“See? He admits it himself… Stone him… Stone him. Stone him! Stone him!” The crowd once again took up the savage chant.
This time it was Lucilius who silenced the crowd. “Shut up, you fools!” he roared. “You want revenge on those responsible? Stone those priests who hide in their golden temple in Jerusalem and manipulate you ignorant peasants like puppets. Stone those rich, self-righteous Pharisees who seek only to promote themselves. Stone your Hebrew kings who covet power and cultivate depravity. Stone those misguided Zealots who chose to pardon a murderer instead of your holy man. They are the ones who wanted to silence your rabbi, not I. They are the ones who conspired to kill him, not I. They used me to further their evil ambitions. I was the dagger in their bloody hands. And I will not be used for such purposes again. Nor will I be abused by the likes of you.” Lucilius took several quick steps toward one of the loudest mouths in the crowd, grasped him by the shoulders, shook him violently, and shouted in his face, “Where were you when your rabbi was condemned? Where was your tongue when the rabble set that cutthroat free? Where were you when that righteous man died on that tree? You coward. You sicken me. All you people knew who he was. And you did nothing. Why did you not fight for him? You all hid like frightened sheep. My mind was clouded by ignorance. He was just another condemned man to me. Another dreamer caught in the web of Judean politics. I have seen many. But you people knew who he was, and you did nothing. Nothing! DAMN YOU ALL! You are as complicit in his death as I am. Shame on us all.” Lucilius stormed through the crowd, jabbing a pointed finger in each villager’s face, man and woman alike. “You and you and you!” he roared. “You did nothing. Do not lay this at my feet. We all allowed this to happen. We are all guilty of this terrible crime. Everlasting shame on us all.”
Rocked back on their heels by the force of the Roman’s accusations, the crowd lowered their eyes, looked to the ground, unwilling to meet his furious gaze or the guilty faces of each other. Within minutes they had retreated in shamed silence. Lucilius Germanicus stood alone. Zebedee stepped forward.
“Why have you come here, Roman?”
“I have come to speak with that young man. I have come to inform him that his benefactor Septimus Salvo has died.”
“What business is this of yours?”
“Septimus was my friend. At his deathbed, I promised to find the boy.”
“Come inside and we shall talk.”
CHAPTER 77
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
“You were unwise to come here. The town is overflowing with people. Many were followers of the rabbi. If they discover that you presided over the execution, you will not be safe. Those people out there listened to reason. Next time, you may not be so lucky.”
Lucilius didn’t answer. He looked past the old man to where Viktor sullenly gathered up the mended net.
“Why are you dressed in this fashion?” Zebedee continued. “You say you are a soldier. Where is your uniform? Where are your weapons? Are you a spy?”
“A spy? That is most amusing. As if I could fit in unnoticed among your people. Pilate would love that. He is convinced that the Galilee is rife with insurrectionists. He sent me here to determine whether the province has been sufficiently pacified. The fool orders a senior commander to sneak around like a thief in the night. It is offensive. I would never stoop to that level. That is what Herod’s minions are for. That is what the Temple guards are for. They are more than willing to betray their own people for a piece of silver.”
“Then why are you here, dressed as you are?”
“I have come to your home as a man, not as a soldier. I wanted to speak to the boy and did not want to attract undo attention to myself.”
“Well, you certainly were not successful. By now, half the village knows who you are. And I am afraid you are wasting your time. Viktor has already been informed of his father’s death. His betrothed arrived yesterday with the sad news.”
Ignoring the fisherman, Lucilius stepped up to the workbench, addressing the young man directly. “Viktor, I am sorry that Septimus Salvo has died. I will miss him greatly. You and I are vastly different people. But we share one commonality. I believe we both loved that man. I come to you not as a soldier of Rome, but as a man who shares your grief. And I want you to know how much Septimus loved you. In those last painful hours, you were all he spoke of. In the beginning, I despised you for it. I could not fathom why he was so obsessed with a slave…with a Jew. Now I understand. My eyes have been opened. My friend had so much love for you. He feared for your future more than he feared death itself, as a father does for his child. I wanted you to know that. That is a gift of priceless value.”
Viktor could find no words to respond.
“There is more,” Lucilius continued. “When Septimus realized his time was short, in Roman tradition, he filed two decrees with the civil authorities in Caesarea. First, he legally adopted you in absentia. You are no longer a slave. Your name now is Viktor Salvo. Septimus was a good man. You know that. Although you are a Jew, I trust you will bear his name proudly. And per the dictates of Lex Falcidia de Legatis and Roman inheritance law, Septimus Salvo bequeathed all his holdings in Palaestina to you. Everything…the properties, the businesses, all his personal possessions, even the slaves. You are now a wealthy man, Viktor Salvo. My dear friend had much faith in you. I hope you are worthy.”
Viktor sat stunned. Somehow, Septimus’s generosity brought him no joy. It only served to deepen his pain.
Zebedee filled the awkward silence. “So what will you report to the governor? It is plain to see that this town has no love for the Romans. We would be happy to see you all pack up and go back to your homeland. But we are not Zealots. Those people who accosted you are hurt and grieving for their rabbi. They hold you personally responsible for his death. They want revenge on you. They are not insurrectionists. That is how I see things. I know you surely see things through different eyes. What will you tell Pilate?”
“I will tell him nothing. I have resigned from the Roman Legion.”
Viktor found it difficult to digest it all—Eliana’s unexpected arrival, Septimus’s death, his adoption and extraordinary inheritance, the growing mystery of Capernaum. In a matter of days his entire world had been turned upside down once again. And now this Roman. Eliana had cautioned him that the centurion was not who he appeared to be. Septimus had thought very highly of the man. He must have had good reason. Viktor was compelled to look upon the centurion in a whole new light. But he remained wary. “Are you allowed to do that?”
“I am not a conscript. I am an officer and a citizen of Rome. I fulfilled my obligation to the Roman army decades ago. We are not currently in a state of war here in Palaestina. I am free to resign as I see fit.”
“But why?”
“As I said before, my eyes have been opened. Opened by an innocent man dying on a cross. The rabbi from this very town. I have laid down my sword. I will fight no longer. The gods have led me to this place. Of that I am sure. I need to find out why they brought me to this provincial backwater.”
“What do you mean…the gods have led you here?”
“I have had a recurring dream of this place. I thought it might be here in the Galilee. Now I am sure. Everything seems familiar. I have traveled the world. I have been places and seen things that most men can only dream of. And now the fates have brought me here. It may sound strange, but I feel like I have returned home.”
Viktor could hardly believe his ears.
Lucilius noted his reaction. “I realize it must sound like I have gone mad. I was beginning to wonder myself, until I arrived here in Capernaum. Then everything seemed to fall into place. The gods have summoned me to this town. I know it. I can see by the look on your faces that you think I have lost my mind. Maybe I have. I know not what the gods intend. But I speak the truth.”
“Lucilius…” For very the first time, Viktor spoke the Roman’s name. “You are not alone. Capernaum is full of visitors who have to
ld me the very same story. They say they have had dreams of this place. And they feel they were summoned here for some reason. Something important. When did you start having the dreams?”
“I cannot say for sure. It began some time after I witnessed the execution of your rabbi. At first I thought he had bewitched me. Now…it is difficult to put into words…but I believe he saved me…saved me from a pointless and empty existence. Today I feel that my life has a purpose. Ironically, I still need to identify what that purpose is, but I know it is here and I know it has something to do with that rabbi. I did not even know who he was. Now I have learned his name. Yeshua. The centurion who commands the garrison here told me all about him. He told me how Yeshua healed his dying servant. How Yeshua was a great teacher, a holy man. A man touched by the gods. And damn our selfish, malicious ways, we destroyed him.”
CHAPTER 78
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The village of Capernaum was swarming with visitors. They packed every room at the inn and crowded the spacious caravanserai that straddled the main road north of town. They camped on the hillsides and on the beach. They slept in fishing boats. Some—too destitute or too aged to make it on their own—were taken in by kindhearted villagers. Every day more people showed up, sometimes alone and sometimes in large groups. They wandered into town and tried to figure out what was going on, tried to figure out why they were there. They had many questions and few resources, and most of them shared a common bond, the perception that they had been summoned to this lively village beside the inland sea. But the reason for their sojourn remained a mystery, even onto themselves.
The little town was unable to support the visiting throng and food supplies quickly dwindled. Many people shared what they had. And those with the means purchased provisions from the rich caravans that traveled south out of Syria. The synagogue pitched in by collecting donations and townsfolk organized communal meals. As word of the spontaneous gathering spread across the breadth of the Galilee, farmers sent a portion of their harvest to help feed the hungry. No one went to sleep with an empty belly. And no one was alone.
The atmosphere was neither festive nor was it somber. They were a people drawn together in anticipation, drawn together in hope. To some it felt like the dawn of a new age. To others it seemed like the passing of the old order. To the youngsters it was a grand adventure. A perceptive few could sense something spiritual in the air. Most didn’t know what to think. They had followed their hearts and now they waited. While villagers like Zebedee went about their daily routines, the visitors spent the days telling stories and breaking bread. Some argued nuances of the Law. Some rekindled old friendships. Some extinguished old disputes. They danced and they sang and they gossiped and they courted and they prayed. And they waited.
The rabbi’s chosen ones kept a low profile. They, too, didn’t understand what had compelled all the strangers to converge on Capernaum. After the horrific events in Jerusalem, they had returned to the heart of their Master’s ministry to heal and regroup. Most afternoons they would gather around a firepit and share their experiences, recounting the lessons they had learned at the elbow of their Master. Every evening they stacked driftwood and huddled in the comforting warmth of a bonfire. Every night they drifted off to sleep with visions of a new kingdom, the one their Master had promised them. And every morning they awoke to a new day, a day not unlike the previous day or the day before that. They longed for the comforting voice of their rabbi. They longed to hear his words. They missed him so.
By the time the second Shabbat arrived, the inbound flood of humanity had slowed to a trickle and the latecomers found a substantially different atmosphere. Food was in short supply, and the patience of the townspeople was wearing thin. Quarrels over petty matters arose. Feathers were ruffled, grievances were aired. As the excitement of the mysterious rendezvous faded, many disappointed travelers began to prepare for a homebound journey. They had responsibilities to shoulder and families to support. They had unhappy masters and slighted customers and straying flocks and neglected fields to attend to. They had followed their hearts and now had to get back to their lives. Their dreams were not strong enough to sustain them. The slaves and the servants were the first to depart. The priests and soldiers followed. Soon the road echoed with the tramp of disillusioned pilgrims.
By the end of the third week, the visitors were leaving in droves. They had expected something to happen, something important, but nothing had. With an emptiness in their hearts where the hope had dwelled, they packed up their scant belongings, bade their farewells, and took to the road, aiming to make it home before the next Shabbat. They returned to their villages feeling foolish for impulsively following the capricious dictates of a dream. What they hoped was divine guidance now seemed to be nothing more than a case of wishful thinking, a break in the tedium of their endless numbered days. By the fourth Shabbat only a trace of the gathering remained. Only the truly faithful managed to keep their dream alive.
CHAPTER 79
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The morning sky gradually brightened from black to grey as Viktor walked along the deserted beach, savoring the last bites of his breakfast. Still warm from the oven, the pita bread smelled wonderful, tasted wonderful. The rumbling in his stomach urged him to go back for more. But with supplies nearly exhausted, and many still depending on the communal kitchens, he pushed it from his mind. Rounding the shelter of a low promontory, the wind gusted, whipping his threadbare cloak against his legs and wetting his face with a spate of rainwater. He should have been cold and miserable. But he wasn’t.
Climbing a slippery embankment, Viktor perched himself on the lip of a rocky ledge and gazed out across the lake, watching the fishing boats as they worked the turbulent waters, their sails luminous against the lowering sky. Surely Zebedee was out there somewhere, casting his nets, doing what he loved best. Viktor still admired the man, bore him no ill feelings. The old fisherman was a man of action. He didn’t understand what was happening in Capernaum. He tried, but it wasn’t something he could put his hands on, so he had turned away. He was not like his sons.
Though Zebedee had never uttered a word of dissatisfaction, Viktor sensed his welcome had grown cold. Cold like the wind that now whipped his long dripping hair. Cold like the raindrops that wet his face and streamed down his untrimmed beard. Eliana’s uncle Gamal was pretty much of the same opinion. He, too, considered the pilgrims to be nothing more than vagabonds. So Viktor now slept on the beach and took occasional rations at one of the communal firepits. He was no longer welcome at the synagogue. It seemed his bedraggled appearance had become objectionable to the townsfolk. He suspected there were other reasons for their rejection. It didn’t matter. He no longer cared what they thought of him. Many of the remaining visitors were experiencing the same frosty treatment.
“This town has many poor and sick and lame to care for,” the elders told them. “It is our responsibility to do what we can for them. But even a charitable village such as ours has its limits. You cannot squeeze blood from a turnip. Healthy young men and women should not be living as beggars. Piety is not justification for idleness. And slothfulness is not a virtue. Go back to your homes and be productive.”
The elders were right. In that other life, Viktor would have been mortified by such criticism. Still, their sharp words just rolled off his back like the cold rain. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. He knew that now. The intervening months had passed like a lifetime. It seemed the more he lost in worldly comfort, the more he gained in the metaphysical realm. Between conversations with the chosen ones and sermons by the enthusiastic young rabbi who attended to the encampments, his spirituality was soaring. He had never felt so close to Yahweh. And it was good. Eliana was safe in her uncle’s home and Lucilius still had a place to stay at the Roman garrison. And Viktor now dwelled wherever the Almighty led him. What people thought of him was inconsequential.
He and Lucilius had spent many days with
the rabbi’s chosen ones. Despite his role in their Master’s death, they had accepted the Roman. More than accepted, they had embraced him, had taken to calling him Lavi. That was going to take Viktor some time getting used to. In Hebrew, it meant lion. Lucilius appeared to be pleased with the new name. It helped him shed the skin of his previous life. He seemed like a different man, a good and honorable man, just as Eliana had said he was.
The rabbi’s followers had touched Viktor in ways he never thought possible. Their energy was irresistible, their joy contagious. He marveled at the profoundly incongruous mixture of loss and triumph they expressed over the tragic death of their Master. And their unshakeable confidence in the truth and power of his teachings. And those tantalizing hints of something even greater. Viktor knew the legend. In that other life, he had read the Christian testament. His own faith staunchly rejected those claims. But something was happening here. He could sense it in the air. He felt he was on the brink of something. Something that transcended all his responsibilities and his newfound wealth. Yahweh was so close. Viktor could feel his breath in the evening breeze, hear his voice in the song of the woodlark, see his face in the incandescent sunrise. Even in the chilly shower of the blustery morning, he could feel the Almighty’s presence. And it was good.
The wind had subsided. The waters had calmed. Yet with each passing minute, the dawn seemed to retreat rather than advance, and the day grew ever darker. Wrapping his dripping cloak tight around him, Viktor hugged his knees against his chest and stared out across the misty lake. There was peace in the quiet solitude of the rainy morning. Only the insistent rumbling of his stomach managed to intrude into his meditations. Lost in his thoughts, the tranquility of the morning was shattered as two figures appeared below, hurrying along the strand at the base of the embankment. The man in the lead sprinted easily over the beach, while the larger of the two thundered noisily behind, his feet pounding deep craters into the wet sand.
The Emmanuel Project Page 27