The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  Whenever Viktor tried to warn Septimus of the dangers, the old man only chuckled indulgently and told him not to worry, told the boy that he was in the hands of one of the best physicians in the empire. It was excruciatingly frustrating for Viktor to be ignored when he knew he was right, when he knew he could help. Yet how could he impart his knowledge without sounding like a raving lunatic? He tried, time after time, and failed miserably. Microscopic bacteria, viruses, carcinogens…it all came across like some kind of ridiculous sorcery.

  So Viktor took it upon himself to make the household healthier. First, he directed the cook to discard all lead pots and utensils, and replaced all the lead water pipes with terracotta. He then instructed the servants to wash all kitchen surfaces and cooking implements with soap, to rinse all fruits and vegetables with vinegar, to cook meat thoroughly, to turn their heads away when they sneezed, and to wash their hands, especially after using the privy. There was some resistance, but they recognized that Viktor was Father Septimus’s favorite son, so they complied. Septimus himself found it all charmingly amusing.

  “This god you speak of…this Bacterium,” the old man teased. “He must be very powerful for you to fear him so…for you to perform all these rituals to appease him.”

  The physician was a much bigger problem. The bumbling charlatan had Septimus’s absolute confidence. After all, he was considered one of the best healers in the most advanced culture in the entire world. Why would the old man take the advice of a boy over him?

  “Viktor, you are surely a strange young man,” Septimus told him. “Why do you concern yourself with such things? Antonius is a most learned man. You are dear to my heart, but you cannot convince me that you know better than my physician.”

  Viktor tried anyway. He suggested, he insisted, he nagged. He could not remain silent while some arrogant, condescending fraud practiced the worst kind of quackery upon the people he cared about. Soon, it became a bone of contention between them. There were heated arguments when Viktor simply refused to let Septimus take a cure he knew to be harmful. They quarreled, not often, but passionately, much like any father and son.

  They had had one of those arguments the previous evening, when after a long day on the wharf, Viktor returned home to find Anthea making tea from the dried root of the hemlock plant. Hemlock! It was one of the asinine physician’s favorite cure-alls. Losing his temper, Viktor had yanked the kettle from the girl’s hands and spilled the steaming contents onto the mosaic floor of the atrium. Bursting into tears, the little girl had fled directly to the comforting arms of Septimus, who demanded that Viktor apologize for his offensive behavior. Viktor refused, called the physician worthless, his cures hazardous. Septimus scolded him, told him he was much too opinionated for his years. And the quarrel had gone downhill from there.

  After the argument Viktor hadn’t slept a wink and was up and out of the town home before the household awakened. Wanting to insure that their valuable shipment left port without incident, he headed back to the wharf. Except for a few guards, the harbor was quiet. That suited him just fine. He needed some time to think. Sitting beside the warehouse as dawn brightened the skies over the Mediterranean, he struggled to find the words to set things right with Septimus. He knew he was out of line. He had to learn to temper his opinions. He had to remember that, to Septimus, he was just a boy, a homeless stray plucked from the jaws of oblivion, incapable of surviving on his own. The old man would never take his advice over the blundering physician. It was just another reality he had to learn to live with, as maddening as it was. Just thinking about it was enough to start his pulse hammering at his temples.

  Overhead, the high cirrus clouds changed from purple to red. Viktor turned away from the sea, his eyes following the light to its source. To the east, a crimson ball filled the horizon, rising dramatically over the town of Caesarea. Every marble facade and limestone paver reflected the blush of the early light, glowing ethereally in the clear air. The sight was awe-inspiring. Romans…how can they be capable of such beauty and such barbarity? Viktor wondered. How can they be so ingenious and yet so thickheaded? Why couldn’t they build on what they had created? Consolidate, conciliate, and propagate the republican paradigm across the whole world. Democracy could have had a two-thousand-year head start. Technology could have advanced unrestrained. Order could have been preserved. There might have been no Dark Ages, no feudal system. Why couldn’t they make it work? How could they let it all slip away?

  CHAPTER 20

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  As unlikely as it once would have seemed, Caesarea was Viktor’s home. And just as unlikely, he loved living there. Beautiful and efficient and clean, it was a contemporaneously modern metropolis built by King Herod as a gateway to the Roman Empire, and named in honor of his patron Caesar Augustus. The artificial harbor was a marvel of engineering. The rich architecture of the hippodrome, the amphitheater, the palaces, and the temples rivaled the finest cities in the Roman Empire. At the university, Viktor had studied it in detail. Now to see it functioning in all its glory was a treat beyond his wildest imaginings. Located on the main caravan route between Tyre and Egypt, with a harbor that provided a direct connection to the economic power of the empire, it was a true international crossroads. He loved the energy of the city, the cosmopolitan atmosphere. Inhabited by people from across the breadth of the Mediterranean, it was easy for an outsider like himself to blend in. Compared to many of the visitors, he was far from exotic.

  Caesarea offered some truly cutting-edge amenities. The foremost being a state-of-the-art plumbing system. Fresh water and sewage disposal were things that Viktor had always taken for granted. Yet, these basic human services would not be the norm until the twentieth century. Even into the twenty-first century, many developing nations struggled to accommodate their burgeoning populations. And here in the first century, Roman engineering was already providing a surprisingly effective public infrastructure to meet these needs. Upon arriving, Viktor had been plagued with chronic stomach ailments. Although he was in excellent physical shape, he had quickly succumbed to microbes for which a modern man had no defense. His young body had managed to adapt, thanks in part to the conveniences offered by the builders of Caesarea, and thanks to the healing attention of Septimus Salvo.

  The surrounding countryside was an entirely different story, especially the Judean wilderness. Out there, one ventured back into the Stone Age, with people living pretty much the same as their Neolithic ancestors. Even in the most fertile areas, it was a hardscrabble existence. Conveniences were few. Yet the inhabitants thrived. They were a hardy and resilient people.

  Caesarea was the seat of Roman military power, being the provincial capital, the residence of the prefect, and the headquarters of the 10th Legion. And while Jerusalem might have been the spiritual soul of the province, Caesarea was the beating heart of Roman Palaestina. Trade and taxes were the lifeblood of the empire, and through Caesarea’s port that blood flowed freely. The extensive military presence insured order and stability, a necessary foundation for commerce. Viktor appreciated that security. The city and the surrounding countryside were safe, especially for Roman citizens. And with Septimus as a benefactor, he was granted that same protection. It was a privilege he gratefully accepted, but a status he never fully embraced. He was not a Roman. He had learned that the hard way. The Roman army was an arrogant, heartless lot. It was best to give them a wide berth.

  The sun was climbing, the port coming to life around him. Longshoremen and galley slaves were moving along the wharf, bent under their burdens. Crews were preparing to set sail. A few skiffs were already rounding the breakwater, heading for the teeming fisheries. Viktor gazed across the harbor at the garrison that dominated the far promontory. Despite the hot sun on his shoulders, he felt a chill run up his spine as he recalled his first days in Caesarea. It had not begun well. As far as he could tell, the Time Jump itself had produced few negative effects, considering how far he had come. It should have b
een smooth sailing. But it had quickly gone bad, the mission nearly terminated before it had even begun.

  CHAPTER 21

  Present-Day Israel

  Regardless of what he had suffered, Dr. Robert Jankowski had much to be thankful for. He could look back on an exemplary career, professional accolades, and decades of good health. He had known the love of an extraordinary woman and could look forward to a relatively comfortable retirement. And best of all, he was blessed with two beautiful, well-adjusted kids. He knew he owed much of this good fortune to Rachel’s parents. Their rock-solid presence had been a godsend. While he had spent most of his adult life sifting through far-flung excavations and lecturing at universities around the world, Ari and Shira Mahler had managed to raise two fine children with precious little help from him. Thanks to their grandparents, the tragic death of their mother and his emotional collapse had not hampered the children’s development. The old couple had stepped in, stepped up, and filled the void with love and security and unflagging support.

  Viktor and Janka had matured into exceptional adults. To Robert, they exemplified two of God’s extraordinary principals for humanity’s continuing advancement—genetics and evolution. The kids had inherited their mother’s beauty and her unquenchable spirit. And from him, they had acquired a sharp and inquiring mind. Plus, they had grown bigger and stronger and smarter than both their parents. They were surely one more rung up the ladder, one more step along the path of God’s unfathomable odyssey for mankind. But without their grandparents, who knows what might have befallen them? Without a strong moral compass, it was so easy for children to lose their way.

  Though Robert had been absent throughout much of their childhood, the kids retained an emotional bond with him. Ari and Shira had made sure of that. They could have taken a whole different route, related to him in a whole different way. But they hadn’t. They understood what he was going through. They cried with him, they suffered with him, they relieved him of his burdens. “Ye’varech’echa Adonoy ve’yish’merecha,” they told him. May God bless you and watch over you. Robert became their son, a lost child to replace the child they had lost. They were simple, uneducated farmers who happened to be two of the wisest people Robert Jankowski had ever known. Without them? Robert shuddered just thinking about it.

  Their door was always open to him. Viktor and Janka were strongly encouraged to seek his council. And the old couple always gave him the final say on any decision that affected the children. Everything, that is, except religion. Being pious Jews, the old couple insisted on raising their grandchildren in the religion of their ancestors. Christianity, for them, just wasn’t an option. Robert couldn’t complain. He had enormous respect and admiration for Judaism. And he never had a problem acknowledging that his deep Christian faith centered on the teachings of a Jewish rabbi. It was all good, and his children thrived.

  By the time Robert was appointed to head the Department of Archeology at Tel-Aviv University, Viktor and Janka were both excelling at their studies. Being a dean at the same institution, he was careful to avoid influencing their academic accomplishments. What they achieved, he wanted them to achieve on their own merit. Keeping a low profile to avoid placing undue pressure on them, he nonetheless kept a close watch over their progress. And he was seldom disappointed. Janka did well in pre-med, motivating her to continue on to medical school. Viktor majored in Middle Eastern languages and cultures, a regular chip off the old block.

  Later, after serving a mandatory stint in the Israeli Defense Forces, Janka continued her journey in healing, serving her internship and fellowships at two world-class Israeli clinics. By the time she was thirty, she was leading a team of neurologists at the Tel HoShomer Hospital in Tel-Aviv. Now she had two boys of her own, a successful medical practice, and a politically ambitious husband who currently held a seat in the Israeli Knesset. The girl was doing all right for herself. Robert liked to call her the prettiest neurologist in Israel. Sometimes when she tossed her head or smiled a certain way, he could see Rachel so clearly in her face. And it was good. It no longer hurt. He loved her so, his Janka. She never stopped being his gift from God.

  As Janka settled down and grew ever closer to her father, Viktor took a much different route. By the time he was awarded his PhD in Ancient Middle Eastern Studies, he was growing increasingly restless. Academics began to bore him. He longed for adventure, excitedly anticipating his forthcoming service in the IDF. Robert worried that his quiet, studious boy would not be able to handle the rigors of the military. It was a far cry from academia, and the boy was not nearly as tough as his sister. But Robert’s worries proved unfounded. Seemingly overnight, the boy matured and filled out. He excelled in his duties, and at the end of his mandatory service he was invited to join an elite anti-terrorist commando unit. Israel was once again fighting for its very existence. But the nature of war had changed. It was no longer defending against invading armies with massive tank battles in the desert. Now it was guarding against terrorist attacks, small strikes against civilians, suicide bombers. Defense required small tactical units and lightning-quick response teams. His unit was constantly on alert and he was seldom granted leave. Communication with his family became brief and sporadic.

  After a few years, Viktor’s flawless military record, unquestioned bravery, and leadership skills were noticed by the Israeli Secret Service. Glowing recommendations by his commanders, combined with his advanced education, made him a prime prospect for their organization, and they aggressively recruited the young scholar-cum-warrior. Flattered by their attentions, Viktor resigned his commission and joined their ranks. Robert was not happy with this decision. The professor was not an admirer of the Mossad. He didn’t like their brutal tactics, nor did he agree with the sanctimoniously patriotic justification for their every action. He tried to reason with his son, but after a few heated arguments, he kept his opinions to himself. It was Viktor’s life to live, not his. He knew the boy had a personal score to settle. The loss of his mother was no trivial matter. And Robert was a pragmatist at heart. He understood the reality of Israel’s position. An organization like the Mossad was necessary for the survival of a nation that was literally surrounded by enemies sworn to its utter destruction. Sometimes you had to fight fire with fire. Still, he didn’t like his son being such an integral part of it.

  So Viktor joined up and went underground, severing contact with his family for months at a time, living a life of espionage and covert operations, a life of anonymity and secrecy. As the terrorist activity intensified, the family saw less and less of him, until he disappeared altogether. He didn’t show up for Janka’s wedding. Nor did he attend the funerals of his grandmother and his grandfather. It was inconceivable. Robert had to conclude that his son was dead. He used every connection at the university to try to obtain information from military and government officials. They proved unresponsive. The Mossad responded to his inquiries with outright hostility. No one offered any information. Viktor was just gone.

  What an incredibly joyous surprise it was when Viktor showed up at the Team’s headquarters that day. He had been gone for so long. The excitable boy had changed dramatically, carrying himself with the rock-solid, self-possessed air of a combat veteran. He seemed happy. Yet his eyes betrayed something else, something dark and grievous. They were eyes that had seen too much. But he was back. Who would’ve thought that the very organization that tore them apart would be instrumental in bringing them back together? Robert often pondered this notion. For years he had cursed the Mossad for taking his son away. Now he cursed the scientists who created the device that had sent Viktor into metaphysical oblivion. But mostly he cursed himself. He was a weak man. He had failed the boy again. He had failed to put a stop to all the crazy talk. He had willingly gone along with the whole crazy scheme. They had seduced him with visions of studying ancient history in “real time.” Enticing him with promises of being able to “verify the unverifiable.” Beguiling him with the prospect of doing what every single his
torian and anthropologist and archeologist dreamed of doing…visiting the past. Visiting the past! God help him, he could not help himself. He could not say no.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  The scientists had miscalculated the level of the sea. Or maybe it was just an unfortunate combination of tide and storm surge. Whatever the reason, rather than materializing on a dry stretch of empty beach, Viktor found himself struggling for breath in six feet of gale-whipped surf. Hammered by the cold breakers, a relentless undertow dragging him out into the black waters of the Mediterranean, he was forced to fight for his very existence. He was a strong swimmer. Yet in the moonless darkness, with the pounding waves and the churning, bone-chilling currents, it seemed like an eternity before he finally touched terra firma and crawled up onto the rocky strand. Exhausted, disoriented, and retching up a stomachful of seawater, a litany of wild thoughts ran through his head. What happened? Where the hell am I? The absolute blackness, the shriek of the wind, the taste of the water, the smell of the air, it all seemed so alien. Are those time paradoxes for real? Is some force trying to stop me? Why can’t I see anything? Is there no light in this damn place? Did the fools send me into another dimension?