CHAPTER 60
Present-Day Israel
For months, the Team had deliberated on the best way to place the test subjects into the past, debating whether it would be better to send all the subjects on the same day or over the span of several months. Whether they should send the subjects from the same location or from multiple sites across Israel. Whether they should send several subjects into the same epoch or distribute them over the ages. The scientists offered many conflicting and persuasive arguments. With so much unknown, there were few clear choices.
After so many years of methodical research and incremental progress, time was now of the essence. The Project was becoming increasingly visible, and with each passing day the ability to hide their progress from the Israeli government was fading. At the minimum, discovery meant seizure of the Device and the data, and a halt to current Project initiatives. Sanctions against the university and possibly even criminal charges for the participants would surely follow. Expediency forced the Team to reach a consensus. They decided that employing the standard military tactic of rapid deployment and misdirection would be the best way to avoid detection. All the test subjects would be sent over a period of six days, from multiple sites, to multiple time destinations. Concurrently, a decoy operation would be conducted under the pretense of surveying the geological strata of Israel to determine the extent of oil-bearing shale. It was a popular issue. With the government’s hearty blessing, the investigation would allow free access to public and private sites across the country and provide sufficient cover for the movement of heavy equipment. Once the temporal diaspora had been executed, the government could do little to stop the experiment. And if all went according to plan, most of the trans-millennial communications would be uncovered within weeks. After decades of work, mankind’s greatest achievement would finally be validated.
As Jump day approached, engineers stripped the Device down into component parts and reassembled it on the back of a flat-bed trailer. Sensitive electronic modules were packed in protective cases to be installed at the Jump sites. The particle isolator itself was placed in its own vehicle with a diesel generator in tow, supplying just enough continuous energy to keep the microscopic black hole viable. At the site, a fleet of portable generators imported from hydraulic fracking operations in the United States would provide the immense surge of power required to achieve the requisite gravitational time dilation. The machinery was tested and retested. Software was checked and rechecked. Diagnostics were run and rerun. All systems were performing as required. They were ready. And now they were completely mobile.
Jump day arrived. In the predawn darkness, the convoy of vehicles headed for an empty stretch of beach midway between Tel Aviv and Haifa. Only essential personnel were authorized to participate. Much to her dismay, Allison Hollister did not fall into that category. She and Viktor were forced to say their farewells back at the compound. It was brief and perfunctory, a parting more indicative of comrades than lovers. They both preferred it that way.
On the beach, while a security detail patrolled the shoreline to keep onlookers at bay, a frenetic swarm of engineers, electricians, physicists, and programmers spent the afternoon calibrating the Device and testing the systems. By nightfall, all systems were go.
Confined to a tiny motorhome, Robert and Viktor tried to relax, flipping through magazines and listening to music as the hours crawled by. Having prepared meticulously, they had little to do or say and nothing to do but wait, sitting in uneasy silence until Viktor pulled a scroll-like object from his backpack.
“Father, last week while you were out at the excavations, I made this for you.”
Robert took the scroll and unrolled it on the countertop. It wasn’t a scroll at all. It was a little tapestry…a needlepoint. An uneven script in gold-colored thread was set against the flag of Israel, two sky-blue bars framing the Star of David on a field of white. He knew the words well.
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
Robert held the little canvas to the light, tears welling up in his eyes. So many thoughts rushed through his head, so many things he wanted to say, but words seemed so resoundingly inadequate. Viktor broke the silence.
“It’s something I learned at Ma’agan Michael. Remember how we all had to develop overlapping skill sets? One of my duties was sewing. I really enjoyed it back then. It was a welcome break from the fields. It’s rather sloppy. I’m afraid I’m a bit out of practice.”
Before Robert could clear the lump from his throat, a knock rattled the aluminum door and a voice called out, “Okay, my friend. We are ready.” And the two men joined the engineers outside.
With a final embrace, Viktor left Robert on the sandy path and climbed up onto the flatbed where the Device glowed ethereally in the darkness. The fleet of generators parked in tandem along the beach road was throttling up, their exhaust pipes displacing the seaborne mists with acrid black smoke. Electric cables, thick as a fire hose, snaked out of the night, connecting to one end of the Device. After some final instructions from the engineers, Viktor gazed wistfully into the star-studded blackness overhead before squeezing himself through the access port at the opposite end of the trailer. Then without a single word to mark the historic event, the countdown began. The pitch of the generators rose, the huge diesel engines now roaring, belching hot plumes of exhaust, transmitting a tremendous surge of power through the cables. Robert turned away, staring out into the dark Mediterranean. As the ground trembled with a deep-throated hum, the air around the trailer seemed to flutter, and with a high-frequency ripping sound, Viktor was gone.
CHAPTER 61
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The light stung his eyes as he was pushed through the archway and out into the dazzling sunshine. The leg irons binding him to the other prisoners already chafed his ankles and the shackles bit into his wrists. But it felt magnificent to be outside. Looking behind him, the forbidding towers of the Antonia Fortress loomed above the courtyard. So that’s where they’ve been holding us. He had no memory of how he had gotten there, or why. He clearly remembered reaching Jerusalem and the earthquake and the solar eclipse and…and everything after that receded into an ever-deepening mire. The hysteria of the city, the violence, Golgotha, it was all a blur.
Viktor was in surprisingly good spirits, having fared well in the Roman dungeon. He had learned his lessons well, years ago in Caesarea, back when he had first met Shimon in the garrison prison. Despite his faults, the Zealot commander had been a natural-born survivor, and Viktor had followed his example faithfully. In the first days of captivity—moving carefully through the crowded cell—he had managed to identify three rebel survivors of the battle at Qumran. Banding together, they had established a measure of safety from the brutes that preyed upon the weak and vulnerable. With his comrades watching his back, he was able to sleep through the night and spend the long captive days systematically exercising his mind and body, steadily regaining his strength and clarity. He eagerly consumed whatever repulsive nourishment was pushed through the bars. He ate his share. He ate what the others wouldn’t. He scavenged clothes from the dead. When the guards sought to amuse themselves by dousing the prisoners with buckets of water, he stood at the bars, an easy target, gratefully rinsing the filth from his body. Taking advantage of every opportunity that presented itself, including the compassionate attention of an imprisoned Levite physician, he managed to pull himself together. Shimon would have been proud. Things were going as well as could have been expected, considering the circumstances. And then the blacksmiths had come in with the chains.
Along with the other shackled prisoners, he was herded into a courtyard where a handful of Roman and Sanhedrin dignitaries lounged under a bright yellow canopy. Obviously important men, the group was surrounded by a contingent of legionnaires, commanded by an imposing officer on an aggressive black
horse. Viktor knew this centurion by name, Lucilius Germanicus, the powerful primus pilus of the first cohort of the 10th Legion, and Septimus Salvo’s devoted friend. Shrinking down behind the man in front of him, Viktor attempted to conceal his face as the centurion paced his steed back and forth between the ranks of prisoners. Under the canopy, one of the Romans rose and stepped forward to address the prisoners.
“You men are all guilty of sedition against Rome and you have been sentenced to death for your crimes,” he proclaimed with a yawn.
The prisoners all began talking at once. But there was little of the begging and weeping and praying that had accompanied that same verdict years ago in Caesarea. Viktor noticed a marked change in attitude among the prisoners toward the Romans. Almost to a man, the captive Jews hated the occupiers with an intensity that transcended their fear. Now they were openly cursing their captors. The Roman raised his arms for silence, which did not come until the guards waded into the throng, swinging brass-tipped leather whips. The captives quieted down and the speaker continued.
“But today you can thank your lucky stars. The gods have smiled down upon you. By decree of Emperor Tiberius Caesar Augustus, you are all receiving a reprieve in honor of the festival of Venus, the goddess of love and the divine mother of the Roman people. And thanks to our generous and merciful governor…” Turning to his right, he gestured toward a dark and severe-looking man, who glared sullenly at the captive audience. “You shall be spared and allowed to earn your redemption working for the greater glory of Rome. Well, most of you will be spared.” He pointed to the mounted centurion who continued to wheel his horse through the angry prisoners. “That is, unless our esteemed primus pilus feels that you pose a threat to the peace. Then you will be immediately executed.” The speaker paused and grinned as if this was a grand joke. “After just one year of service, you will be set free to return to your lives and your families. For this, too, you should be thankful to our generous and merciful governor.” With a dramatic flourish, he turned once again to the imperial prefect, who cut him off with a tight-lipped glare and a sharp chop of his hand. “That is all,” he hastily concluded.
Halfway down the row, Lucilius Germanicus pointed to two captives and moved on. The prisoners were promptly set upon by a group of soldiers and a blacksmith who removed their irons before they were dragged out of the courtyard. Now silenced, the captives bowed their heads, unwilling to meet the hard gaze of the centurion as he steered his jumpy mount between the ranks of prisoners. Viktor stared down at his feet as the horse came to a stop right before him. Pawing the ground, the restless animal raised clouds of choking dust. Victor held his breath, hoping the centurion would move on. He didn’t.
“You there, raise your head,” the centurion commanded.
Viktor complied as much as he dared, the prisoners on both sides of him shrinking away, pulling the chains taut.
“Do I not know you from somewhere?” the centurion asked.
“No.”
“I am sure I know you from somewhere. I never forget a face.” Lucilius Germanicus dismounted and towered over the captive. Placing a hand under his chin, he lifted Viktor’s face to the sunshine. “Yes, I am sure I know you.”
The surrounding prisoners were putting as much space between themselves and Viktor as was possible in their circumstance, pulling in opposite directions. Fighting to keep his limbs in their sockets, he strained against his companions’ panicked retreat, his muscles shuddering with the effort.
Something seemed to register with the centurion, and his ferocious scowl softened. He leaned close, his breath hot in Viktor’s ear, the smell of equine, sweat, and leather sharp in Viktor’s nose. “Are you not from Caesarea? I am warning you, do not lower your head again or I swear by the gods I shall remove it right where you stand. Now look at me. Are you not the adopted son of Septimus Salvo?”
Viktor shook his head.
“I am sure of it. I have seen you numerous times at my friend’s villa in Caesarea. We shared meals together. Why do you lie? The last time I spoke to Septimus, he was ill and uncharacteristically sad. He told me his son had left him and he was worried sick over it. He was certain you had run afoul of the Zealots and asked me to keep an eye out for you. I promised him I would do so, and the gods have placed you here before me. And yet you deny him. What have you got yourself entangled in? Have you joined this rabble? Are you guilty of sedition against Rome? It will surely kill your father to learn of this…his own son betraying him like a skulking jackal. What in the name of Jupiter are you doing here? Answer me!”
Viktor offered no response.
“Do you know where these soldiers are taking you? Do you know the nature of this service, this redemption? Not one of you will survive a month in those salt pits. Just tell me that you are a Salvo and I will take you out of here immediately. I will see that you are returned to your father unharmed. Save yourself, you fool. If you die this way, it will surely kill your father. Can you not comprehend that? Tell me who you are.”
He waited for an answer. Still, the prisoner said nothing.
“So you have nothing to say? It appears you are too selfish to care anything about your father. He spoiled you with his kindness and you have turned against all he believes in. He gave you everything a man could want and you just throw it away like sour wine. And for what? To kill innocent Roman citizens? To wage a futile war against the might of Rome? Is that it? Do you think what you do will make any difference? Wake up, you fool!”
A brutal slap sent Viktor sprawling in the dust, pulling down the entire line of shackled prisoners in a tangle. The centurion stepped forward, looming over Viktor, leveling a thick accusatory finger.
“You disgust me,” he hissed. “This whole stinking land disgusts me. The Hebrew people are a senseless people. Your minds are twisted. Your actions are despicably perverse. You refuse to take the easy path. You love to suffer. And I no longer care to play a part in your tragedy. You choose to spare the lives of bloodthirsty criminals while condemning the innocent to death, just to spite us Romans. You willingly go to your death just to make a point. What do you expect to gain by this? It is your loss, not ours. Not five days past, I had to release a murderer and execute an innocent man in his stead. The Hebrew mob demanded it! It is insanity! This was an extraordinary man and I hung him on a tree like a goat carcass. I watched the life drain from his body and I am sickened by the whole affair. Such a waste. The entire lot of you is not worth the dust from the bottom of that man’s sandals. I shall not squander another grain of time on the likes of you. If you wish to continue on the path to your destruction, then so be it. I wash my hands of you. Speak now or surrender to your fate, you self-absorbed fool. What say you?”
Viktor said nothing.
CHAPTER 62
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Marching due south out of Jerusalem, the guards drove the prisoners along an ancient footpath through the desolate Judean wilderness. Down past Bethlehem and Herodium and Hebron, the column steered clear of all habitation and comfort. With little food, no shelter, and barely enough water to keep the heartiest of the men alive, desert heat and Roman brutality transformed the journey into a death march. The guards whipped stragglers mercilessly. Those too weak to continue were unchained and pitched down into the dry gullies to perish under the sun, spending their last hours in hopelessness and torment, their flesh devoured and their bones scattered by creatures of the night. Any perceived act of defiance was met with immediate and wantonly indiscriminate violence. It was a nightmare within a nightmare in an unending succession of nightmares. Somehow Viktor hung on. He didn’t even know why anymore. The vitality he had regained in the dungeon was gone. Forced to endure the unendurable, he lost heart, his humanity withering under the pitiless sun and the brutality of the sadistic guards. With his whole existence little more than one agonizing moment after another, his intellect shut down and he descended into animality. Like the lowly field mouse, he lived for the next sip of muddy
water, the next crust of bread, a patch of sand on which to lay his bones. He couldn’t think beyond that. There was nothing beyond that. Sleepwalking through a living hell, where death beckoned from every crag and crevice that flanked the endless trail, he endured. He knew not why.
More than half of the prisoners were dead by the time they topped the rise and looked upon their final destination. Down below, an inland sea flashed blindingly in the sun, the air above the water wavering like hot oil in a cauldron. The surrounding hills—scorched and sculpted into fantastical shapes—were completely devoid of life, the superheated air thick with salt dust. Trudging on, they dropped into the valley and approached the shoreline, stumbling past the flats where slaves toiled in blistering evaporation pits scraping salt crust from the bedrock. Hunched, emaciated, and coated with the caustic grit, the pitiful workers resembled a legion of walking dead. Here, the shackled column of broken men would join their condemned brethren. It was the place where they would serve the Roman Empire. It was the place where they would earn their redemption. The prisoners could plainly see it for what it was. It was a place of no return.
Shielding his burning eyes from the glare, the salt dust already stinging his lungs, Viktor listlessly surveyed his surroundings. Up ahead, inside a rough stone barricade atop a flat outcropping, stood the workers’ domicile. Consisting of little more than a canopy of tattered sailcloth that cast a meager scrap of shade upon the scorching rock, a firepit, and a scattering of sleeping mats, it would be his home. Beyond the camp, a mass grave barely concealed the remains of fallen workers. A fate he would soon share. A fact he accepted without emotion. To the left lay the Roman encampment. And there on a small hill beside the trail, a white-haired white-bearded figure dressed in a dazzling white robe solemnly watched the procession pass by. Surely, Yahweh had come down to deliver his people from this torment. Surely, he had heard their cries. But no…it was just an old man. Beside him stood a pretty girl.
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