Transgression

by R. S. Ingermanson

  “I was hoping there might be some way to change their minds,” Jessica said. She sat in silence for a long moment. “What are we going to do?”

  “Call your mother’s cousin, the lawyer,” Dov said. “And if you are religious, I suggest that you begin praying.”

  Chapter 11

  Rivka

  HALFWAY THROUGH THE FRIDAY EVENING meal, Rivka fought down a growing sense of uneasiness. The bread was excellent, the wine quite passable, and the company congenial. And yet she wished she had not insisted that Dr. West eat with them.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that she had to interpret everything Hana or Dr. West said. What worried her was the remarkable rapport her two friends had developed.

  “Miss Meyers, would you be so kind—”

  Hana handed Rivka the wineskin. “Please ask Adoni if he would like some more wine.”

  “—as to pass me the wine.”

  Rivka handed it to Dr. West. Weird.

  He winked at Rivka and then threw a twenty-four-carat smile at Hana. She blushed.

  The whole thing seemed unnatural to Rivka. Tomorrow, after a little sight-seeing, she would tell Dr. West she wanted to go back home. But right now, all she could do was try to point the conversation in a neutral direction.

  “Dr. West, do you happen to know what year this is?” Rivka asked. “Did your computer tell you anything like that?”

  He took a swallow of wine and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Actually, I don’t understand Ari’s theory all that well. In principle, you could make an estimate of the time span of the wormhole, but in practice there’s too much experimental noise. When did the Romans burn down that magnificent Temple? That ought to give you a clue.”

  “Late summer of the year 70 C.E.,” Rivka said.

  “C.E.?” he asked. “Is that B.C. or A.D.?”

  “It stands for Common Era,” Rivka said. “Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re a layman. It’s exactly equivalent to A.D., which stands for Anno Domini—the Year of Our Lord. Jews don’t quite appreciate that terminology, so it’s common among scholars just to use C.E. No reason to irritate people unnecessarily, right?”

  “I guess not,” Dr. West said. He gestured toward Hana. “She doesn’t seem too irritated. Why not ask her what year it is?”

  Rivka had already thought of that. “They don’t have a running year count like we do. They normally just date years from the accession of the last king or governor or whatever. But I’ll ask her anyway. It can’t hurt.”

  Dr. West poured some wine into his stone cup.

  “Hana, I’ve got a very stupid question for you,” Rivka said. “What year is this?”

  Hana raised her eyebrows. “All years are alike, yes? Is it not so in your country?”

  “In my country, every year is different.” Rivka decided to try another tack. “Who is Caesar?”

  Hana gave her a very strange look. “Caesar is Caesar, of course. Are you really so ignorant? I am wondering again what country you come from, that you can ask such questions. You are not stupid, but you are very ignorant.”

  “I’ll try to explain sometime,” Rivka said. “But I just want to know, what is the personal name of Caesar? Augustus? Tiberius? Gaius, also called Caligula?” She pronounced each name in koine Greek.

  At each name, Hana shook her head in puzzlement. “I never heard of these men.”

  Rivka nodded patiently. The Greek names would naturally sound foreign to Hana. “What about Claudius?”

  “Ah!” Hana said. “This name I have heard, but you torture the pronunciation.” She said it in Aramaic.

  Rivka repeated it several times, until Hana agreed that she had it right.

  “So this man Claudius is Caesar?” Rivka asked.

  “No,” Hana said. “He died. His son is Caesar.”

  “Neron Qesar?” Rivka had a reason to know Nero’s name in Hebrew. If you wrote it out in Hebrew letters and added up the numerical equivalents, you got six hundred and sixty-six. Of course, you could get that number from the pope, or Ronald Reagan, or Bill Gates, but there was something to be said for the Nero interpretation.

  “Yes,” Hana said. “I have heard that name. Neron Qesar is very popular.”

  Which meant they were in the first half of Nero’s reign. Obviously, if the people still liked him, he hadn’t murdered his mother yet. So the year must be earlier than 59.

  “How long has he been Caesar?” Rivka asked.

  Hana shook her head. “I do not know. Several years.”

  Rivka turned to Dr. West. “I’ve narrowed it down to the late fifties of the first century. With a little luck, I might work her down to the exact year.”

  He shrugged. “Does it matter? Not much was happening back then, right?”

  “Are you kidding?” Rivka said. “The fifties were a critical decade in the history of Judea. They created an intense ferment of discontent that led directly to the Jewish revolt in the late sixties. And even you must know that the destruction of the Temple forever changed the direction of both Judaism and Christianity. Up to that time—”

  “Okay, okay, I surrender!” Dr. West grinned at her. “Guess you learn something new every day.” He stuffed another hunk of bread in his mouth.

  Rivka turned back to Hana. “So tell me, is there a king named Agrippa?”

  Hana gave her another one of those smiles that one gives to children’s questions. “Of course. Who else would be king?”

  “And how long has he been king?” Rivka asked.

  “I do not know,” Hana said. “Several years.”

  No new information there. “And who is the high priest?”

  Hana hesitated, narrowing her eyes. “I...I have heard his name is called Ishmael ben Phiabi. Why do you want to know all these things?”

  Rivka ignored the question. She had just remembered something from Jeremias’s classic book on Jerusalem. “Do you remember if King Agrippa read the book of the law aloud at the feast of Sukkot recently?”

  “Yes, he did,” Hana said. A look of surprise spread across her face. “But if you did not know he was king, how did you know he read from the law? It happened the year before last. We rejoiced that a king in Yisrael should read the law again, as in days of old.”

  “Bingo!” Rivka said. She turned to Dr. West. “I would bet you money this is the year 57 C.E.”

  He raised his cup and took a sip. “So is anything interesting going to happen this year?”

  “Probably,” Rivka said. “Nobody knows for sure, but most scholars date the last visit of the apostle Paul to Jerusalem to one of the years 56, 57, or 58.”

  His eyes went suddenly large and he choked.

  “Is something wrong?” Rivka asked.

  “Inhaled a grape skin. I’ll be fine.” He covered a huge yawn. “So, are you telling me you don’t know when Mr. Paul shipped into town?”

  “Dates are a little fuzzy,” Rivka said. “We’ve got Josephus, and we’ve got the New Testament, and they’re generally talking about different events, and neither one gives very many firm dates. Then we’ve got Tacitus and Suetonius, and they do give good dates, but they’re not talking about Judea much. But the best guess is probably the year 57. I’d say it’s about fifty-fifty.”

  “Can’t you ask our friend?” He nodded toward Hana. “Who cares what those dusty old boys say, when you’ve got a lusty young girl right in front of you?”

  This was getting way out of hand. “This isn’t a game, Dr. West,” Rivka said. “If you think I’m going to stand idly by while you…”

  He grinned at her. “I assure you, my intentions toward the young lady are honorable.”

  Rivka didn’t feel very reassured.

  “So ask her whether Paul’s been to town lately,” he said.

  Rivka turned back to Hana. “Did anything unusual happen last year at Shavuot? Like a riot in the Temple?”

  Hana shook her head. “No, why?”

  “Just wondering,” Rivka said. She decided to ask ano
ther idiot question. “And what month is this?”

  Hana stared at her. “It is Sivan.”

  Rivka felt something hot in her chest. “Is Shavuot past yet?”

  “No,” Hana said. “Shavuot is tomorrow. But surely, you came to Jerusalem for the feast, yes?”

  Rivka jumped to her feet, unable to contain the rush of adrenaline in her veins.

  “What is it?” Dr. West said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said. A huge grin had split her face, making it almost impossible for her to talk. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow is Shavuot—that’s the Feast of Pentecost—in the year 57. If the usual chronology of Paul’s life is correct, then he rode into town today! Can you believe our luck?” She danced around the room in glee. “I’m gonna find him, if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Dr. West had a strange expression on his face. “Frankly, Rivka, I’m a little surprised at your reaction. I didn’t think you Jews were all that fond of the old boy. Planning to stick a knife in his ribs, are you?”

  That irritated Rivka. “No, of course not,” she said in a stiff voice. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m Jewish, but I’m also a believer in Yeshua.”

  Dr. West’s mouth fell open. “You mean like Jews for Jesus or something?”

  “Or something.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Does Ari know about this?”

  Rivka suddenly felt her mood dampen. She closed her eyes. “Yes, he knows. That’s what we had the big argument about last night. He wasn’t too thrilled when he found out.”

  “I can imagine,” Dr. West said. “You know, they killed his father.”

  “What? Who did?”

  “The Christians. Bethlehem, early seventies. Ari’s father was doing his Army reserve duty. Did you know that a lot of Palestinians in Bethlehem are Christian?”

  “Well, of course. Everybody knows that.”

  “It was news to me, until Ari told me,” Dr. West said. “Anyway, a crowd of Palestinians mobbed a squad of the Israeli reservists one night. Ari’s father got under the heap. Trampled to death. Terrible way to die. Scarred Ari’s whole life, I gather.”

  “So that’s why he’s so…” Rivka felt tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m not excusing what kind of person he is,” Dr. West said. “I still think he’s a rat and a half, and you have every reason to hate him—”

  “I didn’t say I hate him,” Rivka said. “I feel sorry for him.” Something began nagging at her. Something about the wormhole. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel a bit jet-lagged,” Dr. West said. He shook the crumbs off his clothing. “Listen, I think I’ll just go back to my house early tonight, all right? Catch fifty winks, and I’ll be as good as new in the morning. You should pack in early yourself. Tomorrow’s a big day for you, right? You’re doing the big sight-seeing tour?”

  “I guess so,” Rivka said, trying to remember the thought he had interrupted.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Take me along, will you? I’m no archaeologist, but I would kind of like to see the sights, if we can avoid the tourist traps. And who knows? Maybe we’ll run into a famous author and we can grab his autograph. Wouldn’t that be worth something when we go home?”

  “Famous author?” Rivka said. “Oh, you mean Paul.” She felt her spirits rise at that. “Yeah, maybe we will. I have a pretty good idea where we could find him, if you don’t mind waiting a few days.”

  Dr. West gave her a most charming smile. “I’ve always been an autograph hound. For an all-time bestselling author like Paul, I’d wait a whole week.”

  “Well, it’s either this week or next year,” Rivka said. “I can pretty much guarantee that.”

  Dr. West stood up slowly, gave a little half-bow toward Hana, and turned toward the door. “Good night then, ladies. I’ll see you tomorrow. You know where to find me.”

  “Good night,” Rivka said as he disappeared into the street.

  Hana’s face wore a dreamy smile.

  Rivka sat down again, wondering what she could say to discourage Hana from even thinking about Dr. West.

  “He is a nice man,” Hana said.

  Rivka said nothing.

  “You do not agree that he is a nice man?”

  Rivka closed her eyes. “I’m just confused, that’s all.” Either Ari or Dr. West had sent her through the wormhole this morning—sent her through and abandoned her. That was unforgivable. But which one?

  As of now, all she had to go on was gut instinct. She couldn’t imagine Ari shipping her off to the first century, no matter how angry he felt. And yet…What if he really did have a mental illness, as Dr. West had suggested? On the other hand, what evidence did she have, other than Dr. West’s say-so? And why should she trust him?

  “I have known many men,” Hana said. “Once, they confused me, but now they do not. This one is a good man, and he speaks the truth.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Hana pointed at Rivka’s unfinished meal. “Eat. Drink. Enjoy your meal! It is Shabbat. When you have finished, I will tell you a story. It is not a happy story. Then you will understand how I can always be sure.”

  * * *

  Damien

  Damien strode back toward his house, grateful that he had dodged a bullet. He had almost given things away there, talking about Rivka sticking a knife in Paul’s ribs. That had been stupid. He had made an assumption—a wrong assumption. Fortunately, Rivka had taken it as a joke.

  He could still use her to help him. All he needed was for her to show him around, help him get used to the terrain. He knew roughly where he needed to make the kill, but she could pin it down exactly, if he handled her right.

  But was this the year? That had given him a real shock, Rivka’s comment about the date of Paul’s visit. He had thought he had that one nailed down: A.D. 57. He had found a book in the library with a title something like A Chronology of Paul. 8 The book made it seem pretty obvious. Of any date in the whole history of the early church, that was the one certain date. Now Rivka said maybe it was this year, maybe next.

  At least he hadn’t come a year late—not if that hot-to-trot Hana knew what she was talking about. That would have been a disaster.

  If he was a year early, it would be a bit of an inconvenience, but he could deal with it. He would go take target practice out in the desert every couple of months, just to keep his skills up. The gold coins in his duffel bag would keep him fed and housed. He could wait a year, if he had to.

  In any event, he couldn’t go back to the future and try again. By now, the wormhole had pinholed itself out of existence, and Ari would be ripping out his beard in fury.

  Damien’s hands began itching. He hadn’t fired a gun since coming to Israel. Early tomorrow morning, he would go out into the desert somewhere and shoot up some cactus or whatever they had here. Just to sharpen up for the big day. Not that his skills could evaporate. He had qualified a long time ago as an expert marksman.

  And the rest of the day, Rivka would give him a guided tour of the killing grounds. Damien reached his house and unlocked the door.

  Whatever he did, he couldn’t afford to let Hana come tagging along with them. Damien wanted his mind free to concentrate on the task, and he couldn’t do that with a gorgeous broad like Hana around to distract him. He’d have his hands full trying to pump Rivka for information without letting on why he wanted to know.

  Rivka might be tricky to manage. She had brains and persistence.

  In a woman, that could be a dangerous combination.

  Chapter 12

  Ari

  ARI SHIVERED IN THE COOL night breeze. Why hadn’t he brought a jacket? Because he was stupid, of course. He had expected to find Rivka quickly.

  He hadn’t expected that it would be so hard to get along in his own city. He had tried to speak to a number of
people in simple Hebrew. Most of them had not understood him and had scurried away with fearful looks. There had been a few well-dressed men who appeared to understand him, but they were surrounded by thuggish bodyguards carrying daggers and clubs, who kept Ari from getting too close. The city didn’t seem all that safe these days.

  Ari’s stomach growled in protest. He had found a granola bar in his backpack, and that was all he had eaten all day. Ari had a few coins in his pocket, but no merchant had been willing to look twice at them. Real coins were made of rough silver or bronze, not the overly shiny shekels Ari carried.

  He had become a street person—hungry, homeless, dressed wrong by the prevailing standards. And now it was dark. The moon provided a quarter-slice of light in the sky, but in a few hours it would go down. He really ought to just hunker down in some doorway for the night.

  The alternative was to go back without Rivka. He could probably find his way back to the cave by moonlight and get to the wormhole. But what chance would he have of coming back?

  None. Zero. By now, the authorities would know about the wormhole. Bureaucrats were alike all over the world: risk averse. If Ari ventured back to the lab for even ten seconds, they would keep him there. They wouldn’t allow him to come back looking for Rivka.

  And without one more chance at Rivka, he couldn’t live with himself. A cold gust blew through Ari. He shivered again.

  Then he heard footsteps behind him. Quiet footsteps. He spun around.

  A scruffy, short man slunk along only a dozen paces behind. A scar ran diagonally across his forehead. Greasy black hair hung down to his shoulders. In his hand, he held a dagger.

  Ari bellowed his best imitation of a samurai yell. For an instant, the man froze. Then Ari turned and ran.

  He had always been reasonably fast, but his backpack made running awkward. The darkness and the uneven dirt street made the footing dangerous. Ari heard the footsteps of his pursuer slapping on the hard ground behind him. Was he gaining or losing ground?