The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  Constrained for years by a limited technology, the discoveries by the new Hadron Supercollider had jump-started their work in profound ways, illuminating the dynamics behind the theories and providing physical manifestations of the fundamental quantum paradigm. With two members of the Team serving on the board in Geneva, they had direct access to the groundbreaking discoveries. And with the immense retooled particle accelerator back online, they had the means to verify their inscrutably abstract mathematics.

  Robert read their hypothesis, slogged through their research, and studied their findings. He considered himself a reasonably intelligent man. But most of the report made little sense to him. Many of the theories seemed contradictory, the science incomprehensible—string theory, worldsheet theory, quantum theory, super-symmetric gauge theory, space-time, wormholes, black holes, white holes, dark matter, strange matter, negative energy, singularities, causal loops, time paradoxes, parallel dimensions. Ultra-technical, convoluted, and deliberately abstruse, it read like a bad science-fiction novel. In his own work, he unraveled riddles every day, deciphered arcane archeological evidence. But archeology involved physical human reality. This was an entirely different thing. It just seemed like some kind of glorified mental chicanery.

  Skipping ahead to the summary, the tone of the report changed dramatically. Here the language was clear, the concepts straightforward, the claims unmistakable. And Robert was absolutely astounded by what he read. The Team’s conclusions were beyond his wildest imaginings. So wild that he simply couldn’t accept it. Is this a hoax? he wondered. This can’t possibly be true. Is the physics department playing a joke on me? Or was this report put together by those ancient alien theorists? Flipping to the appendix, he ran his finger down the list of participants. They were all well-regarded scientists, not some cabal of wild-eyed charlatans. Many were considered the elite of their field. And these brilliant men and women claimed they had accomplished the inconceivable. They claimed they had discovered a way to travel through time.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Time passed quickly as Viktor divided his days between Septimus’s wharf-side warehouse and the country estate outside Caesarea. He worked longer and harder than he was expected to. He had something to prove. And he soon proved indispensable to his master’s business interests. With a modern education and military discipline, he wielded some formidable tools, and he used those tools industriously, yet judiciously, careful not to betray who and what he was. His science-based innovations were difficult to disguise. Fortunately, Septimus usually indulged him, considering his ideas to be nothing more than harmless personal eccentricities, the product of some arcane belief system. It was Viktor’s business initiatives that really impressed the old man.

  Drawing on college economics and finance courses, and his commodities trading experience with the University Investment Club, he revolutionized how Septimus conducted business. First, by applying a new inventory control system, and using Septimus’s political contacts he was able to reduce the effects of the rampant fraud that permeated the notoriously corrupt shipping industry. Rome survived on imports, and administrators in the capital were more than happy to enforce regulations that made commerce more reliable. That is, as long as they continued to receive their own kickbacks. Secondly, borrowing from modern construction practices, he began offering bonuses to local caravaneers and ship captains who could beat predetermined delivery schedules. This was especially crucial for perishable foodstuffs. Soon, Septimus’s fresh produce was the talk of the market. Though a relatively small part of the enterprise, it did endear him to the most influential people of Caesarea, including the prefect himself. And last, but certainly not least, Viktor introduced ancient Palestine to an elementary form of speculation in commodity futures.

  After studying a decade’s worth of the scribe’s simple records, and discussing the subject at length with Septimus, Viktor clearly identified patterns in the business cycle. No doubt, the enterprise as a whole was quite profitable. Yet Viktor believed that the best strategy to beat the competition, insure a consistent inventory of goods, and procure the best prices would be to offer contracts to suppliers for the delivery of future products. The old man objected to the inherent risk associated with such a scheme. But Viktor persuaded him to give the plan a chance, insisting that the benefits would outweigh the losses. Farmers, craftsmen, and artisans alike were enthusiastically receptive to the security the contracts provided them. Septimus already had an admirable reputation, and by extending advance payments on some of these contracts, he bred a fierce loyalty among suppliers and customers alike.

  Then after organizing Septimus’s contacts throughout the Mediterranean, Viktor utilized that network to monitor consumer needs and ship goods to whatever region had greatest demand for a particular product, thereby insuring the highest prices. It was simple economics, but it was far more sophisticated than the seat-of-the-pants business practices being employed across the far-flung empire. The only thing truly lacking in the system was reliable communications. Messages sent by boat could take weeks or even months in reply. Viktor found himself dreaming of cell phones and e-mail and tweets. Nonetheless, profits soared. From farmer, to ship’s captain, to the owners of granaries and breweries, to merchants and consumers across the empire, everyone benefitted from the system. Septimus didn’t need more wealth. Yet he relished dominating the competition. And delighted to be heralded back in Rome as a man of vision, he rewarded Viktor by giving him supervisory control of all imports and exports in Palestine.

  As they worked together, Viktor and his master developed a mutual respect, which over time matured into something much deeper. Cut off from his old life, the other slaves became Viktor’s surrogate family. They earned and returned his affection. They were his brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. And Septimus? The man had rescued him from certain death. The man had taken him in and set him up in the most comfortable environment the era had to offer. Then the man had made him the first-century equivalent of a corporate CEO. Maybe the others were right. Maybe Septimus was a gift from God.

  So Viktor settled into his new life. And though the business occupied most of his time, he spent every free moment exploring the city and the surrounding countryside. It was a truly fantastical experience for a student of antiquities to tread the path of the ancients, to experience history through their eyes. Herod’s port city was an absolute marvel to behold. The boulevards, the library, the amphitheater, the market, they were all functional works of art. The man-made harbor was a miracle of engineering. It wasn’t exactly modern Tel Aviv, but the city had the most innovative conveniences outside of Rome itself. And daily life was so much grander than he had ever imagined it could be. The theater, the pageantry, the sports, the endless succession of feast days; there always seemed to be some festive diversion. Viktor drank it in, roaming the streets like some love-struck cultural voyeur.

  Septimus was fascinated by the boy, recognizing Viktor’s superior intellect right from the start. The boy was a natural organizer and a surprising source of innovation. Though rather quirky and surprisingly naive, sometimes the boy seemed wise beyond his years. It was difficult to determine his ancestry, impossible to pinpoint his place of origin. He was a strange boy, a mysterious boy. Yet a good and trustworthy boy. The more responsibility Septimus gave him, the more orderly the household became, the more profitable the business. As the old man’s health deteriorated, he increasingly turned to Viktor for support, and the boy rarely disappointed him. It wasn’t long before Victor was practically running the whole provincial operation. Viktor was the son he had always dreamed of having. Unlike the lazy, unimaginative, effete rogues who bore his name back in Rome, Viktor was worthy of being a Salvo. Septimus longed to tell him so. But the boy continued to exhibit a stubborn aloofness, always maintaining an emotional distance. The old man prided himself on being an exceptional judge of character. He knew the boy would come around. All he needed was encouragem
ent and patience and love.

  As the years passed, and he found fulfillment in expanding Septimus’s business ventures, and master became more like father, and fellow slaves became family, Viktor never lost sight of his original objective. Always keeping his eyes and ears open, he was finally rewarded in his third year when the immaculately dressed Sadducee scribe spoke of the charismatic young rabbi he had met in the Galilee. Thereafter, Viktor began questioning every traveler from the north for news of the young rabbi. It became an obsession. His fixation was not lost on Septimus, who resolved to keep the boy on a short leash. Viktor was way too valuable to lose to the greedy Jewish God. The business needed him. But it was much more than just the business. The old man believed he could not bear to lose him.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Septimus Salvo slammed his goblet down on the tabletop. The clang of bronze against marble echoed through the town home. Wine spattered the smooth white surface, leaving a crimson trail across the lustrous slab, like the tracks of a wounded bird. Wide-eyed and curious, little Anthea peeked around the doorjamb to the atrium to see what the fuss was about.

  “You must not leave Caesarea,” Septimus cried. “I forbid it!”

  “Forbid it? First allow me to explain, before you—”

  “Viktor, I have heard enough. I do not require further explanation. I require obedience.”

  “Master,” Viktor replied. “I just want to deliver this one load of flax to Jerusalem in person. The merchants have been complaining that every shipment is underweight. I know this is not true. I want to see what is going on with my own eyes. I want to hear their accusations with my own ears. Someone is stealing your goods and it must be stopped. You do not trust the Jews and you do not trust the Samarians, Farris and Cenon are too young, Dionysus is too old. Who else is going to do it? If you send a regent, everyone will be on their best behavior. You will learn nothing. But if I go…well…tongues tend to be loose around a worthless slave. I’ll be able to find out who is responsible and you can put an end to this thievery.”

  As Viktor spoke, all the bluster drained from the old man’s face, he slumped in his chair, sadness filled his eyes. “Viktor…what did you call me?”

  Viktor looked away from his despondent gaze.

  “After all this time, is that what you call me? Is that how you see me? Look at me, young man. Lift your eyes and look at me. Do you see a master?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Do you still see yourself as a slave? Do you? I thought we had bequeathed all those hard feelings to the past. Why do you persist in erecting barriers between us? Do I not treat you well? Do you not have the run of my holdings? Are you not fairly compensated for your efforts?”

  “Yes, Father, you are more than fair.”

  “Then what more do you require of me?”

  “I want to be free. Allow me to purchase my freedom.”

  “Purchase your freedom? You ask me to place a monetary value on you, like a basket of wheat? It is such a peculiar request. Viktor, do you not realize you are priceless to me.”

  “So you are saying that I will never be able to purchase my freedom?”

  “That is not what I intend and you know it. I speak not of gold and silver.”

  “I am sorry, Father. Sometimes my Latin fails me.”

  “I do not believe that at all. Your mastery of the language is excellent. Why must you hurt me so? You are like a son to me. Have I ever treated you otherwise?”

  “No, Father,” Viktor replied. “But it seems you do not fully trust me. You keep me here like a prisoner.”

  “Trust is like trade, my son. To work properly, it must flow freely in both directions. You have never expressed to my satisfaction exactly who you are and where you come from. Yet I have never held this against you. I assumed you would tell me when you were ready. When I took you out of that prison and brought you home, I required no explanations. I opened my home, my business…my whole life to you. I have shown you nothing but love. And you have the impertinence to say I don’t trust you. You call me master. Master! What have I done to deserve such disrespect?” The old man took another sip of wine and set the goblet down wearily. “This Galilean wine is so bitter. Everything in this land seems to be turning bitter…even my children.”

  “I am sorry, Father. I was wrong to say that. You have been good to me. Better than I could have hoped for. Better than I deserve. I just want to experience life. When I am stuck here in the city or even at the villa, I feel like a prisoner. I feel like a piece of property. I need to get out there beyond these walls.”

  “Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…that which you covet, you already possess. You must know that. My son, you may be one of the most intelligent young men I have ever known, but you are still so naive and innocent. I am just trying to protect you. I am not holding you prisoner. If you want to leave my home, you can do as you wish. I will not stop you. You are free to go. But life is not always so pleasant out there. There is hate and there is cruelty and there is evil. And out there you are beyond my protection. You know how that could end. And this time, I may not be there to save you. Just this morning, I received a message from my dear friend Lucilius Germanicus. The Zealots have attacked another patrol outside Bethany. Fourteen legionnaires were slaughtered like goats. He tells me that the road between Bethany and Jerusalem is now lined with crucified townsfolk. Surely, few of those poor peasants had anything to do with the attack. But Pilate must make a bloody statement. Does he not understand that blood and cruelty only begets more blood and cruelty? Where will it end? Only the gods know. If you had been on that road, you could be one of those poor innocents hanging from a tree. I won’t have it! I couldn’t bear it! To risk your life over a few stones of cloth is madness. My pride is not quite that depraved. If you feel you must go…then go. You are not a prisoner. You have never been a prisoner. Go experience life, as you say. But I tell you this. Understand the consequences of your actions. If you decide to leave, our fates will forever be severed. I cannot…I will not be made to worry and mourn over you. I believe it would kill me. You are my son…and a son must obey his father’s wishes. That is how it was with my father, and with my father’s father. If you should decide to stay in my house, you must abide by my rules. Between the accursed Zealots and that madman Herod and that bloody Pilate, this province is no longer safe. Reason has taken leave of men’s hearts. Bloodlust rules this tortured land. I would rather forfeit all my silver, than lose one of my children. Do you understand my words? Do you? What say you, my son?”

  “I will stay here with you, Father.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Viktor lifted the heavy coil of rope from the piling and heaved it onto the deck of the massive corbita. Then grabbing a pike shaft, he joined the harbor crew in pushing the ship away from the wharf. Free of its moorage, the crew quickly unfurled its foresail and the vessel turned gracefully in the breeze. Heading due west, it slipped through the narrow straits of the breakwater and out into the open water of the Mediterranean. Sitting on the edge of the wooden dock, Viktor watched as the ship unfurled its mainsail and picked up speed, running with a steady easterly wind. Before long, it was only a speck on the blue horizon, the sacks of Judean barley that filled its hold, bound for a brewery on Cyprus.

  It was a beautiful morning and Viktor lingered, gazing out across the harbor to the palace that perched gloriously on a narrow spur of reclaimed shoreline. Originally built by Herod, the ornate structure was now the residence of the imperial prefect Pontius Pilate. Bloody Pilate was what Septimus always called him. They obviously had some personal history between them, though Septimus never spoke of it. The palace seemed to float just above the waterline, shimmering in the hazy morning air. Viktor wondered what went on behind those gleaming walls, what went on within the lavish galleries…and what went on inside those recklessly unbridled hedonistic minds.

  A cacophony of laughter interrupted
his thoughts, sounding not unlike the raucous seabirds that swooped low over the dock. It was still early and already the streets were teeming with revelers. Some were heading toward the amphitheater, where festivities were in full swing for the celebration of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine. Others strolled the boulevards in their finest cloaks, partaking of their bulging wineskins in a movable banquet, shielded from the hot sun by the overhanging canopies of the white marble promenades. Troupes of dancers and exotic animals from the far reaches of the empire cavorted outside the hippodrome in a whirling exhibition of sound and movement. Military officers paraded by on restless stallions, armor flashing, plumage fluttering. Vendors lined the concourse, hawking their wares, their vibrant tents flapping in the wind, adding to the riot of color and motion. Once again, Viktor marveled at the splendor of Caesarea. He could only begin to imagine what Rome must be like. He expected to travel there someday. Septimus had dropped the hint many times.

  As he threaded his way through the crowd, following a wide limestone cobbled avenue toward Septimus’s town home, Viktor observed a traveler on one of the unpaved service roads, a lone Jew in a coarse, homespun robe leading a plodding train of donkeys. Stepping onto the dusty path, he left the revelers behind and hurried after the trader. Switching effortlessly from the language of the Cypriot captain to Hebrew, he called out to the man.