The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  The day wore on and shadows began to fill the hollows. Fewer and fewer travelers walked the road. As the sun began its inevitable plunge for the horizon, Viktor picked up the pace. At the head of the train, Anthea marched along undaunted, arms swinging freely, chin held high, urging the lead animal forward with a willow switch, up and down the endless rolling foothills toward the distant coastal plain. Strung out behind her, her twin brothers and the four other donkeys plodded and grumbled and complained. It was almost dark when the group finally reached the gate of the caravanserai on the northern approach to the city of Megiddo. The innkeeper seemed surprised to see them.

  “Come in, come in,” he said. “It is not safe for you out there on the road tonight. Quickly now. Come inside.”

  As Viktor led the pack train into the stone enclosure, the innkeeper hastily barred the heavy timber door behind them. Only one other caravan occupied the large courtyard, another Roman trader by the looks of him. He cowered in the far corner, casting anxious glances in their direction. The children took little notice. They were too tired to care. Cenon and Farris were practically asleep on their feet, Anthea was irritable, and the donkeys were being exceptionally difficult. By the time Viktor got them all unpacked and settled in, the three children were sprawled beside the fire, already dozing. Paying the innkeeper an outrageous price for a tub of watered-down goat stew and some stale bread, he roused his young companions long enough to get something into their bellies. As they finished their meal, the innkeeper shuffled over to their firepit to gather up the empty crockery.

  “From where do you come?” he asked.

  “We started out this morning in Sepphoris.”

  “That is a considerable day’s journey. No wonder these young ones are weary. Did you encounter any trouble on the road?”

  “No,” Viktor replied. “No trouble. But there were few travelers. Is something amiss? Tell me what you know.”

  “Well…if I may speak plainly. It was not safe for a Roman to be out and about today. You were lucky to make it here unmolested. Yes, your gods must surely be watching out for you.”

  “Please, sir. Tell me what happened.”

  The innkeeper sat down on the mat close to Viktor, too close, their knees touching, his eyes shifting rapidly to the left and right, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “There has been much trouble today. The patriots…please excuse the expression. I can see you are a Roman and I mean no offense. The patriots have been attacking Romans all across the valley. From Mount Tabor to Mount Carmel there has been bloodshed. You can thank your lucky stars you did not run afoul of them out there. Or you and these ragamuffins would be lying in a wadi feeding the jackals tonight. Please excuse me. This is just between you and me. I mean no offense. You are safe here. There is a full cohort of the 10th Legion camped along the road between this humble inn and Megiddo. The Sicarii would have to be mad to make trouble around here. You are safe…at least for tonight.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  By the time Viktor noticed the rubble blocking the road in front of him, it was already too late to do anything about it. Armed men covered the hillsides, surrounding them, posing defiantly in the blazing sunshine. Cloaks open, hands on their hips, they proudly displayed their deadly, razor-sharp blades. It was the Sicarii, the dagger men. He had heard much talk about these men. The Roman governor considered them to be bandits and murderers, a pestilence that needed to be eradicated. To the priests, they were agitators—unreasonable, uncompromising troublemakers. But to some Jews, they were patriots, representing maybe the only hope for liberation from Roman occupation. They reasoned that even though the Sicarii were barbarians, at least they were doing something. Unlike the Zealots, who seemed to be better at making speeches than making war. Sadly, the Sicarii’s reputation was one of unwarranted brutality. The stories Viktor had heard did not bode well for a peaceful outcome to the encounter.

  His options were severely limited. The bandits had him outnumbered better than thirty to one. The road was empty, the countryside unpeopled. His only weapon, a Roman gladius, hung from a scabbard around the lead donkey’s neck. It was a tactical situation that called for immediate retreat, escape. But with three children that strategy was doomed to failure. He cursed his carelessness. His Mossad commander would have handed him his head over such a boneheaded lapse. It was inexcusably stupid. He wanted to lash out at the sneering men. With his martial arts training, he knew he had a tremendous advantage over the undisciplined fighters that surrounded him. But he couldn’t take them all on at once. It was not the time to indulge his emotions. Pushing back his anger, he forced himself to focus on the situation at hand. He had to think, and think fast. The Sicarii were steadily closing in on him, cutting him off from the children, blocking access to his only weapon.

  Choosing diplomacy over aggression, Viktor bowed his head and showed them his empty hands. At first this produced the desired result, as the bandits halted their advance. In the stillness, the sun-bleached countryside seemed to hold its breath. Then Anthea’s scream shredded the tense silence. As he turned toward her cry, the Sicarii rushed him, their blades slicing the air in vicious arcs. Viktor backpedaled frantically to avoid the attack, only to stumble into the arms of two brutes who pulled him off balance and pinned him against a frightened donkey, a dagger thrust tight against his throat. Looping a rope around his wrists and ankles and then back up around his neck, the bandits deftly hog-tied Viktor to the side of the animal. He prayed that the donkey wouldn’t spook, for the beast would surely strangle him, and watched helplessly as the men searched the pack train. When the twins valiantly attempted to stop them, a backhanded slap sent them both sprawling in the dust. One bandit began to manhandle the young girl. Anthea cowered, appeared to be submitting. Then somehow she had the bandit’s dagger, lunging at her tormentor, calling him a coward, a son of a pig. She called them all pigs, thieves, cutthroats. They laughed at her, but kept a safe distance. Viktor knew he had to act before the situation deteriorated any further. Craning his neck as far as he dared, he appealed to one bandit who stood aloof from the others. Dressed in a relatively clean cloak, he looked like a leader.

  “Son of Israel,” Viktor shouted. “Please have mercy on us. We are nothing but the slaves of a Roman trader. We are not here on our own bidding. You can see, those three are just children. I ask you, in the name of the God of Abraham, to spare our lives.”

  The Sicarii leader turned and charged Viktor, a dagger appearing in his hand. With a savage hack of the blade, Viktor was free from the donkey. Still bound hand and foot, he tumbled to the ground, where the man stood towering over him. Bending down, the bandit inserted his knife into a fold of Viktor’s cloak and tore a piece free, brutally stuffing the cloth into Viktor’s mouth. Leaning close, he spat into Viktor’s face…spat again.

  “Shut your mouth, you filthy Roman idol-worshipper. Don’t you dare speak the name of the one true God. If we wanted to kill you, your blood would already be defiling the soil of my homeland. So just lay there like a piece of meat…slave…and you just might get away with your worthless life.”

  Bounding over Viktor’s prostrate form, the Sicarii leader swaggered arrogantly down the road, commanding his men to gather up everything in the pack train. Wrenching the dagger from the girl’s hands, he tossed it back to its owner with a contemptuous laugh and headed back up the road, disappearing over the crest of the hill. His men followed. And as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone. Anthea managed to control her violently shaking hands just long enough to free Viktor of his bonds. Then all three youngsters commenced wailing like the terrified children they really were. Gathering the whimpering siblings together in the meager shade of a desiccated sycamore, Viktor anxiously checked them for injuries. Other than a few scrapes and bruises, they had all managed to make it through unscathed.

  They had lost all the donkeys, the bag of silver, and two sacks of almonds. But they had gotten away with their lives. Viktor c
onsidered it both a victory and a blessing. He praised the children for their bravery. He held them close, kissed their dirty foreheads, and told them not to worry, told them everything would be all right, assured them that the master would not blame them for the loss. With the astonishing resiliency of childhood, the fear faded from their innocent faces and they perked up considerably. Soon they were laughing and joking, spinning tales of how they had stood up to the bandits. But as they walked along the empty road, they never strayed from Viktor’s side.

  With nothing but the cloaks on their backs and the sandals on their feet, they continued on the final leg of their journey back across the Plain of Sharon to Caesarea. The day was hot, and the empty road seemed to stretch endlessly before them. No wells appeared to ease their thirst, no fellow travelers to offer assistance, just a taunting image of some far-flung settlement wavering in the heat just above the horizon. Though he kept a brave face for the children, Viktor was beginning to seriously question their odds for survival when he spied a dust cloud in the hazy distance that appeared to be heading their way. Hiding the children in a shallow wadi, Viktor laid down behind a clump of brush and watched as a detachment of Roman cavalry materialized out of the glaring sunshine and trotted up the road. Flagging the soldiers down, he called out to them in Latin, identifying himself as a Roman caravaneer with three children in need of aid. As he described their situation to an agitated young officer, a company of infantry fast-marched into view. Anxious to keep moving, the cavalry officer directed Viktor to an imposing figure on a restless black horse, a centurion. Viktor had seen the man before. He was a friend of the master. The master called him Lucilius. Maybe, Viktor mused, the Roman gods are looking out for us today. Within the hour, he and the three children were fed and loaded into a horse-drawn cart. Escorted by a full squad of legionnaires, they rolled back toward Caesarea and the safety of their master’s household.

  CHAPTER 7

  Present-Day Israel

  Dr. Robert Jankowski had never really taken the time to look back on his life. He was always too busy moving forward. Introspection, to him, was nothing more than a maudlin form of narcissism and a total waste of time. He had always abhorred the thought of wasting time. There never seemed to be enough time. And now time had caught up with him. Time, that fundamental mental construct that humankind had created to chronicle the phases of the cosmos and to mark the duration of their own corporal existence. Time, that unrelenting, irreversible continuum that only fools and madmen—and those damn physicists—dared try to manipulate. He knew it all too well. And now he had plenty of time to think about it.

  The cliché was true. A lifetime was fleeting. It all seemed like the blink of an eye. And most of the things that had been so important to a younger man, now seemed inconsequential, even trivial. Still, he was pleased with what he had managed to accomplish in his chosen field of study. With decades of scientific exploration and countless academic publications and landmark discoveries, Robert Jankowski had amassed a significant body of work, acquiring enough knowledge to be considered the preeminent authority in his field. Sometimes it amazed him. Doing what he loved to do, it had never really seemed like work. Starting out as a lowly graduate student, he had studied and absorbed and worked his way up the academic ladder, ultimately attaining one of the most sought-after prizes in his field, the coveted “Chair of the Department of Archeology and Ancient Near Eastern Cultures” at Tel Aviv University. He had to admit, it sounded quite impressive, and not such an easy task for a Catholic kid from Brooklyn. He would never have predicted that he could rise to such a lofty position at any university, much less an Israeli university. As the Grateful Dead had sung, life could surely take you on a strange ride. And parts of that ride had turned out stranger than Robert could ever have imagined…far stranger.

  He was an undergraduate at NYU when the bug first bit him. In those dim lecture halls and dusty archives, he discovered a heartfelt connection with ancient civilizations. The past beckoned and he eagerly followed the call, switching his major from anthropology to archeology. He did well, and his interest grew. Later, while pursuing a graduate degree at Columbia, that interest became a full-blown passion, or as he liked to say…a vocation. He flourished in the nurturing atmosphere of that celebrated institution of higher education, his remarkable insights catching the attention of two influential professors. They saw something special in young Robert and decided it was time for him to leave the cloistered halls of academia and get his hands dirty. So with their enthusiastic endorsement, he was accepted by Hebrew University in Jerusalem to participate in the excavation of a newly discovered Neolithic tomb complex. The Tel el-Qadi dig in northern Israel was the opportunity of a lifetime, and Robert poured his heart and soul into the work. It was his first real journey away from home, and the first few months were challenging. Israel was astonishingly foreign and exotic to the Brooklynite. But he settled in, kept an open mind, and soon developed a deep respect for the country. Over the course of a year, that respect matured into something much more profound. He couldn’t help but fall in love with the complex ethnic diversity, the rich traditional legacy, the deep historic and religious heritage, the fierce independence, and the heady mixture of past and future that exemplified modern Israel. When his assignment was complete, and he sadly boarded the EL-AL jetliner for JFK, he vowed to return as soon as he was able.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Caesarea slumbered under a crescent moon. Many of the torches that lined the main boulevard into the city were already sputtering as the cart rattled along the limestone cobbles. A second contubernium had joined their procession at the eastern gate, and now eighteen men flanked the horse-drawn cart, two full squads of legionnaires. While his brother and sister dozed fitfully on the hay-softened floorboards, little Farris sat balanced on the side rail, captivated by the dangerous looking soldiers. It had been a rough journey, and he had loved every adventure-filled moment of it. The image of Anthea holding the bandits at bay with the evil-looking knife would forever be etched into his memory. In his bright eyes, his sister had gone from child to champion in that brave instant. And from that day forward, his love for her would always be colored with pride and respect…and a trace of fear.

  The night breeze was chilly. Viktor wrapped his cloak around Farris’s narrow shoulders and climbed back atop a pile of grain-filled sacks. He was grateful for the military presence that surrounded him. If not for the Roman army, he and the children might easily have perished on the road…or maybe even worse. Ironically, here in the very bosom of the great religions, life was rather capricious and cheap. Without status or money or protection, they could easily had fallen prey to any number of predators that roamed the roads, drawn by the prosperous harbor at Caesarea and the rich caravans out of Egypt and Syria. They could have been abused for sport, or killed, or kidnapped and sold into slavery to someone far less kindhearted than Septimus. In a way, the donkey train itself was a measure of protection. Many inhabitants of the province respected wealth and feared the wrath of the affluent. That is, except for the Sicarii. They hated Romans and anyone who collaborated with the Romans, especially the rich. He realized now how lucky he was to have escaped with his life. And it wasn’t the first time. He would have to be much more vigilant. One of these days his luck was going to run out.

  While Viktor was grateful to his rescuers he had no illusions about the Romans, either. They were neither heroes nor saviors. The men who trudged alongside the cart looked to be little more than louts in uniform. Except for the officers, many of them were just conscripts from conquered lands across the far-flung empire, hoping to survive long enough to attain Roman citizenship. If not for military discipline, they surely wouldn’t be any better than the local brand of brigand, probably worse. It was confounding. If things had worked out differently, Viktor would unquestionably be supporting the Zealots, would be taking up arms to rid his homeland of the foreign military occupation. In that other time, he
had taken a solemn oath to lay down his life, if necessary, in defense of his country. Now here he was, being protected by the invaders against attacks from his own people. Viktor was a man out of place and outside time. And his true identity was slipping away.

  The procession clamored to a stop outside a tasteful colonnaded courtyard that fronted an elegant marble town home. As Viktor roused the sleeping children, a ghostly figure in a fine white robe appeared on the portico and stormed through the courtyard. Eager to make a good impression, the officers called the soldiers to stand at attention while they stepped forward to greet the influential merchant. Septimus brushed past them with contempt.

  “My children, my beautiful children, you are home,” the old man cried. “Thanks to the Gods for bringing you back to me. Is anyone injured? Shall I summon a physician?”

  “We are all well,” Viktor replied. “Nothing more than a few scrapes. We are lucky.”

  Septimus went down to his knees, holding his arms wide. “Come to me, my beautiful children!”

  The three youngsters ran to the old man. Enfolded in his protective embrace, they let loose their angst and bawled like newborns. Septimus joined their lamentations.