Through a remarkable feat of mental control, Viktor purged these thoughts from his mind. And with deep cleansing breaths, he managed to calm himself down, allowing his military discipline to take charge. In the howling of the wind, he could almost hear the gruff bark of his special ops commander. Soldier, this is not the time or the place for irrational action. Isolated in potentially hostile territory, an impulsive decision can have tragically dire consequences. Pull yourself together. Remember who you are and what you are fighting for. You are Israeli!
So Viktor focused on the basics. Utilizing skills acquired in survival training, he made himself as comfortable as he could in the utter darkness and chill, and bedded down. I need to get some rest…clear my head. Tomorrow when the sun comes up, I’ll be better able to figure things out. Assuming there is a tomorrow…or a sun in this damn place. With those unsettling thoughts, he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep, that swift and comforting sanctuary reserved only for the truly innocent of heart and for the weary warrior on the field of battle.
Dawn found him huddled on the leeward side of a massive boulder at the inland edge of a rocky beach, his clothing soaked, his teeth chattering. The storm had passed. Scanning the terrain, he was surprised to find the shoreline markedly different from the jumping-off point. How far back did they send me? he wondered. Shaking off the cold, he pulled himself to his feet and took stock of his condition. Other than a few scrapes and bruises, he was pleased to find himself in reasonable shape; no deep cuts, no broken bones, lungs free of seawater. But he soon discovered that maybe he wasn’t so lucky after all. His feet were bare, his sandals gone. His cloak and the bundle of spare clothing, also gone. The water jug, the maps, the dagger, the antibiotics, the protein supplements, and worst of all, the pouch of silver coins…gone, gone, gone…all gone. Hours of searching the desolate beach proved fruitless. He had lost his advantage. He had arrived on the shores of time as little more than a beggar. All he had left was his intellect. He would soon find out if that would be enough to sustain him.
If the Jump had gone according to plan, the port city of Caesarea would lie less than fifteen miles up the coast. If it had gone according to plan. Viktor wasn’t so sure anymore. The coastline looked nothing like that tame stretch of beach outside Tel Aviv. It looked wild, primeval. He began to wonder whether the surrounding countryside would be populated by men like himself, or dominated by savage bands of primitive hominids. It was an unnerving thought. He knew that such wild speculation was counterproductive. He had to stay calm and keep to the plan. If Caesarea was there, he could reach it by nightfall. In that cosmopolitan city he would be able to lose himself, find some food, and maybe some shelter. So he put his fears behind him and headed north.
For the first hour, the coast appeared to be inhabited only by scampering crabs and seabirds. Viktor walked as if on eggshells, hoping for the best, yet all the while expecting the worst, his weary mind vacillating between fearless confidence and hopeless foreboding. The beach stretched endlessly before him in the bright sunshine, the azure sea breaking lazily upon the sand. As the hours passed, the tension, like his thirst, grew unbearable. Still he kept to the narrow strand and moved resolutely forward.
With the sun at its zenith, and his clothes finally dry upon his back, Viktor shielded his eyes and peered into the glare. Up ahead, where the beach widened beneath a rocky promontory, a series of dark shapes dotted the sand. He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t appear to be a natural formation. Both the size and the spacing of the objects were much too regular. Approaching cautiously, he kept close to the steep slope that rose from the beach to his right, ignoring the sharp stones that scraped his bare feet. Continually scanning the broad expanse of sand for any sign of movement, he crept closer until the vague objects resolved into a collection of small wooden skiffs, laid out in a neat row, patiently awaiting high tide. The boats were crude, but definitely the work of man. Then overhead on the bluff, to his great relief, he could hear voices, loud voices, arguing in a furious mixture of Hebrew and Aramaic. He was in the right place. And from the design of the boats it looked like the right time period. He stepped forward with renewed confidence.
By circling inland, Viktor avoided the next two villages that he encountered. The fishermen were a busy lot and he managed to keep out of sight, slowly working his way through the sparse coastal brush. But he was losing precious time. Shadows were growing long. As the blazing sun slipped into the sea, giving way to a gentle twilight, he could see the faint glow of torchlight brightening the sky ahead and quickened his pace. Darkness promptly followed, relieved only by pearly starlight. In the distance, a lighthouse beacon blazed on the empty coastline. Though lack of food and water had taken its toll, Viktor pushed himself forward until he could continue on no longer. His feet were raw and bloody, his head pounded, his vision doubled. Intending only to take a short rest, he laid down beside the southern approach to the city and remembered no more.
CHAPTER 23
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Asharp pain in his side wrenched him out of a troubled sleep. Looking up, a circle of sneering faces sheathed in sweat-stained leather and bronze blocked out the blue sky. With a parched tongue fused to the roof of his mouth, Viktor was unable to speak, mumbling incoherently as he rubbed grimy hands against his gritty eyes. Again he felt the pain. Swinging his arm, he dislodged the spear point that pricked the skin of his ribs, and rolled free of the crowd. As he struggled to his feet, two legionnaires grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms, while a third smashed a thick fist into his face, followed immediately by a blow to his stomach. Viktor sagged between his captors, gasping for breath, his lungs collapsed. Thinking him vanquished, the legionnaires crowded close, taunting him, their words foul, their breath stinking, their bodies reeking. Enduring their abuse until he could regain his wind, Viktor went on the offensive, employing his advanced martial arts training. Spinning from their grasp he exploited their surprise, and using their armored weight against them, quickly sent the trio sprawling in the dusty road. Incited to action, the remainder of the patrol immediately fell upon him with fists and boots and truncheons. Viktor fought valiantly, but there were too many of them. After a heroically hopeless struggle, his world went black.
He awoke in a dark, steaming hole. Every bone in his body ached, his head throbbed. He could feel the sticky press of unwashed flesh all around him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. After some indefinite period of time, he was aware of someone lifting his head and a cup being placed against his lips. He drank greedily before drifting back into oblivion. At times, in his delirium he could feel the sting of his wounds being scrubbed. At other times, when a wedge of stale bread was thrust into his hand, he ate. Some time later, it was impossible to distinguish day from night in the dank cell, he began to feel a little steadier, a bit stronger. Slowly shifting his head on the cold floor, he covertly surveyed the squalid surroundings. No one was paying him any attention. The other inhabitants all seemed locked in their own personal misery, staring blindly at nothing in particular. Emboldened, Viktor slowly rolled onto his back and attempted to raise himself up. But bruised muscles betrayed him and he slumped back down, painfully rapping his head on the stone pavers.
“Take it slow, my friend,” a voice advised out of the gloom.
With the stranger’s help, Viktor was able to pull himself up, leaning back against the rough-hewn stone wall for support.
“There you go. Feeling better, are you? That is good. Those Roman dogs surely made sport of you. I was beginning to think you would not make it. I had to feed you like a helpless child.”
Turning toward the voice, Viktor looked upon a slender young man, unremarkable in stature, yet something in his tone commanded attention. And even in the dimness, his bright blue eyes shone with a fierce intensity.
“Where am I?”
“You are a guest of the Romans,” the stranger said, sweeping his arms wide to indicate the filthy cell. “Their finest accommodati
ons.”
“But…where?”
“You are in the garrison…beneath the palace.”
“In what town?”
“In what town, you ask? You lay yourself down and get some more rest, my friend. It is too soon for talking. I will rouse you when our fine dinner is served.”
“No, I am not tired. Tell me, what town is this?”
“Why, you are in magnificent Caesarea Maritima. Herod’s shrine to the jackals. Herod!” The stranger spat as if to cleanse the name from his tongue. “I know this much,” he growled. “Those pigs can call themselves kings and live in palaces, but they are no more than trained monkeys. When the Romans tire of them, they will all end up in the stew with the rest of us. That is, unless I get my hands on them first. We can talk more about this later when you can think more clearly. I can see you are worn away. You have had yourself a bad time in this fine city. You must search out better ways to spend your leisure.”
“Who are you?”
“That is of no importance.”
“Why did you help me?”
“I do not know. There is something different about you. I think we might be cut from the same cloth. When those pigs dragged you in here, I overheard the guards say you fought a whole Roman patrol by yourself. You are a warrior. You are different from these other peasants in here. Most of these poor wretches are just sheep awaiting the slaughter. Not me. And I think, not you. We are different. You stick with me and we will get out of here together. I promise.”
“Can you tell me what year it is?”
“What is that you ask? What year? That is enough talking for now. You get some rest. Lay back down. I will wake you when they bring the bread. Go on, lay down. No one will harm you. Not while I am here. That, too, I promise.”
Viktor gratefully slid back onto the filthy stone floor and was quickly asleep. It would be days before he could fend for himself. He soon came to realize that if not for the fierce little man with the piercing blue eyes, he surely would have perished, his lifeless corpse dragged out like all the other unfortunates. The little man was like a guardian angel.
Conditions in the prison were deplorable, the treatment horrific. The Roman guards were merciless beasts, without a shred of humanity. His attempts to communicate with them ended in failure. He tried Greek, then Latin…Aramaic…Hebrew. Nothing worked. If anything, they became even more resentful and malicious. Every morning they dragged the dead out by their feet. Every evening, they brought buckets of filthy water and tossed wormy bread into the cage, laughing as the prisoners fought over the meager rations. For Viktor, it evoked images of another time and place, a time of death camps and Nazis. With the stranger’s help, he managed to stay alive.
CHAPTER 24
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
It could have been days, or it could have been weeks, but it felt like months had passed before a Roman tribune stepped up to the cage, unrolled a scroll, and announced in halting Aramaic that the prisoners had been charged with treason against Rome. And by decree of the Roman prefect, all prisoners would be publicly flogged and crucified along the road to Megiddo as a warning to Hebrew Zealots that insurrection against Rome would not be tolerated. Most of the captives fell to their knees begging for mercy, weeping, beseeching their God for deliverance. Others just slouched against the wall, stunned and silent. Only one man stood defiant, spitting in the guards’ faces, calling them pigs. Declaring that he was proud to be a Hebrew patriot. Demanding that he have the honor of being the first to die. The Romans obliged him, immediately dragging him out. As they scuffled past, the defiant one, Viktor’s protector, reached out and grabbed a fistful of Viktor’s tattered robe.
“Be strong,” he hissed. “Remember my promise.” And he was gone.
That night, as the prisoners huddled together, united in their anguish, Viktor stood staring through the bars into the fire of the single torch that dimly illuminated the cell. Lost in the dancing flame, he contemplated the pain to come, glumly pondering the cosmic joke that had been played on him. He had come so far only to be treated so cruelly. He had survived attacks by Kalashnikovs and IEDs and RPGs, only to be dispatched by whip and hammer and nails. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so horrible. Compared to crucifixion, death by high explosives seemed downright humane.
Out of the corner of his eye, his mind barely registered the flickering trail of a second torch that floated through the main gate and moved directly toward the cage. As the light drew nearer, he could make out a small procession, a torchbearer, followed by two soldiers, followed by a massive centurion and a white-haired, florid-faced old man. The centurion and the old man stopped directly in front of the cage. Viktor watched them as if in a dream…detached, like a ghost observing the living. The centurion took the torch and held it before Viktor’s face, spoke in Greek.
“This is the one I was telling you about. Seems like he has been educated. I heard him speak in several languages. He claims to have been washed ashore down the coast. But the patrols I sent out have found no evidence of a shipwreck. He does not act like the rest of these worthless beggars. He is circumcised, but as you can see, he is not praying to that infernal God like the rest of them.”
The old man looked into Viktor’s unfocused eyes. Clapped his hands in front of Viktor’s face. “I do not know,” he said. “The boy looks like he has lost his spirit. What a shame. His eyes are like those of a statue. You say he speaks in several languages? At the present, he seems incapable of speech. What did these guards do to him? Boy, over here, look at me!”
Viktor slowly shifted his gaze.
“I am told me you have an education. I am looking for an educated man to work for me. Do you understand?”
Viktor didn’t respond. The old man seemed like part of the hallucination. Just another player in the cosmic joke.
“Tomorrow you will be whipped and nailed to a tree. You will die in a most horrific way. Do you understand? I offer you a way out. I offer you life. I need to know if you can do the work I have. If you have something to say, say it now. This may be your last chance. Talk to me. Please, son…talk to me.”
Something about the old man reached him. Viktor pulled himself out of his despair and he talked. He talked long and he talked eloquently.
“I think you will do,” the old man said. “But I warn you. You must do what I tell you. If you disobey me, even once, you will be whipped mercilessly. Mercilessly! And then you will be dragged back to this place to be slaughtered. I do not tolerate insolence and I do not tolerate indolence. Do you understand?”
The centurion nodded his head approvingly. Viktor nodded, too.
After paying the prison guards, in addition to a hefty gratuity for their tribune, the old man led his new possession from the cage, through the gate, up a steep dank corridor, and out into the courtyard where three servants waited. Bidding a warm farewell to the centurion, they headed off into the darkened streets of Caesarea. Once they were out of sight of the garrison, the old man removed the shackles from Viktor’s wrists and ankles.
“You have been sorely mistreated,” the old man said. “That is over. Thanks to my friend Lucilius Germanicus, you are now safe. You will not be harmed. My name is Septimus Salvo. If you behave, you will be treated fairly. Come along.”
Viktor soon found that he was treated better than he could ever have hoped for. He was given rest and nursed back to health. In the old man’s house he was insulated. He was protected. Still, he rankled at his newfound status. The old man owned him. Owned him! And it was his own doing. In that moment of weakness and confusion, he had made the choice. It was a bitter pill to swallow. For the others, those born into slavery, it wasn’t nearly so bad. They told him to be at ease. They told him to appreciate what he had. They told him that Septimus Salvo was a good man, not like the other Romans. They told him Father Septimus was a gift from the Gods.
CHAPTER 25
Present-Day Israel
By the time Robert Jankowski was recruited
by the Team, the scientists were already deeply committed to their plan. Huddled in an ultra-secure compound at the Technion-Israel Institute of Haifa, they had been refining their theories in complete secrecy for decades. Backed by the Israeli military, and funded through a classified black ops program, the Team had been given the resources and the mandate to pursue their prime objective. And they pursued it with a single-minded obsession, sometimes advancing cosmological understanding in giant strides, other times mired in impenetrable mathematical conundrums, but always on the extreme cutting edge of physics. Perpetually on the lookout for fresh perspectives, their confidential reports were released to a select few, luring both the theorist and the experimentalist. Augmenting their ranks over the years with only the best and the brightest, the Team represented some of the most brilliant minds on the planet.
Founded in 1956 by the celebrated mathematician Helmut Osterberg, what had begun as an informal association of like-minded academics had gradually evolved into the brightest think tank in the history of scientific exploration. Originally intended as an unofficial sounding board where scientists could speculate freely on the nature of the universe without fear of censure, the open atmosphere and interplay of brilliant minds had unexpectedly produced great leaps in the understanding of the cosmos, their early collaborations setting the stage for much of post-Einstein cosmological theory. As the new millennium approached, the Israeli government became increasingly interested in the practical applications of their research. Funding was increased dramatically, a restricted compound was constructed for their exclusive use, and most of the Team’s findings were declared classified by the Ministry of Defense.
The Emmanuel Project Page 7