“Eliana, I meant every word I said. But it is not the right time. There is still something I need to do. Maybe once I complete this task, I will feel that I belong here. Maybe then I can be a proper husband to you.”
“Something you need to do? Are going away again?”
“Yes. I need to go to the Galilee.”
“The Galilee? And you expect me to just sit here while you roam the countryside risking your life again? Do you expect me to lie awake every night wondering if you are still alive? Wondering if you were cut down in some battle…or rotting in a Roman prison? Is that what you expect? Well, I cannot do that any longer, Viktor Salvo. I want a husband, not a memory.”
“Eliana, wait.”
Viktor reached for the girl’s hand but she was already on her feet, scampering up the pathway toward her father’s house, tears streaming down her cheeks.
CHAPTER 66
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Viktor spent the languorous days wandering Yehuda’s orchards. Sometimes reclining on the banks of the river, he watched the Jordan make its way to the Salt Sea from its headwaters in the Galilee. The watercourse ran free and the valley was quiet. No prophets broke the silence. No soldiers disturbed the peace. Only the whisper of the breeze and the gurgle of water reached his ears. Sometimes he watched travelers on the road to Jerusalem, wondering who they were, who their descendants would turn out to be. Did he know them? Had he fought beside them in the IDF? Did any of them grow up at Ma’agan Michael? At night he observed the spectacular show in the crystalline skies overhead. The expanse of the celestial display never ceased to amaze him. He could lose himself for hours. It was exactly the therapy he needed. Up there among the stars, all the tangled loyalties and responsibilities and conflicting emotions fell away from his troubled mind. His thoughts ran clear for the first time since that night on Golgotha, maybe for the first time since he had splashed down on that storm-tossed beach. He had been stumbling blindly through the darkness. He could now see a light at the end of the tunnel. That light was Eliana.
Eliana was smart and strong and beautiful, so much like he remembered his mother to be. He’d have to be a fool to pass up such a woman, and he vowed not to let that happen. Despite his vague promises and evasive explanations, despite her tears and her fears, she had refused to give up on him. With persistence and affection, she had healed him inside and out. She built him up and then she set him straight, telling him things he didn’t want to hear, but needed to hear. In her plain-spoken, gracious manner, she patiently showed him how his self-absorption and indifference was hurting the people who loved him. She told him that he was hiding behind his obligations, using commitments and duties to keep people from getting close to him. She told him many things. And he listened.
The girl had hit the nail squarely on the head. Viktor could see it so clearly now. She was absolutely right—more right than she could possibly have known—not only in the present, but in that other life, too. After the tragic death of his mother, he had slowly withdrawn from all meaningful personal contact. He had placed duty before his personal life, had put duty between himself and his humanity. That was how he had treated his father, his sister, his grandparents, and every girl he had ever known. And after all this time, he was still doing it, still carrying out a mission, still executing his duties. He was an undercover agent, a mole, an observer. Eliana had showed him the error of his ways. This wasn’t a mission. This was life. And life was passing him by. He had to get his head straight.
Getting his mind straight was no small feat. Viktor’s obsessive dedication to duty was only part of the problem. For years, he had lived with a sword hanging over his head, had felt its grievous presence every single day. He knew with absolute soul-crushing certainty what was coming. In less than forty years, the Temple in Jerusalem would be destroyed. The Jewish people would revolt, only to be slaughtered, enslaved, and banished from their homeland, condemned to wander the earth in persecution. This was not a future that might be, as in some Dickensian novel. This was reality. There was nothing he could do about it. And the knowing had alienated him from humankind in ways he never thought possible. Yet somewhere in the back of his mind, he still carried the hope that maybe he could do something to alter the approaching cataclysm. That maybe he should do something about it. That maybe he was meant to do something about it. His many brushes with death had only served to reinforce that delusion. He wondered if his inexplicable survival was being driven by some arcane mechanism of time, that time itself was keeping him alive for some purpose. He had been monumentally confused. Eliana had changed all that. He could now see that his survival was the result of the selfless acts of flesh-and-blood people motived by love, not time paradoxes. His confusion might have been a natural consequence of time travel. Maybe it was the very reason why the physicists demanded that he achieve his Primary Objective without delay. They probably guessed that any individual, no matter how well trained, would eventually lose themselves in the conceptual quagmire of what was, what is, what will be, and what should be done about it.
Eliana had opened his eyes. She helped him see how many lives he had touched, and how many lives had touched his. There was Septimus Salvo, the man who had saved him from death and assumed the role of father. A man who generously provided him with a life of comfort and privilege. And sweet little Anthea, who loved him like a brother. A girl tough enough to face down a pack of cutthroat bandits, who wept like a baby at his departure. Shimon, who rescued him from the Romans to became his leader in a doomed war of liberation. Tamir, a comrade who paid the ultimate price for his patriotism. Yehuda, the pious man who sheltered him, nurtured him, and was willing to die for him. Eliana, an exceptional woman who believed in him and loved him unconditionally. Even the Roman centurion, who had become his unintentional protector. And all those generous strangers along his journey who had taken him in and shared what little they had. These were real people, not pawns in a covert operation, not some cosmic contrivance. What had he been thinking? He wanted to beat his head against a rock in shame. He was not alone. He had never been alone, not since that first day in Caesarea. He had been wallowing in self pity and delusion. He had to change. He had to do right by these good people. It was too late to make amends with his biological family. He had to accept the miserable fact that they were far beyond his reach. He had to accept that fact and move on.
Viktor had tarried for far too long; he knew that now. He should have accomplished his Primary Objective long ago and gotten on with his life. He had to live in the here and now. There were people here who loved him, who deserved his love. All these good people had accepted him despite his strangeness. From now on, he would do right by them. That was his destiny. Let history run its course without him. There was nothing he could do about it. What was to be, would be. It was the will of the Almighty. He had comprehended that powerful truth the afternoon he had walked the crest of Mount Carmel, basking so joyously in the Almighty’s presence. But that divinely inspired wisdom had quickly succumbed to the desolation of poor Gabae and the conflicts of his troubled homeland. Eliana had helped him recapture that truth, and he vowed to preserve it in his heart. Any good he might be able to do with his life, he would accomplish one righteously ordinary act at a time.
Yehuda’s orchards provided Viktor a peace he had never known before. It gave him the time and the space to think. And with Eliana’s guidance, the intense introspection had wrought a profound change. He had been reborn. But he wasn’t quite ready to let the old Viktor go. Not yet. Because there was one thing he could still do for the man he had left behind, something he had promised. It no longer was about the Team or the Project or the Primary Objective. That whole endeavor had lost its relevance. And it wasn’t about changing history. This was something much more personal. This was about fulfilling a promise to the father he would never again lay eyes upon. It would be his final farewell, forever closing the chapter on his previous life. He needed to tell his father that a man named
Jesus did indeed walk the earth. Although he had never seen the rabbi with his own eyes, he was certain the man existed. That was all he knew for sure. It was the best he could do. The rabbi was dead.
So before he got on with his new life, he needed to leave a message in one of the tombs his father had identified. Tel Megiddo seemed to be the most promising. To accomplish that, he would have to take to the road again. Eliana was not happy with that decision, and neither was Yehuda. He wanted to be truthful with them. They deserved it. But how could he? They would think he’d gone mad. So he concocted a story about visiting Tamir’s father in the Galilee to inform the old man of his son’s demise, tactfully refusing Eliana’s offer to accompany him. He had to go alone. It would be the final act of Viktor Jankowski.
CHAPTER 67
Present-Day Israel
As the years passed, Professor Robert Jankowski continued to work like a man possessed—opening new dig sites, pushing field crews to their limits, touring the lecture circuit, and supplying a prolific wealth of knowledge to the annals of archeology. In the opulent offices of prosperous entrepreneurs and the boardrooms of multinational corporations, he relentlessly solicited endowments and grants to fund an ever-growing catalogue of archeological ventures across Israel. His fund-raising efforts made him the darling of the university’s administration. Colleagues and rivals alike admired his unflagging dedication to his work. In lecture halls, he challenged students to keep their eyes and their minds open to whatever truths they might uncover in their exploration of antiquity. Class after class of students eagerly sought the opportunity to work under the guidance of the master. They learned and they were inspired and they dutifully laughed at his request to be on the lookout for a tomb inscribed with his name. After a while it became a part of his lore, a silly old joke perpetuated by a brilliantly eccentric professor. It was said that if you found the name Jankowski on a tomb, the old guy would vanish in a puff of smoke and immediately become an artifact of the history he had dedicated his life to preserving.
However, close friends and colleagues did not view his peculiar request as a joke. The Robert Jankowski they knew was neither silly nor eccentric. He was an exceptional scholar, a talented educator, a nurturing mentor, and he appeared to be dead serious about the inscription. When they questioned him, he explained that it was a way to keep the young archeologists vigilant. It was simply an amusing device to keep them from becoming complacent, to keep them from assuming they already knew what they would unearth. His explanation satisfied some. Others noted that his persistence with the joke bordered on obsession. But they respected his impressive body of work, so they let it go. All except Janka, who became increasingly concerned with her father’s mental state.
After nearly two decades had passed without recovering a message from Viktor, the Team at the Technion-Israel Institute finally wished Robert well and cut him loose. They told him it was over. The Project had been terminated. He had completed the excavation of every site he had identified in the original plan, and then some. And the results had all been negative. They told him they were forced to conclude that his project was a failure. They were sorry, but they had to move on to more productive avenues of research. There were many new faces at the compound. Most of the original Team had long since departed. And the new Team was moving in a different direction. They never disclosed to him whether any of the other sub-teams had been successful. They didn’t have to. Their contemptuous attitude said it all.
Regardless of what the Team thought, Robert Jankowski continued on with his work and his search. He couldn’t give up on either. It’s what kept him going. To give up would be to acknowledge that Viktor hadn’t survived the Jump, that the boy’s sacrifice had been in vain. He couldn’t accept that. Despite his age, his mind was still sharp. But a lifetime of crawling around excavations had taken a toll on his body. Aches and pain were his chronic companions. Still he refused to give up, pushing himself beyond all reasonable expectation. Publically, his story was one of enormous success and achievement. Privately, he wallowed in bitter failure.
Ignoring the increasingly cold reception, Robert managed to maintain contact with one of the original Team members, checking in every twelve months or so, until even that fragile connection vanished. Subsequent inquiries were met with denial, and then with a disheartening silence. Still, Robert refused to give up. Eventually his persistence resulted in a visit from two sleazy creeps in Versace suits, representing some unnamed agency, seething with innuendo and thinly veiled threats. “There isn’t now, nor has there ever been, a Team or a Device or a time-travel project,” they told him. “The Technion-Israel Institute, the Israeli Science Bureau, and the Ministry of Defense order you to cease and desist from inquiries regarding any such project,” they said. Up to this point, out of deference for his social and academic standing, his behavior had been tolerated; he had been treated with all due respect. But any further indulgence in his irrational fantasies would result in significant financial, legal, and even criminal consequences. They told him to think about his work, to consider his academic legacy. They told him the same thing ten different ways. When Robert could stand no more, he ordered them out of his office.
A few months later, after responding to a time-travel blog linked to an obscure science-fiction website, Robert was summoned to the office of the chancellor of Tel Aviv University. In a brusque meeting, he was informed that due to massive budget cuts, the Department of Archeology was being reorganized, staff was being reduced, and he was advised to retire while his pension was still available. Colleagues supported him as best they could. But in the end he stood alone.
So that was it. His tenure had been revoked. He considered moving on to another university, maybe even back to the States. But Israel was his home. He considered going public, blowing the whole story wide open before the government could stop him. But he didn’t have the courage. Without corroboration, he knew that the whole thing sounded preposterous. At best, he would come across like some raving old crackpot. Worst case scenario…well…the government had ways of making a troublemaker disappear. Anyway, he didn’t have the energy. He had worked so hard for so long. Maybe he should just let it go. Nothing he did now would bring Viktor back. He could use the free time to finish one of his many neglected manuscripts. Maybe write a memoir. Maybe just get more sleep. Lately he had been feeling so damn tired. More sleep sounded surprisingly appealing.
It wasn’t so bad, not really. Tel Aviv University had been good to him, had given him a good life, had given him the vehicle to achieve world-class status. Within his narrowly defined universe, he was a superstar. His work defined the textbooks. And now it was time to let go. Janka had set up a small apartment down the street from her home in the suburbs, just a stone’s throw from the beach. It wouldn’t be so bad. In fact it would have been easy to move on, if only things had worked out differently. If only he knew what had become of Viktor…his brave, unselfish Viktor.
CHAPTER 68
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
Viktor stirred river water into the bucket of clay and added a handful of chopped straw. Spreading the stiff mixture in a thick layer on top of the previous course, he hefted a large irregular stone and set it into the adobe mortar, tamping it solidly into place. He had been working since daybreak and the tumbled-down section of wall was already looking much better. The waist-high stone enclosure marked the western edge of Yehuda’s property, bordering the road to Jerusalem where it rose gradually out of Jericho toward the rugged Judean hills. The wall was ancient and showing its age, and Viktor resolved to complete the repairs before he departed for the Galilee. It was the least he could do for Yehuda, though the man asked nothing in return for his generosity. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Viktor picked up a goat skin and drank deeply. Soon he would have to retreat to the shade and return when it had cooled off a bit. His young body had mended and the physical labor was helping him regain his strength. But the sun was not so forgiving. S
ince the forced march through the Judean wilderness, the intense heat of afternoon could still bring on bouts of dizziness.
The sun was high and the temperature was soaring. Few travelers walked the road. Resting beneath a drooping pomegranate, images of the past few years streamed through Viktor’s mind. What an amazing ride it had been. He could appreciate that now; now that his confusion had lifted like a fog. Having accepted that he was little more than a mote of dust in the cosmic scheme of things had freed him from the overwhelming personal responsibility for the future of his people. He was just a man. The concept was both liberating and comforting. For the first time, in a long time, he was at peace. Dozing, his idle mind toyed with the concepts and perceptions of his unique experience. No longer lost in a dark labyrinth of his own invention, he let the ideas flow unimpeded.
The more he thought about it, the more it amazed him how things had turned out. And how—here in this ancient time and place—he had found so many good people. Found them? More like they had found him. Was it all coincidence? Luck? What forces were at work? He had faced more than his share of challenges since his arrival. What was behind those obstacles? Was the cosmos trying to rid the time continuum of an intruder, like some cosmic autoimmune system? Was his existence in the past like a foreign pathogen, with humankind acting as a sort of antibody, attempting to rid the host of disease? Yet again and again someone had come to his rescue. Was humankind a wild card in the mechanism of time? Did mankind’s life force oppose the influence of time? Or was it the opposite? His eyes closed to the midday glare, Viktor let these unfathomable mysteries float through his newly opened mind. Every time that events seemed to fall into some kind of order, to align in some kind of cosmic symmetry, the fragile construct would dissipate like wood smoke in the wind. But he wasn’t disappointed. Greater minds than his had pondered those same questions for millennia without resolution. Theologians, philosophers, scientists, they were all just guessing. Even from his unique perspective, he knew he would never have the answers. And he didn’t care. He was at peace. Contentment settled over him like a loving embrace, and slumber was just beginning to touch his consciousness when a loud, jubilant voice exploded in his ear.
The Emmanuel Project Page 22
