The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  THE EMMANUEL

  PROJECT

  In Search of the Nazarene

  A Novel

  Ronald Brueckmann

  © 2019 Ronald Brueckmann

  The Emmanuel Project

  In Search of the Nazarene

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Elm Hill, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Elm Hill and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Elm Hill titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019937384

  ISBN 978-1-400325405 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-400325412 (eBook)

  Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.

  For Dolly

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  THE EMMANUEL PROJECT

  In Search of the Nazarene

  CHAPTER 1

  Present-Day Israel

  An old melody kept running through Robert’s head, a song from his youth, taking him back to a hot summer long past. Rousing memories of blistering city sidewalks and feverishly impassioned nights, of concerts in Central Park and sweltering NYU lecture halls, of falling in and out of love. Recollections rendered, not sharp edged and unyielding, but soft and muffled like the atmospheric veil of a Joseph Turner landscape. He could still recall a few snatches of the song’s lyrics, delivered in syncopated counterpoint to a sinuous rhythmic groove. Something about time waiting for no one, and hours being precious as diamonds, and streams flowing past…or was it water under the bridge…or water over the dam? It really didn’t matter. It was just the same old clichés about time, romantic words that fall so profoundly upon the ears of a passionate young man. With the world at his feet, time had seemed like a boundless commodity back then, something to waste. Now he knew better. He knew what time could do to a man. And even though he had spent his life wisely, had spent it productively, in the end time had become his master. Time was greedy and unforgiving. Time was the enemy.

  CHAPTER 2

  Present-Day Israel

  Dr. Robert Jankowski slowly packed his belongings. A stack of boxes already obscured one wall of the office and his task was far from complete. He hadn’t realized just how much stuff a person could accumulate in the course of a twenty-five year tenure—piles of publications, bundles of books, mounds of manuscripts. In the adjoining conservation lab, a set of unassuming metal cabinets held a veritable treasure trove of awards and accolades and honors, the product of a long and successful academic career. Though he mostly viewed such self-serving trinkets with a cynical eye, he was proud of his many accomplishments. And now that it was over, he realized just how much he was going to miss his work. The University had been good to him, had given him a rich life. But it was time to let go. Anyway, he really had no choice in the matter. The Board of Regents had made that brutally clear. And Janka had already set up a small apartment for him, down the street from her home in Tel Aviv, not far from the beach. It wasn’t so bad. He got along well with his son-in-law, and the grandchildren were a never-ending source of revelation. He had missed too much of Janka and Viktor’s childhood. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. It was his biggest regret. Well…one of his biggest regrets. Yes, it was time to go. He no longer was the man he once was, that unwavering, indefatigable champion of antiquities. A lifetime of wresting history from the ground had worn him out. Strangely, he hadn’t really noticed it until he stopped. And now he seemed to feel every slip, strain, stumble, and tumble of the past three decades. It should have been easy to say good-bye. And it would have been easy, if only things had turned out differently. If only he knew what had become of Viktor…his brave, unselfish Viktor.

  Again last night he had had the dream. Viktor in a towering canyon, standing with a ragtag army of peasants and shepherds and holy men, surrounded by a sea of Romans in full battle armor. Spears and arrows raining down…the pitiless Roman war machine advancing like a giant scythe, cutting them down like wheat…the dusty ground awash in Hebrew blood. Viktor out there somewhere on the killing field…searching frantically, shouting his name…the blood…the broken bodies…the agonizing scream. The dream was always the same. And Robert always awoke with the anguished cry still reverberating in the stillness of his bedroom. Then hours of sleeplessness pondering what might have been.

  He had promised the chancellor to have his office cleared out by the end of the week, and here it was already Friday. He had put it off as long as he could. And now, as an evening hush fell over the Institute of Archeology, the professor had finally completed his task. Scanning the room, he fel
t an empty space inside of him, not unlike the barren shelves that surrounded him. But it wasn’t as bad as he had expected. Not so bad at all…except for that one thing that had dogged him for so many years. Maybe it was time to let that go, too. If only he could.

  Just one more item remained. Above the credenza, a simple and somewhat heavy-handed needlepoint verse in a rough-hewn frame adorned the wall. Though puckered and faded, it still managed to brighten the institutional beige-colored cinder block. The professor lifted it off the hook and gently placed it into his briefcase. His eyes lingered on the bold golden script set against a field of white and blue, the hallowed words proclaiming:

  Behold! A virgin shall conceive and shall bring forth a son,

  and they shall call his name Emmanuel, God is with us.

  ISAIAH 7:14 – MATTHEW 1:23

  CHAPTER 3

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Viktor sat on the portico of the upper market as the sun settled low in the sky over the bustling city of Sepphoris. His back ached from his headlong tumble into the wadi. His legs were scratched, his face bruised. A scalp wound still oozed blood. The young slave girl Anthea fussed over his injuries, bravely assuming responsibilities well beyond her years. He barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the little village at the bottom of the hill. Not four miles away, it might just as well have been on the dark side of the moon.

  “Hold still, foolish man,” the girl scolded. Impatiently grasping Viktor’s ears, she pulled his head down so she could inspect for additional damage. Then placing a slender yet firm hand under Viktor’s chin, she tilted his face toward the fading light and peered into an eye that was nearly swollen shut. “Just look at you,” she sighed. “What is the master going to say?”

  Viktor had lost both sandals. The twins were out somewhere in the labyrinth of the lower market, purchasing him a new pair. His bare feet rested on the crushed limestone of the roadway. His good eye followed the orderly paved boulevard, past the huge Roman-style theater and the elegant villas of the civil servants, past the public baths and the massive armory, until the road turned into a narrow dusty track at the edge of town. From there the rutted course curved down the hillside, disappearing into the deepening shadows cast by an orchard of pomegranate and apricot and fig. Down there, nestled beside an olive grove, lay Nazareth.

  The trip had not turned out as Viktor had hoped. He wanted to make another attempt, but he was out of time. The master awaited his return back in Caesarea. It would be disastrous to delay and lose the master’s trust. A trust he had worked so hard to gain. Septimus Salvo was a fair man, but not the kind of man who tolerated disobedience. And Viktor had too much to lose. He would have to move out at first light. Still, the little village at the bottom of the hill beckoned. It was so close. He didn’t know when he would get the opportunity to return…if ever. Hebrew rebels were stirring up trouble throughout the Galilee and Judea. The roads were becoming increasingly dangerous, especially for a Roman caravaneer. No, this trip had not turned out the way he had hoped.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Lamps were being lit throughout the town as Viktor watered his donkeys in the courtyard of the caravanserai. Located below the town in a hollow beside the road to Nain, the roadhouse wasn’t exactly a place of luxury. Still, it served its purpose. The bedding was relatively free of vermin, water and feed were reasonably priced, and under the protection of the provincial garrison the property was safe from bandits. As Anthea cooked their evening meal at the communal firepit, bickering constantly with her two brothers, Viktor climbed onto the roof of the stable and stared up into the night sky. It was something he did quite often. Alone under the sparkling dome of stars, it helped him remember who he was…and why he was there.

  In the darkness the city of Sepphoris did indeed resemble a gleaming jewel perched atop the hill, Herod’s precious ornament. A Hellenized provincial capital set smack in the middle of rural backwater Galilee, complete with paved roads, a theater, a hippodrome, sumptuous villas, and several freshwater aqueducts, it was Herod’s attempt to outdo the Romans. Two busy marketplaces provided a wide variety of goods for the prosperous town and the surrounding countryside. It presented an ideal venue for peddling the spices, dyes, and perfumes that currently filled the master’s warehouse in Caesarea. But while Septimus recognized the financial benefits of sending a trading mission to the city, Viktor envisioned something else entirely.

  When he learned of Septimus’s plan to send a caravan to Sepphoris, Viktor had immediately begun petitioning for the job. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, a chance to see what life was like in the outlying provinces. In Caesarea he heard more talk about what was happening in Rome and Gaul than what was going on in Palestine. But he also had an ulterior motive. Just a few miles from Sepphoris lay a little village called Nazareth. And it was there that Viktor hoped to find what he was seeking.

  He needed to play his cards right if he was to achieve his objective. There could be no chaperones or guards accompanying him, nothing that would draw attention to him in the close- knit rural village. Somehow he had to convince Septimus that he could handle the assignment by himself. It was a hard sell. The old man wasn’t convinced that sending him into the Galilee alone was such a good idea. Septimus Salvo knew Palaestina well. It was a turbulent place. Aside from the physical hazards—and there were many—a young man could easily be distracted, or diverted, or even abducted and converted. He had seen it happen. There was all manner of political and spiritual activism. There were fanatics and zealots and extremists. There were holy men and priests and mystics and prophets without end. And most peculiar of all, the majority of the native population, even learned men, believed that there was just one God. A single God! Incomprehensible! And a God that they couldn’t even call by name! It surely was a strange place, sometimes a dangerous place. And Septimus fretted over the well-being of everyone in his household, especially the mysterious young man named Viktor.

  Calling on his personal friend, a high-ranking military officer, Septimus learned that the 10th Legion had increased patrols along the major trade routes in preparation for a visiting delegation of Roman dignitaries. The centurion reported that the rebels and highwaymen had melted into the countryside and the roads were quiet. Furthermore, he expressed doubt that bandits would risk torture and death to raid such a small, insignificant caravan as his. So with his mind set at ease, and the centurion’s personal assurance of the caravan’s safety, Septimus had granted Viktor’s request…with one stipulation. “The children need to further their education in the business,” he declared. “Take them along with you. Teach them.” The master had ruled. The matter was settled. The arrangement wasn’t perfect, but Viktor had no recourse.

  The journey to Sepphoris was slow and dusty and uneventful. Arriving at the upper market in the early morning, Viktor first checked in with the bazaar manager before unloading the donkeys and setting up his assigned stall. After carefully displaying the goods to their best advantage, he and the children settled in for a brisk day of trading. As the sun rose, the market came to life around them, the crowded aisles buzzing with a vibrant blend of Latin and Greek and Aramaic. As usual, Septimus’s business instincts proved flawless. By midafternoon, most of the goods had been sold. With things going so well, Viktor felt confident enough to let the slave girl and her twin brothers Farris and Cenon handle the remaining transactions. Like so many other things, Anthea was a natural at trading. Fearless and shrewd, not even the most tenacious haggler managed to take advantage of her. Leaving the children in charge, he set off down the hill.

  After two long years, Viktor was finally going to finish what he had started nearly two millennia before. He should have been pleased. But as he walked the dusty road, a dark pall settled over him, that recurring feeling of isolation, of alienation, of existing outside the natural order of things. He pushed it from his mind, and by the time he reached the outer edge of the village his gloom
had evaporated in the bright sunshine. Nazareth…it couldn’t have been more different from Sepphoris or Caesarea. It was gritty and chaotic and a bit run-down. And it was wonderful. This was his heritage. These were his people. His heart raced as he stepped through the narrow streets. He had finally reached the end of his journey. It felt right.

  But then things quickly went wrong. Maybe it was his clumsy accent, or his Roman-style clothing. Maybe it was his lack of cultural finesse. Whatever the reason, none of the women at the communal well would speak to him. The men glared at him with hostile suspicion. Before long he was being hustled out of town. When he protested, he was struck on the head with a staff and tossed off the road into a boulder-strewn ravine. As he groggily regained his feet, several well-aimed stones pelted him for good measure. It was clear that his life was in danger if he continued, so he turned his back on Nazareth and trudged back up the long slope to Sepphoris. It was disheartening, but Viktor realized that what had transpired was his own doing. He had allowed his excitement to get the better of him. He had forgotten how much of an outsider he truly was. In Caesarea he was able to hide his strangeness. In that exotic mix of people from every far-flung corner of the empire, it was easy to blend in. But out in the provinces, an intruder dressed in despised Roman garb, asking rudely inappropriate questions in oddly accented Aramaic, he surely must have seemed like trouble. The close-knit community wanted nothing to do with him. They had closed ranks and sent him packing. He couldn’t blame them. He had totally bungled it. Tomorrow, at first light, the caravan would be heading west. Down the long dusty road through Nain and Megiddo and back across the empty Plain of Sharon, back to Caesarea, back to the heart of Roman rule and culture. Far from where he wanted to be.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  The weather was mild, the donkeys were in good temper, and the traveling was easy. The road to Nain was empty and the little caravan made excellent time. At a well on the northern edge of the Jezreel Valley, Viktor stopped to water the livestock, adjusting their loads while Anthea and her brothers prepared the afternoon meal. The popular watering hole was unusually quiet. Two Hebrew merchants who had occupied the site hurriedly moved on as Victor’s small pack train approached, and they had the oasis to themselves. After eating, Cenon and Farris laid mats in the welcome shade of a majestic cedar and they rested. But the solitude just didn’t feel right, and with the sun still riding high in the sky Viktor decided to push on to Megiddo.