along a springtime seaside when he suddenly called my name: “You too—I'll be relying on you.” “I understand your loneliness.” “But you mustn't always wear such a sullen face.” “To wear a lonely face when lonely—that is the act of a hypocrite.” “You're just deliberately putting on a show of changing your expression to make others understand your loneliness.” “If you truly believe in God then even when lonely you should wash your face cleanly anoint your head with oil and smile as though nothing were amiss.” “Don't you understand?” “Even if people don't understand your loneliness—if only your true Father in that unseen place comprehends it—isn't that enough?” “Is that not so?” “Loneliness exists in everyone.” When he said that to me—when I heard those words—I felt like bursting into tears for reasons I couldn't name.No even if the heavenly Father didn't understand me even if the world remained oblivious—if only you alone would comprehend me that would already be enough. I love you. No matter how deeply the other disciples may have loved you—I have loved you incomparably more. I love you more than anyone.

Peter and James and the others merely follow you around, thinking only of whether there might be some advantage in it. But I alone know. I know that following you brings no benefit whatsoever. And yet, I cannot leave you. What’s wrong with me? If you were gone from this world, I too would die immediately. I cannot go on living. I have something I always think about alone and secretly. It is this—that you would leave behind all those worthless disciples, cease preaching about the Heavenly Father’s teachings or whatever they are, and—as one humble commoner among the people—live out a long, quiet life with only Mother Mary and myself. In my village, my small house still remains. There are also an elderly father and mother. There is also a very large peach orchard. In spring, around this time, the peach blossoms are in splendid bloom. You could live in comfort your entire life. I wish to always remain by your side and serve you devotedly. Please take a good wife. When I said that, that person smiled faintly and said, “Peter and Simon are fishermen.” There is no beautiful peach orchard. James and John are destitute fishermen. “Those people have nowhere—no land where they could live in comfort their whole lives,” he muttered lowly as if to himself, then continued walking quietly 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 up to me.

I love that person. If that person dies, I will die with them. That person is nobody’s. That person is mine. If it comes to handing that person over to others—before doing so—I will kill that person myself. I abandoned my father, abandoned my mother, abandoned the land where I was born—I have followed that person until this very day. I do not believe in heaven. I do not believe in God. I do not believe in that person’s resurrection. How could that person possibly be the King of Israel? The foolish disciples believe that person to be the Son of God, and upon hearing from that person about this so-called Gospel of the Kingdom of Heaven, they presumptuously leap for joy. I know they’ll soon be disappointed. That person promised, “Those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted”—but can the world possibly work so sweetly? That person is a liar. Every single thing that person says—from one to ten—is utter nonsense. I don't believe any of it. Yet I believe only in that person’s beauty. There is no one as beautiful as that person in this world. I purely love the beauty of that person. That’s all.

I am not considering any reward. I follow that person without harboring such base ambitions as those disciples who walk with him thinking, "When heaven draws near at last, we'll splendidly become Right Minister and Left Minister!" I simply don’t want to be separated from that person. Just being by that person’s side, hearing his voice, gazing upon his form—that would be enough. And then—if possible—I want that person to stop preaching and such, and have him live a long life alone with just me. Ah, if that were to happen! How happy I would be! I believe only in the joys of this moment, this present world. I do not fear the judgment of the next world in the slightest. Why won’t that person accept this uncompensated, pure love of mine? Ah, please kill that person. Master. I know where he is. I shall guide you. That person demeans me and harbors hatred toward me. I am hated. Even though I manage bread provisions for him and the disciples, saving them from daily hunger and thirst, why do they despise me so spitefully? Please listen.

It was six days ago. When that person was dining at Simon of Bethany’s house, that village fool Martha’s sister Mary crept into the banquet hall clutching an alabaster jar filled to the brim with nard perfume. Without warning, she dumped the oil over his head until even his feet were drenched! Yet instead of apologizing for this outrage, she calmly knelt and began wiping his soaked feet with her own hair. The cloying scent flooded the room, creating such an uncanny spectacle that I felt inexplicably furious—“How dare she act so insolently!” And I yelled at that sister girl. “Look at this! His robes are completely soaked! And you’ve gone and dumped such expensive oil—don’t you realize how wasteful that is? What a fool you are! “With this much oil, you could get three hundred denarii! Sell this oil, make three hundred denarii, and give that money to the poor—just imagine how overjoyed they’d be!” “You shouldn’t do such wasteful things, you know,” I gave her a thorough scolding. Then, that person glared at me and said, “Do not scold this woman. She has done a very good thing for me. “Giving money to the poor—isn’t that something you can do as much as you want from now on? “For me, the act of giving alms is no longer possible. “I need not explain the reason. “Only this woman knows. “This woman poured perfumed oil on my body—she has prepared me for burial. “You all should remember this—mark my words. “Wherever in all the world my brief life is recounted, there too this woman’s gesture today shall surely be told in remembrance.” When he concluded those words, that person’s pale cheeks flushed slightly red. I do not believe that person’s words. I thought it was just another instance of grandiose theatrics according to precedent and could dismiss it calmly—but more than that, at that moment I sensed something unprecedentedly strange in that person’s voice and the hue of their eyes. I became momentarily confused, then scrutinized anew that person’s faintly flushed cheeks and eyes thinly moistened with tears when suddenly I realized something. Ah, detestable—even to utter it fills me with unbearable bitterness. That person couldn’t possibly be in love with this lowly peasant woman—no, such a thing is absolutely impossible—but still, might he not harbor some dangerous, suspicious emotion akin to that? That person—of all people!

If that person felt even the slightest hint of special love for such an ignorant, wretched peasant woman—what an utter disgrace! An irredeemable catastrophe of disgrace. I am a man innately skilled at sniffing out emotions that bring others shame. Though I myself consider it a vulgar instinct and find it repulsive, I possess a keen talent for unerringly discerning people’s weaknesses with just a fleeting glance. That person had stirred special emotions—even if faintly—toward that uneducated peasant woman; there was no mistaking it. There should be no error in my eyes. That’s certainly true. Ah, I couldn’t bear it. Unbearable. I thought that even that person was beyond saving in such a wretched state. I thought it was the height of disgrace. That person had always remained beautiful and serene as water, no matter how women adored him. That person had never lost composure in the slightest. Jealousy had consumed me. I was so undisciplined. That person was still young too, so one might say it was understandable—but then I was the same age. Moreover, I was born two months after that person. There should be no difference in our youth. Even so, I endured. I had devoted my heart to that person alone and had never had it stirred by any woman until now.

Mary, the sister of Martha—while Martha had a sturdy frame large as an ox, a rough disposition, and no redeeming quality beyond her noisy bustling about as a peasant woman—was different: delicate bones, skin pale enough to seem translucent, plump small limbs, and large eyes as deep and clear as a lake that always gazed dreamily into the distance. In that village, she was considered such a noble girl that everyone marveled at her. I had thought so too. When I went to town, I had thought to secretly buy something like white silk and bring it back for her. Ah, I no longer understood. What was I saying? Yes—I was seething. I didn't know why. I burned with bitterness to the point of stamping my feet. If that person was young, then I was young too. I was a talented, splendid young man with a house and fields. Even so, I had abandoned all my privileges for that person. I had been deceived. That person was a liar.

Lord. That person took my woman. No, that’s wrong! That woman stole that person from me. Ah, no—that’s not it either. Everything I say is nonsense. Please don’t believe a single word. I don’t understand anymore. Forgive me. I’ve gone and spouted baseless drivel. There’s not a shred of such shallow truth. I uttered something vile. Yet this bitterness chokes me. So bitter I want to tear my chest open. I don’t know why. Ah, jealousy—what an unbearable curse. Though I’ve followed that person with life-risking devotion until today, he never once gave me a kind word—instead flushing crimson to defend even that lowly peasant wench’s circumstances. Ah yes—that person truly lacks discipline. Jealousy consumed me. That person has no future left.

A common mortal. Just an ordinary person. Even dead, he'd be no loss. When I thought that, I suddenly began considering something terrible. I might have been possessed by a demon. From that moment on, I resolved to kill him myself. He was undoubtedly fated for death anyway. Moreover, I kept seeing glimpses of him practically begging to be killed. I would kill him with my own hands—as a service. I refused to let others do it. Kill him and die myself. "Lord," I thought, shame burning through me, "how pathetic I am—crying like this." "Yes," I choked out, "I'll stop crying." "Yes, yes." "I'll speak calmly now."

The very next day, we finally departed for our longed-for Jerusalem. The great crowd—old and young alike—followed that person’s lead until Jerusalem’s temple drew near. Then that person found an aged donkey by the roadside, smiled and mounted it, explaining to the disciples with a proud expression that this very act fulfilled the prophecy: “Fear not, Daughter of Zion! Behold, your king comes riding on a donkey’s colt.” Yet I alone felt strangely unsettled. What a pitiful sight it was. Was this—entering the Jerusalem temple at the long-awaited Passover Feast—the form of that Son of David? Was the splendid form that had been his lifelong aspiration nothing more than this pitiful spectacle—mounted on a decrepit donkey, plodding along? I could no longer feel anything but pity. I felt as if I were watching a truly wretched, foolish farce—ah, now even this person had fallen from grace. The longer he lived—each day survived only exposed more of his shallow disgrace. A flower is only a flower before it wilts. While still beautiful, it must be cut. I am the one who loves that person the most. I don’t care how much people hate me. That I must kill that person as soon as possible—this was the painful resolve I had now finally solidified. The crowd swelled by the moment, hurling their red, blue, and yellow garments onto the paths where that person passed—some cut palm branches to carpet his way—roaring welcomes with jubilant uproar. They pressed forward and followed behind, swarming from the right and left until at last like a great wave, they shook the donkey and that person again and again, fervently chanting in unison: “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” Peter, John, Bartholomew, and all the other disciples—those fools—behaved as if they already beheld heaven before their eyes, as though following a triumphant general in ecstatic jubilation: embracing one another, exchanging tear-drenched kisses, with that obstinate Peter even hoisting John in his arms as he collapsed into loud, wailing sobs of joy. While watching that spectacle, even I—despite myself—recalled the days of enduring hardship when I walked with these disciples to spread the teachings, and unwittingly, the corners of my eyes grew hot. And so that person entered the temple, dismounted the donkey, and—who knows what came over him—picked up a rope and swung it about, overturning the tables of the money changers and the stalls of the dove sellers in the temple courts. Then, using that rope as a whip, he drove out all the cattle and sheep being sold there, and shouted in a shrill voice at the crowd of merchants in the precincts: “Get out, all of you! You shall not make my Father’s house a house of trade!” That gentle person committing such a pointless act of violence like a drunkard—I could only conclude that he had gone slightly mad. When all the bystanders around him were startled and asked that person, “What is happening here?,” he panted breathlessly in reply: “You lot—tear down this temple! I’ll rebuild it for you in three days.” Even the simple-minded disciples found such reckless words too unbelievable and stood dumbfounded.

But I knew all along. After all, it must have been nothing more than that person’s childish bravado. No doubt he had wanted to show people the extent of his resolve—that with his so-called faith, nothing would be impossible. Even so—raising a rope whip and chasing around powerless merchants—what a petty display of bravado. "Is that pitiful display truly your utmost act of rebellion—merely kicking over the dove sellers’ stalls?" I even found myself wanting to mockingly inquire. This person was beyond saving now. He had become utterly reckless. He had abandoned all self-restraint and self-respect. Having likely begun to realize lately that he could no longer accomplish anything further through his own power, he must have come to want to be deliberately arrested by the chief priests before his tatters became too apparent, thereby bidding farewell to this world. When I thought that, I could clearly resign myself to abandoning that person. And then, I could easily laugh at my own foolishness for having single-mindedly loved that pretentious young master until now. Before long, that person, standing before the great crowd gathered at the temple, ended up wildly shrieking the most outrageous, insolent, and abusive words he had ever uttered up to that point. Indeed, this was undeniably reckless desperation. I even thought that figure looked grubby. He wanted to be killed so badly he was practically squirming with impatience. “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 filled with dead men’s bones and all manner of defilement.” “In the same way, outwardly you appear righteous, yet within you are filled with hypocrisy and lawlessness.” “Serpents! Brood of vipers! How can you escape the condemnation of Gehenna?” “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them that are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!” This was foolishness.

Ludicrous. Even parroting those words turns my stomach. What outrageous things that man says. That person went mad. On top of everything else came his torrent of ravings—famines looming, earthquakes splitting the earth, stars plunging from heaven, the moon gone dark while eagles pecked at corpses strewn across fields where people wailed and gnashed their teeth—spouting whatever deranged nonsense entered his head. What thoughtless drivel. Such monumental arrogance. Idiot. He’s forgotten his station. How smugly self-satisfied.

That person's sin can no longer be escaped. That person will surely face crucifixion. I've 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 in front of the crowd—for fear the crowd might riot—they would give thirty silver coins to anyone who found where that person and the disciples were alone and reported it to the authorities. There was no more time for delay. That person was going to die anyway. Rather than having others hand him over to the officers through their hands, I would do it myself. The single-minded love I had devoted to that person until today—this was my final farewell. It was my duty. I would be the one to betray that person. It was a painful position. Who would ever rightly understand this act of my single-minded love? No—it didn’t matter if no one understood me. My love was pure love. It was not love meant to be understood by others. It was not such ignoble love. I would forever incur people’s hatred. But before the rapacity of this pure love, no punishment—no hellfire of damnation—mattered. I would live out my own way of life. I resolved with such firmness that it made me shudder. I had been secretly watching for an opportune moment.

At last, the day of the festival arrived. We thirteen disciples had arranged to rent the dim second-floor hall of an old restaurant atop the hill for our festival banquet. When all had taken their seats at the table and we were about to begin the ceremonial supper, that person suddenly stood and silently removed his outer garment. As we watched bewildered, wondering what he meant to do, he took the water jar from the table, poured its contents into a small basin in the room's corner, then wrapped a pure white towel about his waist and began washing each disciple's feet with water from the basin. The disciples couldn't comprehend this act, losing their composure and milling about in confusion, yet I somehow felt I understood that person's hidden intent. That person is lonely. Having grown utterly despondent, he must now crave even these ignorant obstinate disciples' company. How pitiable. That person knew his inescapable fate. As I watched this scene unfold, I suddenly felt a violent sob rising in my throat. I wanted to seize that person in an embrace and weep together. Oh how pitiable—how could I ever condemn you? You were ever kind. You were ever righteous. You were ever the poor's champion. And you were ever radiantly beautiful. You are truly God's Beloved Son. I know this. Please forgive me. These past days I've sought chance after chance to betray you. I can't bear this any longer.

"What an outrageous thing I was contemplating—to betray you! Please rest assured. From this moment onward, even if five hundred officials and a thousand soldiers come, I won’t let them lay a finger on your body. You are being targeted right now. Dangerous. Let’s escape from here right now. Peter come, James come, John come, everyone come." Though I couldn’t bring myself to voice them aloud, words of love from the depths of my heart—"Let us protect our gentle Lord and live out our days together"—seethed within my breast. Struck by a sublime inspiration I had never felt until this day, hot tears of apology streamed pleasurably down my cheeks; then he quietly, carefully washed even my feet, wiping them softly with the towel wrapped about his waist—ah, the sensation of that moment— Yes—perhaps I saw heaven in that moment. After mine came Philip’s feet, then Andrew’s, and next in turn Peter’s—but Peter, being that foolishly honest man, could not suppress his bewilderment: "Lord, why would you wash the feet of someone like me?" Peter asked with a slight pout of dissatisfaction. "Ah, what I am doing—you would not understand." "You will understand later," he calmly explained as he knelt at Peter’s feet, but Peter stubbornly refused, saying, "No, you mustn’t!" "You must never wash my feet!" "That’s too good for me!" he insisted, pulling back his foot. Then he raised his voice slightly and declared, "If I do not wash your feet, then you and I will have no relationship whatsoever." Having uttered this remarkably resolute statement, Peter became utterly flustered. "Ah, forgive me! In that case, please wash not just my feet but also my hands and head to your heart’s content!" he pleaded prostrate. I burst out laughing involuntarily, and the other disciples smiled quietly, somehow making the room feel brighter. "Peter," he said with a faint smile, "if I wash only your feet, then your entire body is already clean. Ah, not only you—James and John too—all of you have become unstained." "But—" he began, then drew himself up. For an instant, his eyes took on an unbearably pained look. He immediately squeezed them tightly shut and spoke with them still closed: "If only all of you were clean."

I jolted. He got me! He’s talking about me. He had seen through the dark feelings I had harbored until moments before scheming to betray that person. But at that time, I was different. Resolutely, I was different! I had truly become pure. My heart had truly changed. Ah, that person does not know it. That person does not know it. “No! It’s not true!”—the scream that had risen to my throat was swallowed back down by my weak, servile heart like gulping down saliva. I can’t say it. I can’t say anything. When that person said that, a warped feeling—tentatively admitting I might still not be clean after all—rose in my head, and instantly that servile self-reflection swelled hideously black, coursing through my innards until seething resentment erupted in flames instead. No! I can’t— I am no good. I am detested from the bottom of that person’s heart. I’ll sell him. I’ll sell him. I’ll kill that person.

And so I too would die together—reawakening to my former resolve—I had now fully become a demon of vengeance. That person showed no awareness of the great turmoil within me—those repeated upheavals and reversals—as he soon wrapped himself in his outer garment, straightened his attire, settled calmly into his seat, and with an ashen face said, “Do you understand why I washed your feet? You address me as Lord and Teacher—and rightly so. Though I am your Lord and Teacher, I have washed your feet—therefore you too must strive to wash one another’s feet in fellowship. Since I may not remain with you forever, I have now shown you this example. You must strive to do as I have done. A teacher surpasses his disciples—heed my words well and forget them not.” He spoke these words in an utterly listless tone, then began to eat without sound before suddenly lowering his face and uttering in a voice choked with anguish like stifled sobs: “One of you will betray me.” At this, all the disciples recoiled as if about to fall backward in shock; they kicked aside their seats in unison, rose, and crowded around him, each clamoring, “Lord—is it me? Lord—do you mean me?” That person shook his head faintly like a dying man and said, “I will now give this morsel of bread to that one.” That man is truly wretched. “Truly it would have been better had he never been born,” he declared in an unexpectedly clear voice, then took a morsel of bread, reached out his arm, and pressed it firmly against my mouth. I too had already steeled myself. I chose hatred over shame. I despised that person’s belated spitefulness.

This act of publicly humiliating me before all the disciples—this had been that person’s custom until now. Fire and water. An eternal destiny never meant to reconcile existed between me and that bastard. Shoving bread crumbs into my mouth like feeding some stray mutt—was this his pathetic attempt at spite? Heh. The fool. "Master," that bastard told me,"Do quickly what you must do." I bolted from the banquet hall and sprinted through twilight streets until arriving here. Thus I rushed and made my report. Now punish him. Punish him however you please. Let them arrest him—beat him naked with clubs—kill him. No more—I couldn't endure another moment. That repulsive creature. That wretched man. He'd tormented me relentlessly until now. Ha ha ha ha—damn you!

That person was now beyond the Brook Kidron, in the Garden of Gethsemane. The Last Supper in that second-floor banquet room had already concluded; he had gone to the Garden of Gethsemane with the disciples, and by now it must surely have been the time when he was offering prayers to heaven. There was no one apart from the disciples. He could now be captured without difficulty.

Ah, the little birds were chirping—how annoying! Why did these night birds' cries cling so persistently to my ears tonight? Even in the forest I had dashed through coming here, those damned birds kept shrilling endlessly. Birds singing at night—unnatural creatures. With childlike curiosity burning through my rage, I wanted to glimpse their true forms. I halted mid-stride, cocked my head, and stared through the tangled branches above. Ah—what pointless nonsense I was muttering! Forgive me this weakness. Master—are you prepared at last? Ah! How exquisite! This feels right! Tonight marks my final night too! Master—Master—watch closely now as I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him from this night onward! I'll prove myself equal beside him tonight! No need to fear that man! No cause for self-debasement! We share the same age! The same—peerless youths! Ah—those cursed birds screeching again! Their shrieks clawing at my ears—relentless!

Why are these little birds making such a commotion? Chirp-chirp-chirp—what could they be fussing about? Oh? That money— Are you giving it to me—those thirty silver coins? Ah—ha ha ha ha. No—I must refuse. Better put that silver away before they beat me. It wasn't for money that I accused him. Put it away! No—forgive me—I'll take it. Yes—I was a merchant. Was it because of money that I've always been scorned by that elegant one? I'll take it. I am—after all—a merchant. With this despised money—I'll have my splendid revenge on him. This is the means of revenge most fitting for me. Serves you right! For thirty silver coins—he gets sold. I haven't shed a single tear. I don't love that person.

From the very beginning, I hadn't loved him a shred. Yes, Master. I told nothing but lies. It was because I wanted money that I followed that person. Oh, that must be it. Since I determined tonight that person wouldn't let me profit one bit, I—being a merchant—swiftly switched sides. Money. The world runs on money alone. Thirty silver coins—how splendid! I'll take it.

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