Fire smoldered in several buildings surrounding the central plaza. Blood stained the dusty ground. Bodies lay in a tangled heap at the entrance to the synagogue. Carrion peeked over the low parapets, drawn by the scent of death. Women searched through the human wreckage, their wails of anguish punctuating the twilight stillness. Beside the well, a small child tugged futilely at a corpse, probably a brother or a father whom she couldn’t seem to wake up, who would never wake up.
Viktor watched as one old woman struggled to heft a bloody, disheveled form into a donkey cart. The dead weight was too much for her and she toppled to the ground with her beloved treasure. Helping the ancient one to her feet, Viktor grabbed handfuls of bloody clothing and managed to drag the body into the open end of the cart. It was a young man, hardly more than a boy. His face was a mess, his body badly abused. Much more violence had been visited upon the boy than what was required to kill. Someone had truly enjoyed his heartless labor.
“Thank you for your kindness,” the old woman whispered.
“Grandmother…what happened? Who did this?”
“I do not know…some soldiers…some soldiers on horses…I do not know.”
“Why did they do this?”
“What does it matter? It is all so senseless. I have had to bury so many of my people. I am so tired. I just want to lie down and die. But who would look after poor little Lemuel here? His father and mother are both gone. It is all so senseless. The poor child. He was so proud. Today he was to read from the sacred scrolls. He wore his best robe. And now…well look at him. Poor baby.”
Grasping the leather harness, she turned and shuffled away, the donkey shuffling along beside her, her precious cargo leaving a thin trail of blood in the dusty street. Viktor stood watching the cart weave between the lifeless forms that littered the plaza, astonished by how quickly the beautiful day had degenerated into horror. It wasn’t much different from the terrorist attacks of that other time—the way things could go from good to bad in an instant. It saddened and angered him, but he didn’t know the combatants and he didn’t know what had precipitated the bloodshed. And it wasn’t his fight. Besides, alone and unarmed, there was little he could do anyway. The stench of death hung over the village in a suffocating pall. His hunger forgotten, all he craved now was a breath of fresh air. Moving quickly past the carnage at the synagogue, he headed for the open spaces beyond the settlement.
“Hey there, friend, can you lend me some assistance over here?”
Viktor turned toward the voice to gaze upon the very embodiment of savagery, a monstrous towering figure matted in gore, a limp and bloody form tucked under one arm, another lifeless body slung over a shoulder. Hanging in the balance between fleeing for his life or facing the demon head on, Viktor did neither. It was beyond surreal. He stood rooted to the spot.
“Come on, friend, snap out of it,” the giant commanded. “Most everyone has fled into the mountain. These people need to be cleaned up and prepared for burial. I may be large, but even I have my limitations. There is much to do. Will you help me, or are you just going to stand there like an empty-headed ass?”
“Who are you?” Viktor stammered, still not sure whether he was looking upon a man or a monster.
“I am Tamir, son of Menashe the winemaker. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Shalom and peace be with you and all that other rubbish. Now are you going to help me or not?”
Viktor helped. It was heartbreaking labor, bringing to mind his service with the anti-terrorism squad and the recovery of countless innocent citizens slaughtered by suicide bombers. As the night wore on, several villagers emerged from the darkness to search for their loved ones, stepping out of the black void into the fitful light of torches that Tamir had set up around the plaza. As the first light of dawn touched the sky, Viktor rinsed the blood from his hands and fell exhausted against the wall of a burned-out house. Tamir collapsed beside him.
“Thanks for the help, friend. Our work is almost done. May you be repaid tenfold for the kindness you have shown here tonight. I, for one, will not forget it. Where is your home? If you do not mind me asking. Your manner of speech is not familiar to me. You look like a Jew, but you speak more like a Greek. You work like a slave, yet it is obvious that you are an educated man. You are not from around here, are you? If you do not mind me asking.”
“No,” Viktor replied. “I am not. I work on the wharves in Caesarea and was just passing through on my way to the Galilee.”
“Well, you sure picked a bad time to pass through. As did I. I was on my way to Besara to visit my uncle. A little earlier and I would have been in the thick of it. I came into town just as the cavalry rode off toward Megiddo. The dust had not yet settled.”
“What was the reason for this butchery?”
“Intolerance…ignorance…heartlessness…hate…inhumanity…the price of dates…the direction of the wind… What does it matter? It is all so senseless,” Tamir said, echoing the old woman’s words. “I knew many of these people. They were good people, hardworking people. Some were pious people. Some were my friends. Now they are gone. What good reason could there be? You are an educated man. You tell me.”
“I do not mean to be callous,” Viktor said. “I am truly sorry for what has happened here.”
“I know that. You treated these poor souls with respect. And you were surprisingly efficient…almost like you have done this before. I was watching you. Please forgive my sour temper. I am just tired. And I guess I saw this coming. It was only a matter of time. There has been friction for years between the Essenes and the townsfolk. We all worship the one true God, the God of Abraham. But we have a difference of opinion in how we go about it. The Essenes live apart. They inhabit the caves on the mountain. We live down here in the valley along a trade route. And we try our best to get along with the Romans and Egyptians and Syrians that pass through. Our attitudes are more…how shall I put it…more accommodating. So there has always been some tension between us.”
“Then the Essenes did this?”
“No, not them. They would never do such a thing. Many of them lie here alongside my friends. Our disputes regard the proper way to worship Yahweh. Our rabbi has been known to have some very heated disagreements with them, but there has never been any violence. Never. The rabbi is a righteous man…was a righteous man. He, too, lies over there with the others. He will be missed.”
“If not the Essenes, then who did this?”
“Herod’s cavalry did it, that’s who. Herod’s despicable, coldhearted cavalry.”
“Why?” Viktor asked.
Tamir’s sigh was long and melancholy. His fearsome size seemed to diminish as he spoke. “I was not here. But this is what I learned from some of the survivors. A group of Essenes came down from the mountain this morning to sell honey in the market. And for some reason—no one seems to know why—some of their young men got into a quarrel with some of our young men outside the synagogue. Nothing serious. Just a bunch of young hotheads who think they have all the answers. Unfortunately, it appears someone reported the disturbance to the authorities in Megiddo. Probably some foreigner passing through who did not understand the true nature of the dispute. Now, you must understand, Herod was never a great admirer of the mountain people and neither is his son. He has probably been waiting for an excuse. So his bloodthirsty cavalry came riding in with swords drawn and attacked the Essenes. Most of the townsfolk scattered into the countryside. But many of my neighbors closed ranks with the Essenes and were massacred where they stood. A group of old men and unarmed boys and monks against an army of murderers. It was over quickly. Those jackals love to kill. You saw what they did to these children. They are no different than the Romans…probably worse. Their answer to any dispute is violence and bloodshed. They despise us and we must be rid of them. All of them. Mark my words, my friend. If we do not purge this pestilence from our land, someday their kind will murder us all.”
CHAPTER 36
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Awakening in the peaceful vineyard, it was hard to believe that the horror of the previous evening wasn’t just a terrible nightmare. Viktor rose from his sleeping mat and gazed out across the fertile hills. The view was stunning. Nestled against a cleft in the northern slope of the mountain, Tamir’s father had fashioned a little slice of paradise. The vines were greening. The goats were fat and heavy with milk. Songbirds frolicked among the flowering pomegranates. In the bottomland beside a clear running stream, a field of winter wheat awaited the harvest. Like Yehuda with his orchards in Jericho, Menashe was another entrepreneur who had managed to thrive amidst the conflict and the oppression. His philosophy was a compelling blend of piety and pragmatism.
“First and foremost, you must honor and obey the Lord God,” he explained over a sumptuous afternoon meal. “All good springs from that. Do that and you will be blessed with good fortune. Be attentive to your family, respect your friends, treat your customers fairly, and always mind your own business.” Speaking to Viktor, while looking directly at his son, he set down his spoon and shook an accusing finger in the air above his head. “Do not be consumed with hate like the Zealots. Be tolerant. Get along with people…all people. You do not have to like them. You are one of God’s chosen people, be generous with your tolerance. It costs you nothing. And do not try to change that which you cannot change. Have faith in the will of the Almighty. His will be done. In adversity, bend like the willow in a storm. The unyielding will be broken and scattered before the wind. Those who fight losing battles will end up in failure. And those who fight endless battles will live in misery. I have tried to instill these things in my children. For some it was easy to understand. For others…not so easy. Tamir here was not such a quick study. He was a headstrong boy. And he has become a headstrong man. But he has learned to control his temper. Of that, I am happy.”
Tamir had nothing to add to his father’s discourse. The cords standing out on his neck indicated he was much too busy controlling his temper to respond.
That evening, as a cool breeze cascaded down the north slope of Mount Carmel, Viktor joined Tamir in one of the wooden outbuildings on Menashe’s property. Using a hand-carved block and tackle, he wrestled a hefty, rough-hewn beam into place while Tamir deftly secured it to the support posts. A few swings with his maul were enough to drive the hardwood pegs deep into the structure. Then wrapping an arm around the beam, the huge man hoisted himself up into the rafters to test the strength of his repair. Satisfied, he swung his legs and dropped down beside Viktor, sticking the landing like an Olympic gymnast.
“There, that will hold it. Thanks, my friend. I have been meaning to fix this roof for months. A few planks on top and it will ready for the grapes. Once again, I am grateful for your help.” Tamir indicated the floor of the building where a series of pits had been chiseled into the exposed bedrock. “This is our oldest wine press. It was already here when my people first settled this land. Probably been here for ages. My father claims it produces the best wine.” Gathering up his tools, Tamir placed them in a bucket and turned back to his companion. “Viktor, please excuse my father. He has a bit of the rabbi in him, and he sees all young people as children in need of instruction. He has had a good life and believes he is safe in Yahweh’s bosom. He is a good man. I love him. But he is wrong. Piety and good intentions will not save us. Maybe in the old days, but not today, not anymore. The Romans and their puppets treat us like we are less than human. How can you deal with someone who does not even see you as a man? My father says be tolerant. Well, I am finished with being tolerant. We must rid ourselves of this pestilence or it will destroy us. We must do it now.”
“How?” Viktor asked. “They are too strong…too ruthless. You saw what they did yesterday.”
Tamir’s face burned hot with the memory. “Yes, I saw it,” he spat. “And that is the final straw for me, my friend. All those innocent boys butchered like that. It is pure evil. Those jackals do not respect God. They do not obey the Law. They do not value human life. We are little more than goats to them. Be tolerant, he says? How can we tolerate such treatment? Why should we tolerate such treatment? They slaughter us for sport. It has got to end. If I have to tolerate another day like yesterday, I will surely go mad. I have got to do something. I know some men in the valley who have armed themselves and vow to wage war on those jackals. I am going to join them. I shall leave tomorrow for their camp. Come with me, Viktor. They need every man they can get. Help us save Israel.”
CHAPTER 37
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Throughout the long night, Tamir’s words raged through his mind. Help us save Israel. In that other time, Viktor had taken a blood oath to protect his people and his homeland. He had dedicated his whole life to that purpose. Though he had become disillusioned with the perfidious intrigues of the Mossad, that vow still beat fresh in his heart, awakened by the plight of these ancient people…his people. Could he just go about his business while they were being so badly abused? He had to do something. But what could he do? He was just a man. He couldn’t really change anything. He knew that now. And though part of him cried out for vengeance, the objective part of his mind recognized that acting on that impulse would be nothing more than indulging his own pride. What was to be, would be. The revolt, the destruction of the Temple, the slaughter, the diaspora, the pogroms, the Holocaust—nothing he could do would stop any of it. He hated the helplessness. And he hated the knowing. And he slept little.
Early the next morning, he set off, his new cloak rippling in the fresh breeze, his new sandals soft and supple on his feet. They were gifts from Menashe, the old man refusing to let Viktor leave his home in the bloodstained clothing. During breakfast, Tamir had nothing to say, watching quietly as Viktor prepared to resume his journey. Accompanying him to the edge of his father’s property, Tamir embraced Viktor warmly.
“Shalom, my friend,” he said. “We will meet again. I feel it. We are fashioned from the same clay, you and I. Someday we will stand together. I dreamed it last night. You and I, together.”
Back on the road, Viktor quickened his pace. He had the nagging feeling that time was running out, that events were escalating. Crossing the west end of the valley, he left Samaria behind and entered the hills of Galilee. Bypassing Nazareth and Cana, he reached the Sea of Galilee at Magdala and followed the shoreline north, arriving in Capernaum on the afternoon of the twelfth day of his journey. Tired though he was, he headed straight for the market. It was a bustling town, the people full of energy and gossip, a world apart from the despair of poor Gabae. Everywhere he went, townsfolk knew the rabbi Yeshua. Some were excited, some were mystified, and more than a few seemed indignant. But mostly, they were a friendly village, happy to share what they knew. As the hour grew late and the streets emptied out, the rigors of his travels caught up with him and Viktor flopped down on the beach. The sand was luxuriously soft and warm beneath him, the breeze fresh, and his mind drifted comfortably on the rolling swells. Leaning back against the pilings of a rickety pier, legs splayed, shoulders drooping, he languidly watched the sky over the inland sea fade from aqua to azure to indigo. He knew he had to get moving before dark, when doors would be barred and visitors unwelcomed. Still, his body refused to cooperate. Tired and hungry, he sat contemplating his dwindling options when a passing fisherman took pity on him.
“Shalom, brother,” the fisherman said. “Have you nowhere to go? You look like you are in need of a meal and a warm place to sleep. And the Master told us, ‘What you do for the least of my brothers and sisters, you do for me.’ Do not feel ashamed. Come along with me to my home. There you will find some comfort and peace.”
“I am not a beggar,” Viktor said. “I can pay you.”
“Put away your coin purse, my brother. I have been blessed with a good catch this year. And the Master says it is our responsibility to share our blessings…to care for each other. Do not be afraid. Come along now. It is getting dark. Follow me.”
Viktor
gathered himself up and followed. The fisherman’s house was small but well kept, and the fish and lentil stew was hearty. Later that night as the children slumbered on their cots and the fisherman and his wife arranged a pallet for him to sleep, Viktor asked him if he knew of the rabbi Yeshua.
“I surely do,” the fisherman replied. “I have heard the Master preach countless times. He is a great rabbi. Sometimes he stays right here in Capernaum at Simon’s house. Simon is a good friend of mine. We used to fish together. The Master calls him Peter now. He and his brother Andrew are both followers of the rabbi. Zebedee’s sons James and John joined the Master, too. We lost four good fishermen to the rabbi. And I will tell you this…old man Zebedee was not happy about it.” The fisherman paused, staring unfocused at the hard-packed dirt floor. “At first I did not understand it, either. But after listening to the Master’s words, and feeling the power of his faith, and seeing him heal those unfortunates…well…if I did not have all these responsibilities, I would probably be following the Master around the countryside myself.”
“Is Yeshua in Capernaum right now?”
“No, I do not think so. Simon told me they were heading downriver toward Jericho. He said the Master wanted to be in Jerusalem for the Feast of Passover.”
“When is Passover?”
A cool wariness sharpened the fisherman’s gaze. “Are you not a Jew?”
“Yes, I am, but I have been traveling afar and have lost all track of time.”
The Emmanuel Project Page 11