“I was born in Judea, but I received my education in Greece,” Viktor lied. “I was visiting Caesarea when I had a misunderstanding with some Roman soldiers. They charged me with insurrection and were going to execute me. But Septimus Salvo saved me. He paid a substantial price for my life. Now he owns me. I am his slave.”
“Yes…the Romans are experts at creating misunderstandings,” Yehuda said dryly. “So Septimus saved you from the executioner. I am not surprised. You say he owns you. Yet when I look at you, I do not see a slave. You come to Jericho, on your own, with a bag full of gold and a Syrian guard. You traded with an experienced merchant for the most precious oil in the empire. That is not a slave’s errand. I see no slave sitting before me.”
“With all respect, sir, I was purchased by Septimus and I belong to him. That is a fact. I am not a free man. If I were to leave him, I could be hunted down and put to the death.”
“Young man, let me tell you something. No man on this earth is truly free. Be it religion, riches, strong drink, sex, love, work…every man is a slave to something. And that is not necessarily a bad thing. Look at me…I have a comfortable home, a profitable business…yet I am not completely free. I am a slave to the Law…and to my family…and to my work. Those are certainly all good things. I also have to pay the tax collectors and follow Roman laws. Those are not such good things. But I do what I have to do to survive. That does not make me a slave. Slavery is a state of mind. And Septimus is not such a bad sort. Especially for a Roman. He is really not so different from me. Under different circumstances, I believe we could have become close friends. And I know for a fact that he does not consider you a slave. If you wish, I will permit you to read the letter of introduction he wrote for you. He requested that I take you under my roof and treat you as I would him. He spoke of you as his son…his son. Did you know that? Well, if you didn’t…you do now. You are no slave, young man. If you were to forsake him, he would mourn you…not pursue you. If he searched you out and found you, he would celebrate you…not execute you. Just as I would my own child. If you did not know this before…you do now. But I think you are far too intelligent not to have seen this for yourself. You must have other reasons for your feigned ignorance. So I will speak of it no more. What is between a man and his son is their business. Tell me, are you a Jew? Septimus believes this to be true.”
“Yes, I am. But I am not devout. I have faith, but I do not follow the Law very closely.”
“That could easily be remedied,” the old man murmured, mostly to himself.
The two sat in comfortable silence, sipping Judean wine and munching almonds and dried apricots. Torches blazed brightly in the palace up on the hillside. Otherwise, the valley was dark. Beside the stable, the Syrian guard was dozing around a firepit, spears at the ready. Viktor savored the serenity of Yehuda’s quiet orchards. It was so different from the hustle and bustle of the wharf in Caesarea. After a while he spoke.
“Yehuda, the Jordan River runs nearby, does it not?”
“Yes, it is less than an hour’s walk.”
“Have you heard of a man called John the Baptizer? I have heard he is preaching along the river.”
“Yes, I have,” Yehuda replied. “Why do you ask about this man?”
“I was considering going to hear him speak. I heard he has something important to say.”
“He had a lot to say. More than people wanted to hear. He was a wild man roaming a wild land, speaking of a messiah and a new kingdom. If I were you, I would stay away from his kind. They can cause you much grief. Anyway, you are too late. Herod Antipas had him arrested. His voice has not been heard in that wilderness for quite some time. I suspect he will probably be heard no more.”
A chill ran up Viktor’s spine. So here was an irrefutable source…John the Baptist did exist. And he had already been arrested by Herod Antipas. Time was definitely running short.
“Have you heard of a young rabbi from the Galilee?” Viktor continued. “A prophet who preaches on the hillsides and the beach. He comes from Nazareth and I believe he lives in Capernaum now. His name is Yeshua. Have you heard of him?”
“You tell me you are not a religious man, yet you seem interested in all these…these prophets.” Yehuda Ben-Ephraim spoke the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Let me tell you something, young man. We are a poor people. Yet we are rich in prophets. They seem to rise up from the rocky soil like the wildflowers in my orchards. They have their moment in the sun and then quickly fade away when the season grows hot. It is best to keep clear of them, for like a drowning man they will drag you down. You seem like a fine young man…let me give you a piece of advice. Slow down and think hard about what you do. I can still remember what it is like to be your age. I know it is not easy to be calm when you see all that is going on around you. All these prophets and these zealots…and these messiahs. You feel you must do something…you must get involved. I know how you feel. But tomorrow…if it be the Almighty’s will…you will still be here. And all those dreams may not seem so important anymore. I know this from experience. Do not allow yourself to be caught up in the moment. Stay on the steady path and plan for the years ahead. Put this slave nonsense behind you. Septimus does a very good trade. He is a rich man. Settle down. Find yourself a suitable woman and make a good life together. I have a daughter of marrying age…Eliana. You met her at dinner. She is smart and strong and beautiful, like her mother. I would like to see her matched with a young man who is her equal. Not like these fortune-hunting schemers around here. Or those fastidious sycophants in Jerusalem. Someone like you. I believe it would be a most promising union.”
“I appreciate your advice, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim. And I am certain your daughter would make a fine wife. But please tell me. Have you heard of this rabbi named Yeshua?”
The old man’s gaze was long and penetrating. Finally, he answered. “Yes, I have.”
CHAPTER 17
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Aheavy downpour soaked the thirsty countryside, drenching the caravan. The huge boulders that covered the hillside appeared to smolder with an unseen fire as vapor rose up in gossamer threads from the steaming rock. Viktor leaned back in the saddle letting the raindrops spatter against his face, refreshing his heat-dulled senses. In minutes his cloak was dripping, his long hair running in rivulets down his neck. Then just as quickly as it had begun, the cloudburst moved on and the blazing sun emerged to reclaim dominance of the clearing skies. And with it came the suffocating heat.
The steep trail was slick with rainfall, the footing uncertain. Yet Viktor rode easy. He was feeling comfortable on his mount, confident enough to let the horse choose its own path. So, on they climbed. As the caravan topped the final rise, Viktor reined his horse to the side of the trail and let the procession pass, gazing back from where he came. In the distance, a black thunderhead swept across the valley, casting a deep shadow and trailing a curtain of rain. Passing over Jericho, the shower kissed Yehuda’s orchards, a vibrant rainbow materializing in its wake. It was so beautiful; it took his breath away. In that instant he understood why Yehuda’s people loved this valley. He did, too. It seemed that whenever he was feeling overwhelmed, doubtful, or dispirited, Yahweh would grant him a glimpse of sublime percipience, and he, too, would remember why he loved this land. His land. His Israel.
As Viktor sat high in the saddle, lost in the play of sunlight and shadow against the undulating hills below, the captain of the Syrian guard charged back along the trail, pulling up beside him in a spray of mud and sweat.
“Do not lag behind,” the mercenary barked in disjointed Greek, his accent rendering his words nearly unintelligible. “It is not safe in these hills. Stay with the column where we can protect you. The Hebrew bandits are treacherous and brutal. They would love to lay their stinking hands on a rich Roman boy like you. Let us go now. Follow closely.”
Viktor turned away from the valley and kicked his mount forward. Catching up to the caravan, he fell into place
behind the line of donkeys that toiled under the weight of the huge ceramic jars, his mount instinctively slowing to match their pace. The captain of the guard was not a bad sort, though probably acting more out of fear of Septimus’s wrath than out of any real concern for his well-being. Still, Hakim seemed to be a reliable man, which could not be said for the rest of the rogues who made up the guard. Without Hakim, Viktor figured he would have as much to fear from the Syrians as from the highwaymen. They believed the jars contained nothing more than premium olive oil. If they knew the real value of the amphorae they guarded, his body would soon be feeding the vultures.
The journey back through the barren hills and down onto the coastal plain was grim and tiresome. Viktor welcomed the monotony of the stark and silent landscape, his body swaying lethargically to the plodding rhythm of the horse’s stride, his muscles slack, his face listless. The Syrian guard thought him asleep in the saddle. Yet behind that deceptive facade, Viktor’s mind raced.
Septimus and Yehuda were both good men, intelligent men, kind and generous men, rich men. One a Roman merchant, the other a Hebrew farmer, and for some reason they both saw something of value in him…or at least something different. And they both offered to bring him into their family, offered him a safe and privileged life. One even offered his daughter’s hand in marriage. Here in a land of such privation, he had hit the jackpot. It was an opportunity that could not be disregarded casually.
Yehuda was right. He was no slave. All he had to do was say the word and Septimus’s holdings in Palestine would be his for the taking. Septimus loved him. He was the son Septimus always dreamed of having. Yehuda understood that. Deep down Viktor had known it, too. In their conversations over the past few days, walking through the orchards or relaxing on the terrace under the endless night sky, the old man had forced him to face many of his hardheaded self-delusions. With his gracious and perceptive ways, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim had laid bare the undeniable truth of his situation. In that other life, the old man would have made an outstanding psychotherapist.
And Eliana. The girl was beautiful, bright, and hardworking…so much like his own mother—at least what he remembered of her. She would make an excellent wife, a loving wife. He could feel it. Just the way she looked at him made him feel special…made him feel proud. It was apparent that she had inherited both her father’s keen mind and her mother’s warm heart. She had so many exceptional qualities, yet carried herself with a modest unpretentious dignity. Nothing at all like those trendy girls in Tel Aviv. Every minute he spent with her had been a balm to his spirit. He longed to take her into his arms. But that could not be. Eliana and Yehuda would have had none of that.
With people like them behind him, how could he fail? He could have it all, the social and political connections, the successful businesses, the properties, and the wealth. He and Eliana could raise a family, a large family. Between the bustle of Caesarea and the peace of Jericho, it would be an exceptional life. Much different from that other time, but somehow more real, more substantial. How could he not be happy? If he could only forget everything else and just live his life, he could be happy.
Yet how could he forget? How could he forget his whole reason for being there? How could he deny his training, his vow to defend his homeland against foreign powers? How could he live a life of ease when a foreign military occupied his country and brutalized his people? How could he rest knowing that in his old age, the invaders would totally decimate his land, destroy his cities, annihilate his people, and obliterate the sacred Temple? It was coming, as sure as the sun rose and set. How could he forget all that? How could he forget all that and just be happy? How? His mind raced.
CHAPTER 18
Present-Day Israel
That bloody afternoon on the coastal road proved to be a sea-change in the existence of Robert Jankowski. An elemental part of him was destroyed that day, as surely as if the terrorist’s bullets had torn away pieces of his own heart, as if his own blood had soaked into the sand of that secluded beach. In an instant, his love, his strength, and his conscience were gone. Ripped from his life. He would forever live under the shadow of that hateful act. It was a wound that time would never heal.
He would never again call Ma’agan Michael his home. The kibbutz he had loved became impossible to endure, the memories too painful. The cottage, the orchards, the shops, the ponds, the dining hall—traces of Rachel’s presence were everywhere. Even the cheery morning sun on the coastal hills, or the sweet smell of the orchards, brought him nothing but heartbreak. He had to escape or perish.
He would never again be a proper father to Viktor and Janka. He tried. He really tried. But there was just too much of Rachel in their beautiful fresh faces, too much of her in the sound of their voices, too much of her in their innocent joie de vivre. It hurt to even look upon them. Everything he saw, every smell, every touch, brought nothing but pain. When even his faith had abandoned him, life itself became too much to bear. Mercifully, his condition did not go unnoticed by his colleagues. With their support, a leave of absence, and a lengthy retreat at a Christian mission in Jerusalem, he managed to pull himself together.
Robert Jankowski survived the desolation of his dark night of the soul, but he was a much diminished man. Not intellectually. His mind remained sharp. Yet on an emotional level, he had shut himself down. Functioning purely on intellect left him soothingly numb inside. It got him through each day…and each long night. He was still a brilliant scholar, bound for greatness. But he was a shadow of his former self. Nothing touched him, neither joy nor sorrow. Other than financial support, he had little to offer his children. Worse yet, his emotional remoteness was proving harmful to the little ones, who needed the security of his love more than ever. Realizing his presence was actually hurting them, Robert surrendered Viktor and Janka to the care of their grandparents and buried himself in his studies. He had managed to save himself, but lost his children in the bargain.
Robert wasn’t the only one struggling with Rachel’s death. Now responsible for the well-being of their grandchildren, Rachel’s parents also decided to leave the kibbutz behind, moving to a larger house in the suburbs of Tel Aviv. They didn’t want Viktor and Janka to have to walk the same stretch of beach where their mother had been so brutally murdered. Now without both a mother and father, they wanted the children to have a fresh start. Furthermore, the old couple was aware of the technological advances that were sweeping the world and wanted the children to benefit from living in the most modern city in the nation. For them, the cloistered environment of Ma’agan Michael had lost its charm. Ari and Shira Mahler wanted their grandchildren to be a part of Israel’s bright future rather than a victim of its brutal past.
The next three years passed quickly as everyone settled into their new lives. The kids found their new school to be exciting and challenging, their new classmates deeply engaged in the new technologies. The transition was harder for the old folks, who acclimated slowly to city life after a lifetime on the farm. After numerous awards and honors, and yet another PhD from Hebrew University, Professor Robert Jankowski found himself to be a very hot academic commodity. Schools across the globe were seeking him out, tempting him to forsake his adopted homeland and join their faculty in some less volatile corner of the world. He could not even consider leaving Israel or his children. However, their offers did oblige him to acknowledge that he was ready for a change. So after considering proposals from several Israeli institutions, he settled on a position at Tel Aviv University.
Tel Aviv University was a modern and energetic institution. His new position was highly regarded, financially rewarding, and afforded him unparalleled opportunity for field research. Plus, the location would allow him to spend more time with Viktor and Janka. It was a good fit and he learned to love it there, lecturing and studying and exploring and publishing for nearly twenty-five years. It was a very productive and fulfilling tenure. And he would have been content with the way his life had turned out, if not for that one thing th
at nagged at him, that encumbered his waking hours and robbed him of sleep…the question that haunted his very existence. What had become of Viktor?
CHAPTER 19
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Viktor gazed out over the darkened wharf. Outside the harbor, the sea roiled under a brisk southerly wind, glittering enchantingly in the light of a setting moon. Inside the breakwater, an assortment of merchant ships rode calmly at anchor. Soon they would be sailing for ports across the empire. With the morning tide, one broad-beamed, square-sailed vessel would be hoisting anchor and heading directly for Rome, back to the imperial port of Ostia. Its spacious holds filled to the brim with Septimus’s lifeblood—Egyptian wheat, Judean barley, Dead Sea salt, dried Galilean figs and date honey, purple dye brought down from Syria, and twelve large amphorae of that most precious of oils, the Balm of Jericho. The shipment had practically emptied the wharf-side warehouse, and was sure to generate a fortune in the capital. Septimus figured it should keep his wife satisfied…at least for a while.
Viktor had supervised the loading of the vessel, had prepared the bill of lading, certifying and sealing the document with the harbormaster. It was a sizable shipment. Septimus usually handled such delicate matters himself. But Septimus was feeling poorly. It appeared that age was finally catching up to the old empire builder. And like a bull ram in the lion’s clutches, it was dragging him down. His personal physician pretended to know what the problems were. The so-called healer had exotic names for all the ailments, and even more exotic cures: bloodletting and purging and viper venom and a variety of evil-smelling teas brewed from a variety of poisonous plants. Viktor was appalled by the worthless remedies. Considered the finest Caesarea had to offer, the physician was just a product of his times. With only some first-aid training and a modern education, Viktor’s knowledge of medicine was light-years ahead of him. Viktor could plainly see that Septimus was suffering from rheumatoid arthritis and cataracts, just to begin with. He was occasionally plagued by migraine headaches. And worst of all, Viktor suspected that the old man’s chronic exhaustion was being caused by exposure to lead. It was a common problem among Romans. He had read several studies on it. The reports described how the average Roman citizen ingested lead from a variety of sources—water pipes, kitchen utensils, and a seemingly harmless condiment called sapa. Septimus loved the sticky-sweet stuff. He poured it over everything. In Rome, as in Septimus’s own kitchen, freshly mashed grapes were boiled down in lead kettles, gradually reducing the juicy pulp down to a thick syrup. In the process, lead from the pots infused the sapa. It was toxic, and Septimus consumed it in great quantities. And now in his golden years, the old man appeared to be suffering the lethal symptoms of lead poisoning.
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