“Have no fear, my little ones. You are safe. Nothing can harm you now. Father Septimus will protect you. Thanks to the Gods for bringing you home. Thanks to the Gods for bringing my beautiful little ones back to me.”
When the children had quieted down, Viktor helped the old man to his feet.
“I am sorry, Septimus,” he said. “It is my fault. I put the children in danger. I lost your silver and your goods. I should have stayed in Megiddo when I learned of the troubles on the road. I was just trying to get back to Caesarea on schedule, to show you I was trustworthy. But I failed…and I lost everything. It is all my fault. You have every right to be angry with me.”
The courtyard began to fill with household staff, stumbling sleepy-eyed out of the servants’ quarters. One middle-aged woman ran to the children, covering their tear-stained faces with kisses before herding them across the courtyard, past the white marble fountain with its epic statues of Mercury and Minerva, through the lofty portico, and into the opulent dwelling. The contingent of legionnaires stood stiffly at attention, awaiting orders. The old man ignored them, turned to Viktor.
“My son,” he said. “You are not to blame for what has befallen us. You were only doing as I directed. I am not angry. I am overjoyed that you were not harmed. Ever since the runner brought news of this incident from my friend Lucilius Germanicus, I have been stricken with worry and grief and remorse. But you have returned and you are well. And I thank the Gods for bringing you home to me.” The old man clapped Viktor warmly on the shoulders. “I blame myself for sending you on a journey with three children instead of armed guards. I am afraid I have become too indulgent of the children. And I blame the accursed Hebrew insurrectionists. They are little more than common thieves and murders. But most of all…” Septimus whirled around, pointing an accusatory finger at the two officers who sulked peevishly beside the cart. “I blame this incompetent military for not protecting the good citizens of Rome. If not for my dear friend Lucilius Germanicus, the esteemed centurion and primus pilus of the first cohort of the 10th Legion, I fear what might have happened. I simply cannot understand how an ignorant, ragtag band of beggars and misfits can continue to make fools out of the glorious military might of Imperial Rome.” Septimus’s words dripped scorn as he contemptuously gestured to the soldiers. “The emperor demands that trade with the provinces be expanded, that taxes be paid. How can we do so when we are constantly hounded by these Hebrew jackals? Things are getting worse rather than better. It cannot continue on this course. I am going to report this incident directly to the governor. I have spoken to him about this before. And I can tell you this…Pilate is not going to be pleased.”
The Roman legionnaires who stood stiffly at attention, in full battle armor, at the end of a hard day’s night, in the backwater province of Palaestina, were not happy either.
CHAPTER 9
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The Roman province of Palaestina was smoldering under the tyranny of military occupation. The clash of culture and religion, and the escalating brutality, was fueling the inevitable approaching conflagration. Viktor knew about all these things going in, had studied it in meticulous detail. Like a runaway train his beloved ancestral homeland was heading for disaster. Much blood would be shed, mostly Jewish blood. The Temple would be destroyed and his people would be scattered to the four winds where they would roam the earth in virtual exile for two millennia. They would be forced to exist on the fringes, always the outsider, the scapegoat, the pariah, until the sovereign State of Israel would finally stand proud and free nearly two thousand years later. Viktor knew the history. He had studied it at two prestigious universities. He knew the who and the how and the why and the when. But down at ground zero, it wasn’t quite so easy to see the big picture. Down on the ground Viktor just saw people living their lives, not really so different from that other time.
In the period Viktor now inhabited, only a hundred years had passed since the Roman general Pompey had led his legion into a defeated Jerusalem, decisively ending Jewish Hasmonean rule of the region. The carnage preceding that Roman victory, and the butchery that followed, still burned hot in the hearts of many Jews. The desecration of the Temple, the raising of blasphemous pagan idols, the taxes, the subjugation, and the cruelty, shamed and enraged all but the most conciliatory. But any attempt to challenge Pompey’s authority had been met with immediate and merciless brutality. The Jewish people had suffered and they had endured. But under a succession of emperors and puppet regimes, the atrocities never ceased. Zero tolerance remained the official Roman policy.
Barely a generation prior to Viktor’s arrival, the Romans had again launched an indiscriminate reign of terror against the people of Palestine, slaughtering thousands of innocent Jews as they gathered in the Temple for Passover, crucifying thousands of individuals that they arbitrarily charged with insurgency, and selling countless souls into slavery. It wasn’t ancient history. It was recent and it was seared into Jewish consciousness. Nearly everyone in the land had in some way been struck by the cruel hand of the Roman oppressor. Searching the faces of the people he met at the market, on the wharf, and on the road, Viktor often wondered how they could bear such a burden of humiliation and sorrow and hatred.
Yet beneath this yoke of oppression, the Jews were far from unified. The poor distrusted the rich. The rich despised the poor. Within Judaism, various sects jockeyed for power, playing each other off against the Romans and their proxy kings. The Sadducees, the Pharisees, the Essenes, and the Qumran all vied for dominance. The rich Sanhedrin in Jerusalem reveled in their contempt for the less righteous, the indigent, and the provincial. To add insult to injury, when the Roman-backed king died, the kingdom was divided between Herod’s three inept and hedonistic sons, further shredding the social fabric of the region. Even the rebels were at odds. The Pharisee-backed Zealots fought the Romans for national freedom, while the Sicarii attacked anyone, even Jews, to bring anarchy to the whole system. On the coastal trade routes, Syrian highwaymen plundered caravans. Discharged Roman soldiers roamed the countryside, appropriating property, livestock, even women, under the force of arms. Legionnaires, weary of the conflict, responded to the general populace with unwarranted brutality. Farmers and craftsmen and merchants labored to satisfy the emperor’s increasing hunger for tax revenue. Tax collectors got rich on graft, while the poor just got poorer.
It was a land headed for disaster. But down at ground zero, Viktor had lost sight of the big picture. He was just trying to fit in, trying to survive long enough to accomplish his mission. While all around him, Jews and Romans, slaves and merchants, priests and pagans, mercenaries and insurgents, rushed headlong toward their own ill-fated destiny.
CHAPTER 10
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The air was warm and fragrant with blossoms from the orchard. A fresh breeze off the Mediterranean kept the stink of the stables at bay. To the west, azure waters sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. Two ships, sails billowed taut in the wind, sliced through the swells, racing toward the breakwater that surrounded the harbor. Laughter drifted out of the kitchen where Anthea and her mother prepared a midday meal for the master. The somnolent drone of honeybees going about their business, the warm sunshine on his shoulders, the contentment of a full belly, Viktor had to admit that Septimus’s household was not a bad place to be. Still, it amazed him how he had come to accept the fact that he was owned by another human being. Like Anthea and her family, he was another man’s property. He should have been appalled. He should have been bitter. He should have hated Septimus. But he didn’t. In that other time and place, it would have been inconceivable. In that other time and place, he and his comrades had fought every day, had fought and died to preserve their freedom. And now he was a slave. And yet he considered himself lucky. He knew things could have been far worse. It surely was a strange twist of fate.
Snatching up a handful of figs that were drying on a wicker mat, he set off down the path toward the stony beach,
leaving the luxurious country estate with its sprawling villa and orchards behind. Halfway down the slope, he sat down upon a flat rock and stretched out his legs, resting his back against a pillar of sun-warmed masonry. Overhead he could hear the torrent as it surged through the man-made channel, carrying life-sustaining water into the heart of Caesarea. Running nearly ten miles from a fresh water spring at the base of Mount Carmel, the aqueduct was a classic benefit of Roman culture. In his other life, he had studied the ruins and had appreciated the sagacity of the design. But seeing it operating in perfect repair was a remarkable experience. The Romans definitely had their faults—had many faults. Engineering was not one of them.
Munching dried figs and sipping sweetened wine from the skin hanging on his belt, Viktor experienced a sense of perfect contentment. Here he was surrounded by the very things he had studied all his life. Now he could actually see them, touch them, hear them, taste them, and smell them, as they were meant to be. He was the proverbial kid in a candy store. Life was a daily marvel. Even the sun seemed somehow different. And the air. And the stars…especially the stars. They seemed so much brighter…closer. Heaven and earth lay before him, crisp and unambiguous. So unlike that other time. And thanks to Septimus, he was safe and well cared for. If not for Septimus, he would already be dead. Tortured and mutilated. Slaughtered in a most excruciating way. Yes, Septimus was his master. He should have hated Septimus. But he didn’t. How could you hate a man who had saved you? How could you hate a man who loved you?
CHAPTER 11
Present-Day Israel
Back at Columbia University, at the very nexus of American culture, Robert Jankowski’s thoughts often returned to Israel. For any archeologist, the Middle East was a treasure trove, a playground of hidden delights. But for Robert it was more than that. For some reason, that turbulent land felt more like home than the city where he was born and raised. His New Age girlfriend insisted that he had been a Jew in a previous life. He just laughed it off. Still, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He began to find reasons to visit the Jewish neighborhood on the Upper West Side. He felt comfortable on those bustling streets. The sights, the smells, the sounds, and the people seemed to impart a faint yet tangible connection to the Holy Land. It was there at a busy community center that he learned of an Israeli guest-worker program offering “total cultural immersion” at one of the many rural communal settlements. Back in his shabby SoHo apartment, Robert pored over the pamphlets, captivated by the kibbutz lifestyle. Young people all over America were escaping the cities, heading into the countryside to establish communes, experimenting with the collective lifestyle. But this here was no experiment. The Israeli kibbutzim were a triumphant model of communal living. These were pioneers who had transformed deserts and swamps to feed and house a growing population, while fighting to create a new nation in a hostile land. It all seemed so heroic and romantic and adventurous. Robert could hardly tear his eyes away from the brochures, especially the photos of the young people working together in the fields and the shops and the kitchens. Those were the people he wanted to share his life with. That was where he wanted to be.
On the very same afternoon that he submitted his dissertation, Robert hiked over to the Israeli Consulate on Second Avenue and applied for the guest-worker program. Then he waited, spending languid days drifting between his old haunts, the coffeehouses and the libraries and the bars. Time slowed to a crawl. A few months later, after being awarded his first doctorate from Columbia, he began a halfhearted pursuit of a teaching position. Unfortunately, the pickings were not good. Low on funds, he was about to accept a dreary assistant professorship at the University of Idaho, when he finally received a letter postmarked: Haifa, Israel. It was the answer to his prayers. The agricultural branch of the kibbutz Ma’agan Michael had accepted him for a six-month trial service. In a matter of days, he was boarding an EL-AL jetliner bound for Tel Aviv.
Six years later, Robert was still living and working at Ma’agan Michael, managing their extensive network of fish ponds. Though a faithful Christian, he found nothing but acceptance and brotherhood among his fellow kibbutzniks. Being a secular community, members were free to worship as they saw fit. And it was a perfect fit for him. He thrived in the cooperative atmosphere. Before long he didn’t even miss the States. As soon as he had satisfied the residency requirement, he applied for Israeli citizenship. With his background, his education, his years of service at Ma’agan Michael, and a glowing recommendation from the kibbutz’s administration, the Ministry of the Interior promptly granted him naturalized citizenship. Now he was an Israeli. Not a Jew, but an Israeli. Now he was home.
Sometime during those hot days of hard labor and the long sultry nights when the black sky over the Mediterranean sparkled with a billion stars, he fell in love with a kibbutznik named Rachel. The granddaughter of one of Ma’agan Michael’s founders, Rachel was one hundred percent Sabra, the “new” Jew, the free-born Israeli. Strong and smart and tough and loving, to Robert she was the very embodiment of Israel itself. Rachel’s orthodox parents were not particularly happy with her choice. They respected her freedom to choose, but privately prayed for the romance to play itself out. To their chagrin, it did not. The following spring, on a sunny afternoon beside a windswept avocado orchard, Rachel Mahler married Robert Jankowski in a quiet secular ceremony. Married life was good to him. Rachel challenged him and nurtured him and gave him a robust son and a beautiful daughter. The boy they named Viktor; the girl, Janka. It was Rachel’s grandmother’s name. In Hebrew it meant “gift from God”. To Robert that’s exactly what the little squirming bundle of life was…a gift from God. He felt truly blessed. For the first time in his life he had a real family.
CHAPTER 12
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Septimus Salvo was not a bad man. Yes, he owned other human beings. Yes, he was an integral part of an oppressive culture. Yes, he profited from an empire that extended its stranglehold across the civilized world from Hispania to Judea, subjugating and exploiting entire civilizations. Yet Septimus Salvo was not a bad man. He was a product of his times. Born, bred, and operating within the framework of the dominant regime, he made the most of his position. He was ambitious and intelligent. He sacrificed. He worked hard. And he prospered.
Septimus was a merchant to his very core. He loved a good bargain, reveled in a good deal. But he seldom took undue advantage of another trader, especially in transactions with farmers and craftsmen, with whom he had the utmost respect. Nor did he allow anyone to take advantage of him. He believed that the Gods smiled upon his enterprise because he treated people fairly. Not an especially religious man, he belonged to no particular cult, but believed that the Gods played a key role in his success. A hands-on entrepreneur, he was not the type of man to sit back in Rome and let others run his business. He traveled extensively, always out on the frontier of the empire, out where the action was, locating new products, new markets, and new sources of raw material. From the silver mines of Hispania, to the granaries of Egypt, to the southern headlands of India, he worked his way across the empire, building a comfortable life for himself wherever he traveled. And except for a disastrous venture with the black-pepper merchants in the port city of Tyndis, his instincts had served him well, had made him rich, exceedingly rich. Yet his success was a double-edged sword. The virtues that had ensured his good fortune were the very failings that destroyed his personal life. He hadn’t been home in decades. His wife and children had become total strangers. His magnificent estate in the foothills of the Apennine Mountains outside Rome was but a distant memory. It was a fate he had accepted long ago. He had few regrets. And now as the years caught up with him, he found himself comfortably ensconced in the tumultuous Roman province of Palaestina.
In his own way, Septimus was a kindhearted man. He owned more slaves than he needed. And with extra hands available, workloads were light. He was known to make his purchases more out of compassion than necessity, saving many a poor soul from ce
rtain death…or worse. Viktor had heard such stories from the workers in the warehouse and in the orchards and on the household staff. They even spoke of some lucky individuals whom Septimus had purchased just to set free. Little Anthea told him that the old man had rescued her from a notoriously cruel slave trader in Alexandria. And when she informed him that her mother and two baby brothers were also being held, Septimus did not hesitate to include the entire family in the deal. He wasn’t even looking for any household help at the time, and certainly had no need for a little girl, an aging woman, and two toddlers. He later told Viktor that he believed the Gods had brought the plight of the family to his attention and that it was his responsibility to shield them from further abuse. He assigned these new servants to replace his previous cook, a woman taken prisoner in the conquest of Galatia, who now rested in peaceful retirement at his country villa outside Caesarea. It was said that he had sent two of his most trusted slaves across the water to manage his properties in Cyprus, where they now lived like noblemen. He had purchased these people. He legally owned them. On one hand, Viktor found the concept utterly appalling. On the other hand, Septimus had rescued these people from terrible fates, and provided them with a safe and comfortable life…in many cases, a compassionate and loving life. Was that a bad thing?
Septimus could be stern, even severe, but he seldom resorted to physical punishment. If a slave intentionally broke household rules, that slave would be given the choice to mend his ways or be sold. Few chose to be sold. Do a good job, prove that your intentions were honorable, and you were brought into the fold. Over time you might become part of the family, and be treated like family, with all the freedom and responsibility such status implied. Many of these rescued souls became his surrogate children, replacing the ones in Rome that he had given up in the pursuit of his success.
The Emmanuel Project Page 3