Septimus was a demanding patriarch, following a strict code of ethics, and insisted that all his people do likewise. He ruled the household with a firm yet affectionate hand. As he grew older, he became ever more indulgent of the children, more lenient with the laborers. This was not a common practice among his contemporaries. Most Romans considered him foolish and weak to lavish kindness on ignorant beasts. In such a brutal land, a little compassion went a long way. Viktor was amazed to find that most of his slaves actually loved the old man. If they didn’t love him, they respected him. And everyone felt indebted to him. In a time and place where life was cheap, Septimus Salvo was a liberator and a protector. Most of his slaves would have willingly laid down their lives for him. How do you judge a man like that? Was he a bad man? Viktor was not so sure anymore. The carefully constructed principles of his past life no longer seemed to apply.
CHAPTER 13
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Viktor constantly had to remind himself that he was not in the twenty-first century anymore, and he could not judge things by twenty-first-century standards. He was living in a much different world. Two thousand years of human experience had yet to pass, two thousand years of social and political and philosophical evolution, two thousand years of technological advancement and intellectual enlightenment. Twenty-first-century morality had little relevance in ancient Palestine. Modern Judeo-Christian values had yet to be accepted, had yet to be adopted as the foundation for the great democracies, those enduring values that had been expressed by the venerated Jewish scholars and advocated by an obscure Galilean rabbi. A young man who, this very day, was probably roaming the Galilean hill country preaching his revolutionary doctrine. A doctrine that would ultimately spread across the entire world to become one of humankind’s great religions.
Viktor recalled the first time he had heard that rabbi’s name, the first time his questions hadn’t been answered with blank stares, or suspicion, or outright hostility. It had been a richly dressed civic administrator who had spoken the name, a scribe from Sepphoris on his way to deliver tax records to the provincial capital. He seemed delighted to engage the young merchant in smart conversation. At first Viktor thought he had heard wrong and asked the man to repeat the rabbi’s name. The man did so. He said he knew the family, said the father and son occasionally worked in Sepphoris doing carpentry and tool repair, said the son was intelligent and charismatic. Viktor recalled how his whole reason for being had suddenly been validated in that one exchange. He realized that he had been languishing in a state of acute inertia. He had gotten much too comfortable. He had lost his initiative. It was exactly the thing that the physicists had warned him about. And he had fallen into the trap without even knowing it. Septimus’s kindness had made it easy. He knew he mustn’t let it happen again. He had to get focused and stay focused. He must not forget his mission.
After that encounter, Viktor had queried every visitor from the north. Whether it was a merchant, a beggar, an administrator, or a soldier, the information never came easy. He needed to be extremely circumspect. Most Jews responded poorly to direct questioning, especially from a Roman operative. And much of what they told him was usually second or third-hand accounts, more rumor than fact. But gradually he learned more about the young rabbi from the Galilee, enough to tell him that the man surely did exist. Then one stormy afternoon, with the sea crashing heavily against the breakwater and gale-force winds tossing ships about like driftwood, he finally met an actual follower of the rabbi. A hulking brute of a man, Elior was a stonecutter from Cana who had journeyed to Caesarea to repair a storm-damaged section of the outer harbor. Accepting refuge from the squall in the shelter of Septimus’s warehouse, he had spoken freely, telling Viktor of the extraordinary young rabbi who was travelling the Galilee, gaining a large following. A rabbi who seldom spoke in the synagogue, but lectured his followers from the hillsides and the meadows and the beach. A rabbi who was preaching with authority. A rabbi truly worth listening to. A rabbi named Yeshua.
That had been more than a year ago. Since then accounts of the Galilean had increased dramatically. The rabbi was obviously becoming popular. Viktor also heard of another man, a mystic who roamed the Judean desert called John the Baptizer. He knew he had to make a move soon. If the Christian scriptures were accurate, time was running out.
CHAPTER 14
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The living was easy at Septimus’s country villa. It was pretty much the same at the town home in Caesarea. Even the warehouse was surprisingly habitable. The work there was heavier, but a sea breeze kept the spacious structure pleasantly cool, and the shaded courtyard overlooking the wharf was nearly resort-like. Viktor loved to sit on the low stone wall of the courtyard and observe the well-ordered activities of the busy port. Watching ships from across the empire as they negotiated the breakwater toward safe anchorage in the man-made harbor, studying the exotic people, breathing the clear ocean air, reveling in a Mediterranean sun untainted by industrial pollution, it was like a dream.
Compared to the native inhabitants of Judea, Viktor was living like royalty, and he knew it. He had allowed himself to get too comfortable, and he knew that as well. It had been easy. Septimus had made it easy. But it was more than just the physical comforts, more than just the security he enjoyed. His new life was a perpetual marvel. Every dawn promised a fresh and intriguing adventure. He had been seduced by the whole earthly spectacle of it, beholding a living, breathing history. But he was witnessing the historic struggle of his people from a safe and privileged seat. And that was not who he was. He had always been a man of action, not a spectator. He wondered if he had changed in some fundamental way. Did the time-jump scramble something in his brain? Did his brush with death alter his personality? Had he sold his soul for the comfort and luxury of a life with Septimus? In quiet moments he often pondered these questions. He had been given a wondrous gift. As far as he knew, it was a gift never bestowed on any human being. Was it wrong to take advantage of his incredible opportunity? Was it wrong to just live his life and enjoy his good fortune?
Yes, it was wrong, the old Viktor answered. In his chest still beat the heart of an Israeli soldier. That heart reminded him he must never forget who he was and what he was there for. He had a duty to perform, a mission to complete. Anything less was a dereliction of duty. It was a voice he could not ignore.
The Galilee was barely fifty miles away. Yet without Septimus’s blessing it might as well have been a thousand miles. And with the escalating conflict, his adopted father was not likely to let him make another journey. There was plenty of work to do in Caesarea, right in the seat of Roman power. Septimus saw no good reason to risk the safety of his children out in the rural provinces. He had gotten lucky with the trip to Sepphoris. It was not wise to impose upon the good graces of the Gods. They could be fickle…and cruel. He could hire guards and mercenaries and Samaritans to do that dangerous work. They might pilfer and cheat a bit, but it was worth the price to keep his children from peril. That’s what they were to him…his children. Viktor, Anthea, Farris, Cenon, Diogenes, Hypatia, Antonia, Ambrosia, even old Dionysus, all of them, they were his children. And he planned to keep them close to home, safe within the military protection of Imperial Rome.
Though the living was easy in Septimus’s household, Viktor was a captive of sorts, a pampered prisoner in a gilded cage. He owed everything to Septimus, literally owed his very life to the man. But unless things changed, he knew that one day soon he would be forced to choose between his adopted father and his mission. He prayed he wouldn’t have to. He truly didn’t want to betray a man who had treated him so graciously. But there seemed to be no honorable way to break free, and time was running out.
CHAPTER 15
Present-Day Israel
Robert Jankowski’s work at the kibbutz was surprisingly rewarding. Growing up in the city, bouncing between a dozen foster homes, he could never have predicted the personal satisfaction he got fr
om producing food. It was so tangible and so essential. What could be more important than food? And he loved the communal lifestyle, the sharing, the common purpose. He found the egalitarian culture to be profoundly liberating, enabling him to focus on the things that really mattered. The kids, Janka and Viktor, were growing up smart and strong and resourceful. His marriage to Rachel continued to develop and mature beyond anything he had hoped for. She was more than just a fantastic wife and mother. She was his strength, his conscience. His was a good life, a meaningful life. He marveled at his own good fortune. Still, another part of him went unfulfilled. He often found his thoughts returning to his studies at the university and his brief time at the Tel el-Qadi dig. He found himself craving the intellectual challenge of academia. At night he dreamed not of fishponds, but of peeling back the strata of archeological excavations, the thrill of discovery. But he had taken on many responsibilities, and Robert was a responsible man, so he kept these desires unspoken. His duty was to his family and to the kibbutz. Anything beyond that just seemed selfish. After all, his work literally provided sustenance to people. So he hid his dreams away.
No one was aware of this longing except Rachel, who could read him like an open book. She knew her husband was a brilliant man. She understood that a man like him needed something more than what the simple agrarian lifestyle afforded, and urged him to follow his dreams. So with her encouragement, Robert sent off for an application to the doctoral program at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. When it arrived in the mail, he balked, insisting that he was just being self-indulgent, insisting that she and the kids needed him at home, that his academic qualifications were inadequate, that Ma’agan Michael needed him at the fishponds. Rachel listened to all his arguments, and then took him by the hand and led him to the little metal desk in the living room of their tiny cottage. Together they filled out the application. The next day, with few expectations, Robert slipped the packet into the mail pouch bound for Jerusalem. Two months later, to his great surprise, he was accepted.
With the kids doing well in school and Rachel busy managing the farm’s European exports, they decided it was better for the family to remain in the security of Ma’agan Michael while Robert embarked on his new career. Spending most of the next three years in the classroom, the laboratory, and at dig sites, he immersed himself in his studies, soaking up ancient culture like a dry sponge. It was a satisfying and enlightening period for him. Israel was brimming with undiscovered history, the students at Hebrew University were sharp and serious, and the administration was supportive. It was everything he had hoped for. He tried to visit Ma’agan Michael as often as possible. And sometimes Rachel brought the kids to visit him in Jerusalem, or at one of the archeological digs. As he lost himself in the ancient past, an uncertain future loomed.
During those busy days, as he was building his reputation as a Middle Eastern scholar, a change was sweeping the region. Long-standing disputes were festering and relations were swiftly deteriorating. The simmering cauldron of politics and religion was boiling over. Quarrels between Israelis and Palestinians gave way to open hostility and then to overt violence as the intifada raged throughout Israel and the occupied territories. Thinking his family safe within the sheltered confines of the kibbutz, Robert carefully avoided the worst of the conflict and kept on with his work, oblivious to the escalating brutality.
After a seemingly never-ending series of crackdowns and negotiations and truces, the country finally seemed to be quieting down. Both sides had high hopes for a lasting peace, until one deceptively beautiful spring day when a band of Palestinian terrorists landed on the shore outside Ma’agan Michael, hijacked a bus, and slaughtered their way toward Tel Aviv, taking thirty-eight Israeli lives before they were stopped. The media dubbed it the “Coastal Road Massacre.” Two young women were strolling the peaceful beach that morning as the terrorists dragged their Zodiac boats up on the strand. Those women proved to be the first fatalities of that terrible day. One was American wildlife photographer Gail Rubin; the other, kibbutznik Rachel Jankowski.
CHAPTER 16
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The pitiless sun had reached its zenith hours ago and now hovered low over the Judean highlands. A column of men and beasts plodded listlessly along the dusty track, their shadows stretching out before them, fatigue etched into their sweat-stained faces. Viktor, too, was exhausted, yet exhilarated. Septimus had allowed him to make the trip alone…well, almost alone. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like a free man. Accompanied by a contingent of heavily armed Syrian mercenaries, he also felt safe, though the wilderness through which he had passed was notorious bandit country. On this journey, he truly needed the armed guard. For what he sought was more valuable than silver, even more valuable than gold. It was one of Septimus’s prime exports, a precious oil that fetched astronomical prices back in Rome. He called it the Balm of Jericho.
It was good to be free of Caesarea. Yet after days of climbing the desolate Judean hills, Viktor already missed the cool Mediterranean breeze. Bypassing Jerusalem, his procession had snaked through the rugged terrain surrounding Bethel before descending the long slope into the Jordan River Valley. Up ahead, he could see the oasis of Jericho in the distance, floating like an emerald apparition in the tawny haze of the Dead Sea basin. He would reach Yehuda Ben-Ephraim’s orchards before the sun had settled behind the hills. This night he would sleep comfortably.
Nearing the outskirts of the city, Viktor sent one of the guards ahead to announce his arrival. As he approached the walled compound, Yehuda was already waiting at the gate to welcome him.
“Greetings young man,” the old man called. “Do you come from my good friend Septimus Salvo?”
“Yes, I am here on his business. He sends his regards. I have a letter of introduction. May I enter your property?”
“Yes, young man, you may. What is your name?”
“Viktor.”
“Viktor? So you are the young man that Septimus Salvo speaks so highly of. Come inside. You must tell me how that old Roman thief is doing these days. Still driving the hard bargain? The last time he was here, he nearly left me a pauper. Come inside, take yourself a rest. Your guards can set up camp in the tent down there beside the stable.”
Viktor dismounted and followed the old man through a long, cool arbor covered with grape vines. To the right lay a wide expanse of verdant orchards. To the left, the road to Jerusalem wound through the rising terrain. Further up the valley, straddling a narrow wadi, he recognized Herod’s winter palace, white marble shining against the barren rocky hillside. The end of the arbor opened into a broad courtyard shaded by date palms. An impressive stone cottage anchored the opposite end of the courtyard. It was obvious that Yehuda was no pauper.
After an equitable bargain had been struck for twelve large amphorae of the precious oil, followed by a simple meal, Viktor joined the old man on a spacious loggia where Yehuda reclined, enjoying a cool evening breeze. Viktor was eager to talk. There was much to be learned from a man like him.
“Septimus told me that your family has lived in Jericho for generations,” Viktor began.
“Yes, he speaks the truth. My people came to this valley when it was little more than a watering hole for caravans. We settled here before Herod and the Romans, before the Persians, before the Greeks and the Babylonians. And we will still be here when they are dust.”
“How did your people manage to survive amongst all that cultural conflict?”
“Cultural conflict? By this, do you mean tyranny and destruction and slaughter? My people have always kept their heads down and tried to get along as best we can. First and foremost, we follow the Law. Secondly, we do what we have to do to survive. We do our part and the Almighty provides.”
“The history of this city is so rich,” Viktor continued. “You must know many things that have been lost to the historical record. There are so many things I could learn from you, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim. You are the very essence of the J
ewish people.”
“What? Essence of the Jewish people? I know not what you imply. I am just a simple man…a farmer in a long line of farmers. True, my ancestors have witnessed much and have passed on much wisdom. But these are things I seldom discuss outside the family. Anyway, I believe the past is something that should be remembered and learned from…not dwelled upon. I am more concerned with what is to be, rather than with what has already been.”
Viktor could feel his newfound bond with the old man slipping away. It was just like the fiasco in Nazareth. He was pushing too hard. He had to back off. He quickly changed the subject.
“Yehuda Ben-Ephraim, you are a pious Jew. Do you not feel uncomfortable with Herod’s palace up there on the hill?”
“No. I harbor him no ill will. He doesn’t come here very often and he has nothing to do with us down here in the valley.”
“It certainly is beautiful here. I envy you, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim. Riding out of the desert, it was like seeing the Promised Land up ahead.”
Yehuda laughed. “Yes, it is a pleasant village. But the Promised Land? I think you are prone to exaggeration, my young friend. True, the Almighty has blessed us with reliable springs and fertile soil and cooling breezes. It is quiet here and that is good for business. We have a direct route to Jerusalem, yet we are far enough away to avoid all the scheming and backstabbing. We have a wonderful temple and a very learned rabbi. At the end of the valley, the approach is protected by two fortresses. That keeps things peaceful. And as I said, peace is good for business. We are happy here. How about you? Where is your home? I have heard you speak in several dialects since you arrived. And you speak with an inflection I have not heard before. You use many words I am not familiar with. Now, I concede that I am just a simple farmer. But I do pride myself on two things…my observance of the Law and my vocabulary. Where do you come from and how did you come to be with my good friend Septimus Salvo?”
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