“Yehuda, I know what I have to do. I must finish what I started.”
“Viktor, Viktor, Viktor,” was all the old man could say.
“Someday we will talk. We will sit down together and I will tell you everything.”
“Tell me now.”
“But you said you did not want to know what happened to me.”
“I have changed my mind. Tell me.”
“Yehuda Ben-Ephraim, I mean no disrespect…but you would never believe what I have to say. You would think I am mad. When I am done, I will return to your home and I will explain. I will pay you the respect you deserve and show you the esteem I have for you and your family. I will answer all your questions. And then, if you will still have me, I will sign a declaration of betrothal to your beautiful daughter. I will pay any price you ask. Eliana is a treasure. An unshakeable foundation on which to build a meaningful life. Just like my mother was…at least what I remember of her. Her name was Rachel. When I was last here, Eliana and I spoke of a future together. But I could not yet commit myself to her. Not until I finished what I set out to do. When I am done, I will return. And then our families will be joined. Yehuda Ben-Ephraim, I give you my solemn oath that this will be so.”
CHAPTER 51
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Yehuda Ben-Ephraim stood on the darkened terrace, looking out over his orchards. The trees were sturdy and producing well. The grove of balsam was maturing and yielding ever growing quantities of the precious balm. Even the fig saplings on the hillside were developing quickly. Business was good. He had made it so, had built a thriving enterprise from his grandfather’s modest holdings. There had been many compromises and there had been many setbacks. But it was the land of his ancestors and he never once considered giving up. He had learned to accept the pagans. And he had figured out how to do business with them. Something his grandfather would never have considered. Something his father had emphatically forbidden. But those good men were gone and it was a much different world than the one they had inhabited. The Romans, for all their faults and their treachery and their bloodlust, had opened up trade far beyond what his grandfather could ever have imagined. And some of the Gentiles were not such a bad sort. Even some of the Romans. Men like Septimus. He always struck an equitable bargain. He was respectful, even charitable. You could tell his heart was good, apart from the fact that the man worshipped all those ridiculous gods. They were not Jews, but they were still human beings. Didn’t the great Rabbi Hillel advocate tolerance? Did he not say, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow man”? Was that not a good philosophy, a sound philosophy?
Yes, business was good. The family was healthy. And the feast days were drawing near. Pesach was just a few days off. Pesach, the commemoration of the Israelites’ emancipation from slavery, a joyous holiday. He should have been a happy man. But the conflicts that usually slumbered in the deep recesses of his mind were now keeping him from slumber. And he had young Viktor to blame. The boy had reawakened all those sentiments he had kept buried for so many years. Sentiments that—he had convinced himself—had nothing to do with him or his business. Sentiments that had no place in his life. Sentiments about things over which he had no control. Things he had learned to live with in order to survive, in order to prosper. And that reawakening had brought the guilt. The guilt and the sleeplessness.
Talk in the synagogue had been light and easy as everyone prepared for the coming Seder, the prosperous businessmen of Jericho seemingly unconcerned with the dire predicament of their nation, seemingly indifferent to the plight of their people. When business was good, it was easy to do. Easy to indulge in one’s good fortune, while ignoring the troubles of others. Was good fortune not a blessing from the Almighty? Wouldn’t eschewing that blessing be a kind of sin in itself? Didn’t the rabbi tell him so? Anyway, that is what Yehuda told himself. And for years it had worked. But Viktor had changed all that. The boy had dragged the troubles of his people right into his home and right back into his heart. He could no longer ignore it. Now it was well after midnight and sleep would not come. The old man prowled the cool night, unsuccessfully refuting the accusations of a troubled conscience.
When the household had finally quieted down, and all the lamps had been extinguished, Viktor slipped from his bed, donning the tunic and the warm cloak given to him that afternoon by Eliana. Beneath the clothing had been a coin pouch containing a handful of shekels and a brief note in Yehuda’s bold hand. “May it be the will of the Almighty that you reach your destination in health and peace. May the Almighty guide your steps until you return home to us. Shalom.”
It was both a blessing and an endorsement of sorts, strengthening Viktor’s flagging resolve. Though separated by nearly eighty generations and countless cultural permutations, the man could read him like a book. Wisdom was certainly not tied to any particular epoch or level of technological advancement. Yehuda was proof of that.
Stealthily, if somewhat unsteadily, Viktor made his way past the stable to the front gate. Behind him, Yehuda’s house stood dark and silent. It would have been so easy to stay there with the people who cared for him, with a girl who had declared her affection for him. So easy to give in to the temptation of the incredible opportunity that was being offered to him. And once again, he had seriously considered it. He owed it to these good people. But by the time the sun had slipped behind the Judean hills, his mind was made up. He had to get to Jerusalem before Passover. Time was running out. It was his last chance to find the Galilean rabbi. His future would have to wait.
Watching him from the shadows, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim followed the boy’s progress through the courtyard. He wanted to say something, do something. He wanted to stop the boy. He wanted to join the boy. He did neither. He just stood in the darkness and watched him go. The evening breeze had died and the night seemed to hold its breath as Viktor glanced back toward the house before slipping through the gate.
Eliana rushed out onto the terrace beside her father, her hands anxiously gripping the parapet. “Father, you cannot let him go,” she pleaded. “He is still weak. He will die out there. Please, Father, do something. Stop him.”
“There is nothing I can do. I cannot hold him here against his will.”
“But what about the Roman soldiers and the bandits? He cannot even defend himself. What will become of him?”
“Eliana, I am just a man. Only the Almighty can answer that.”
“You knew he was leaving. Why did you not tell me?”
“I did not want to trouble you.”
“Why did he not tell me?”
“Probably for the same reason as I. There is something eating at him…something he must do. Who are we to stand in his way? I know you think very highly of him. So do I. But you have to let him go. Maybe when he is done chasing his dreams, he will return to us. Only the Almighty knows what beats so hotly in that young man’s chest…only the Almighty.”
They stood in watchful silence until the moonlight revealed a distant form climbing out of the valley on the road to Jerusalem. As the lone figure crested the barren ridge, he seemed to hesitate, seemed to look back toward them, and then he was gone. The old man sadly shook his head. Another of Israel’s children off to the slaughter, he thought. What a waste. When will the Almighty deliver us from the pagans? When will we finally be free?
CHAPTER 52
Present-Day Israel
With the Jump date set, the engineers got busy finalizing their preparations—debugging the upgraded software, tweaking the hardware, and calibrating the controls. Daily tests were run and the Device continued to perform flawlessly, each subtle adjustment resulting in a nearly imperceptible increase in accuracy. It was excruciatingly meticulous and critical work. A small error might have an insignificant impact on a two-hour Jump. But that same deviation, when compounded over a two-thousand-year Jump, might result in the test subject being placed well outside the target parameters. The difference between success and failure was now be
ing measured in the blink of an eye. And though the Team realized that absolute precision was an impossibility, it remained their ultimate goal. They wanted to be sure that if they did fail, it was due to some cosmic interference and not their own inadequacy. Trials were still confined to the future. But the Team persisted in the belief that their efforts were fully applicable to Jumps into the past. Their calculations confirmed those beliefs. And their trust in mathematics was absolute. Inside the ultra-secure compound at the Technion-Israel Institute of Haifa, morale was soaring, expectations were high, and failure was not an option. Unless, of course, Mother Nature decided to stir the pot.
With the Team so thoroughly engaged, Robert and Viktor were left alone to work out the details of how their trans-millennial communication would be accomplished. The Team didn’t care how it was done, as long as the test subject achieved the Primary Objective. From him, they required just two pieces of information. First of all, they needed irrefutable proof that the test subject had indeed survived the Jump. And secondly, they needed confirmation of the date that the test subject had arrived. Simply put, they wanted to know: Did you make it, and when did you get there? That was all the Team cared about. Their sole interest was the journey, not the destination. Robert and Viktor were fully dedicated to achieving the Project’s Primary Objective. Yet in their hearts, they wanted more.
Both being scholars and passionate lovers of antiquity, Viktor and his father recognized the incredible opportunity that lay before them. They were going to be given a tool never before wielded by mankind, and they intended to put it to good use. A large part of archeology was conjecture. The Jump would allow them a firsthand look into the past. It would allow them to confirm or dispel long-held assumptions, to definitively answer age-old questions. It was an archeologist’s dream. And it would also serve to provide an even deeper meaning to their personal sacrifice. Beginning with a casual conversation over a bottle of wine, their excitement grew as they pondered the possibilities open to them. Possibilities that could make any historian positively giddy.
The Team had already approved Robert’s proposal for the trans-millennial communication, or TMC, as they dubbed it. It was a solid plan. The prime point of contact was identified as the necropolis at Tel Megiddo, a network of Hebrew burial vaults dating to the very beginning of the first century. Test pits showed that the complex had been active for more than three decades, and the Team felt a thirty-year span was an achievable target window. Robert believed that placing the test subject within that window would give him ample access to the site. And for Viktor, the whole scenario was a perfect fit. He had spent much of his academic life studying the social, political, and religious makeup of that period. He knew the people and the cultures. He could speak several of the ancient languages. Once again, he marveled at the way things had worked out. It seemed like his whole life had been preparing him for this specific undertaking. Like he was born to do the mission. His father had an English word for it…serendipity. He liked the sound of that word.
The first century had been a time of great historical significance in the Holy Land—the conclusion of King Herod’s reign and his magnificent building program including the construction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, the expansion of the Roman Empire, the prefecture of Pontius Pilate, the establishment of the rabbinical doctrines of Hillel and Shammai, the Hebrew revolt, the birth of Christianity—they were all events that Middle Eastern scholars dreamed of illuminating. Now, if everything went as planned, Viktor would have a front-row seat for the whole shebang. Of course, the exact date of his arrival would determine what he would actually be able to witness. The physicists were aiming for the middle of the target window. That would place him in year 20 of the Common Era, give or take a decade. If the theories were wrong, or if the Device malfunctioned, or if time paradoxes intervened…well…they tried not to think too much about those things.
Robert and Viktor spent most days together in various university libraries, searching out obscure manuscripts, pouring over ancient maps, practicing ancient languages and dialects. They made several field trips to Megiddo, scouting locations for the placement of the TMC. Viktor even persuaded his father to visit the cemetery at Ma’agan Michael. And before heading back up the coast to Haifa, they decided to pay a surprise call on Janka. Having her father and brother show up at her door after so many years proved too much for the young neurologist. It took hours before she could completely stem the flood of tears. But it was good for them all. If only for an evening, they were a family again.
Most nights, Viktor spent with Allison Hollister. An unlikely pair, their attraction was as intense as it was implausible. Members of the Team joked that they could actually see sparks sizzling between them when they were in the same room together, like an electrical connection that arced white hot when they got close. Their romance became the talk of the compound. But the gossip was tempered with a sympathetic measure of affection for the young couple. Maybe it was due to the hopelessness of their ill-fated relationship. Or maybe because their love exposed the humanity behind all the science and mathematics and technology. Whatever it was, Allison and Viktor couldn’t have cared less.
CHAPTER 53
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Viktor pushed himself up the dusty incline, yet another barren hill in a seemingly never-ending succession of dusty barren hills. Leaning into the slope, he focused on placing one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, and pushed forward, the wounds of battle plaguing his every step. He endured the constant pain with a grim sort of satisfaction. The Romans had bled and battered him, but he had dealt back more than his share. He had fought like a demon, Roman blood drenching his blade. The whole ragtag Jewish army had performed courageously. He was so proud of them all. His comrades had fought like true warriors, fought and died, their bodies piling up like cordwood in the isolated canyon. They had never made it to the Roman standard bearer as Shimon had ordered. Facing overwhelming numbers, they had been relentlessly pushed back into the steep wadi. Exposed on the rocky slope, the Roman archers had cut them down like fish in a barrel. Viktor remembered clambering over the rocks and collapsing behind a huge boulder, bleeding profusely, his strength fading. He remembered Tamir beside him, tending him, lifting him, carrying him. He remembered the small group of survivors huddled in a shallow cave, shivering through a cold night. After that, everything was a blur, more like vague impressions than memories…and then nothing.
After slipping through Yehuda’s gate, Viktor had started his journey to Jerusalem in solitude. But, before the sun had cleared the eastern horizon, the road was already clogged with pilgrims, a ragged column that snaked for miles through the desolate wilderness. Viktor hardly noticed them. Head down, he pushed on. As morning surrendered to a blistering afternoon, the parched landscape gradually gave way to patches of greenery and the road leveled out considerably, its surface worn smooth by eons of feet. Up ahead, the exposed bedrock disappeared under a layer of fertile topsoil and thick stands of olive and cypress replaced the desiccated brush. Struggling to keep pace with the hastening stride of his fellow travelers, Viktor entered the woods, thankful for the shade. Under the hushed canopy of interlocking boughs, he could hear the distant sound of splashing water. Faint yet seductive, it beckoned to him. Stepping off the busy road, he followed his ears to a secluded spring, where clear water gurgled out of a fissure in the hillside, cascading playfully over a jumble of stones. To a thirsty man, it made a heavenly music. Downslope, a pit had been dug and lined with plaster where the precious liquid collected in a pool before being distributed throughout the olive grove in a network of shallow trenches.
Alone in the peaceful little oasis, Viktor drank his fill and rinsed the road grime from his face and hands. His belly bursting, he settled down upon a flat slab of rock, stretched out his weary legs, and took stock of his condition. What he saw was not good. His new cloak was stained by blood leaking from his many injuries. The bandage on his leg had fa
llen off somewhere along the way and his calf had taken on the appearance of raw meat. Yehuda was right. He was in no condition to make this journey. But he had no choice. He thought he could tough it out. After all, he was a commando, the cream of the Israeli military. Little did that matter now. He had found out the hard way. It was a brutal land inhabited by a vigorous people, and he found himself lacking.
He had been in survival mode for weeks, much longer than his body could tolerate. His strength was fading. His powerful stride had deserted him, leaving behind a faltering gait. The rigors of life on the road and on the run, the raids, the forced marches through the desert, the hand-to-hand combat, the injuries, the lack of food and sleep, it had all taken a toll. And this climb out of the Jordan Valley and into the wilderness of Judea had completed the assault on his abused body. He felt like an old man. But he had to keep moving. He had no choice.
All day, the road was filled with pilgrims, all headed in the same direction, all headed west toward Jerusalem. He remembered some kindness, fellow travelers willing to share their food and comforts. He remembered the constant harassment by Roman patrols and the unrepentant scoundrels who preyed upon the weak and unwary. But mostly, he remembered the drudgery of putting one foot in front of the other…one foot in front of the other…endlessly, and the sun, the journey through the wastelands fading into a blur of pain and hunger and thirst and fatigue. By the time Viktor reached the Mount of Olives, he was running on sheer willpower.
As he made his way around the broad flank of the mountain, the vista opened up dramatically, and there it was. Finally, after so many years, he had made it. Looking out across the Kidron Valley from his perch on the hillside, Viktor felt a sudden surge of adrenalin, his misery forgotten. Jerusalem! The sight took his breath away, brought tears to his eyes. Right there in front of him, the Temple Mount in all its glory. Not just a fragment of a wall. Not just a piece of ruins, but a vibrant living place. A sanctified place. The beating heart of Judaism. He had never felt more like a Jew than he did at that very moment. He wished his grandparents were there to see it—the massive stone platform topped by a dazzling white marble Sanctuary trimmed in sheets of gold, the afternoon sun lighting the gilded cornice like a celestial beacon, the towering stone walls of the old city stretching out dramatically along the narrow valley. It was imposing and impressive and enchanting. It was an image from his childhood dreams. It simply took his breath away. Jerusalem!
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