The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  “Shalom, my friend. Sorry to wake you. But I sure could use a drink from that goat skin of yours. The sun is fierce and the road is dusty. A swallow of water would be much appreciated. A taste of wine would be even better.”

  Viktor pulled himself back to reality and tossed the bladder to the burly stranger, his eyes gradually readjusting to the bright sunshine. “It is only water. Go ahead and drink your fill. The day grows hot. I am about to quit for now.”

  “Quit what? Sleeping? Better slow down, friend, or you might wear yourself out with all that strenuous dreaming.” The man threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Please do not take offense. I am only jesting. It is a bad habit of mine. Or so they tell me. I sincerely thank you for your kindness.”

  Viktor watched as the large man lifted the skin and directed the stream into his mouth, drinking until the bladder was nearly empty. Lustily wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robe, he grinned ferociously through a wildly untrimmed beard. Viktor noticed that he carried no water, no provisions, no packs, and no cloak. He possessed nothing but simple walking staff. His sandals were in ruins, his robe tattered and frayed at the sleeves.

  “Do you live here in Jericho?” Viktor asked.

  “No, my friend. I am from Capernaum. I long to see my home and I am on my way there now. I have had enough of Jerusalem to last a lifetime. It is a beautiful day for a journey. Is it not?”

  “Capernaum, you say? I have been searching for someone from there. Maybe you can help me. May I ask you a few questions?”

  The friendly grin dissolved from the stranger’s face. He offered no reply. Viktor pressed on, undeterred.

  “Have you ever heard of a rabbi named Yeshua?”

  Still no reply. Viktor could read suspicion in the man’s eyes, could see tension in the set of his massive shoulders, in the way he gripped the wooden staff.

  “He comes from the village of Nazareth. I understand he did much teaching in the Galilee…especially Capernaum. Do you know of him? Have you ever heard him speak?

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I learned about him while I was living in Caesarea. I heard he was an extraordinary teacher and I wanted to hear him for myself. I journeyed from Caesarea to the Galilee and down to Jerusalem, seeking him out. But he had always moved on before I arrived. I heard he was a healer, a maker of miracles. My father believed he was the son of God. I just wanted to see for myself. I just wanted to…well, never mind. Have yourself a pleasant journey. You would be wise to steer clear of the Roman garrison at Alexandrium.”

  “Your father thinks Yeshua is the son of God, does he?”

  “Yes,” Viktor replied, regretting that he revealed far too much.

  “Did your father know the Master?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Did he ever hear the Master speak?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “He never met the Master, yet he believes Yeshua to be the son of God.” The stranger pondered this for a long moment before continuing. “The Master told us, ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed. Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe.’ Your father is one of those people of which Yeshua spoke. One of those with great faith. I would like to meet this father of yours. I must speak to him. Is he here?”

  “No, he is not. He lives far away.”

  “Well, I hope to meet him someday. Blessed are the faithful,” the unkempt traveler declared, his eyes blazing. “Yes, I know Yeshua. I guess I know him as well as a man could. My brother James and I have followed the Master’s steps and listened to his words for more than two years now.”

  “What was he like?”

  “What was he like, you ask? Well, come along with me my friend and find out for yourself. My name is John, son of Zebedee, the master fisherman of Capernaum.”

  “It is too late. I know it. I was there…at Golgotha, I mean. It is too late for me.”

  “It is not too late. I tell you this, my friend. It is never too late. Come with me. Come see for yourself.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Ajet-black warhorse thundered down the road, raising choking clouds of dust in the ruddy twilight. Skidding to a stop before a wooden gate set into a tall stone wall, the animal reared up and wheeled around in a tight circle before settling down, its snout expelling jets of steam in the cool air, its hooves pawing the dry earth. Urging the horse closer, the centurion raised up in his saddle, attempting to see over the wall, but he could distinguish little in the fading light. Drawing his gladius, he pounded its pommel against the gate, the sound booming through the quiet compound beyond. Trailing behind, two young cavalry offices reined in their charging mounts and assumed defensive positions on each side of their commander, mortified at having been outpaced by the older man. One of the officers cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Te intus, patefacio porta,” he shouted. “Patefacio sursum pro primus pilus.”

  A frightened voice stammered from behind the gate, answering Latin with Hebrew. “Who-who is out there? I d-do not understand your words. What d-do you want?”

  “Is this the house of Yehuda Ben-Ephraim?” barked the mounted centurion.

  “Y-yes…yes, it is,” came the quivering reply.

  “Inform your master that he has an important visitor who wishes to speak with him. Go quickly.” The centurion turned to his aide. “Tacitus, do you expect everyone in this land to speak the mother tongue of Rome? If you want to advance in this army, I would advise you to learn the local languages, wherever you may be. Language is the key to governing people. If you are able to communicate with them, you will be a more effective commander.”

  As the soldiers waited, no further words passed between them. The evening silence was broken only by the snort of the horses and the call of a night bird. Presently, the gate creaked open and an old, white-haired, white-bearded man filled the opening. Close behind him stood a pretty girl.

  “Who are you?” the old man demanded. “What do you want with me?”

  “I am Lucilius Germanicus, primus pilus of the first cohort of the 10th Legion of the Imperial Army of Rome.”

  A pained expression twisted the old man’s face. “Please excuse me if I am not impressed with your pompous title. Arrogant trespassers come and go rather frequently in this land. Every single one full of conceit and swagger and vainglorious titles. It is tediously difficult to keep you all straight. So please just answer my question so I can return to my dinner. What do you want with me, Roman?”

  “I am not interested in wasting my time bantering with another provocateur. You old Jews love to play with words and it has been a long ride. Your manner already tires me. I am looking for a slave who belongs to an eminent Roman citizen and personal friend of mine, named Septimus Salvo. Septimus informed me that the slave resides here with you. His name is Viktor. Bring him out.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “I need to speak with him. I have an urgent message regarding his master. Please bring him out here at once.”

  “I cannot do so.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is not here.”

  “Septimus led me to believe that you rescued the slave from the salt pits, and he now resides in your household. I will not harm him. I just want to talk to him.”

  “Perhaps my words are inadequate or maybe you are not accustomed to listening. I told you. He is not here. He left several days ago. He did not say where he is bound.”

  “You know, old man, I could come in there and look for myself. I have every right to do so.”

  “You have the right, you say? You may have the power, but you do not have the right. You Romans perpetually confuse the two. You have no right to enter my property without my permission. You have no right to occupy my ancestral homeland. You have no right to collect taxes. You have no right to impose your laws or your petty gods. You have no right to brutalize my people. You hold down a people who are greater than you. You
do it with the sword. Without the sword, Rome is nothing.”

  “As I said, I have no interest in engaging in a debate with you. I am just trying to help a friend. He told me you are a reasonable man. Yet all I see is another angry and hateful Jew. But I will take you at your word. If you say the slave is gone, then he is gone. I am heading up the valley toward the Galilee. If you tell me where he went, I might still be able to find him.”

  “I have nothing more to say to you…Roman. You have the blood of my people on your hands. You are the destroyer of nations. The slaughterer of the innocent. The enemy of reason.”

  The centurion reined his horse away from the gate, but stopped and turned in his saddle to face the old man. “To the best of my knowledge, the blood on my sword is not innocent blood. I have never intentionally killed an innocent man. The blood I have shed has been in battle. I faced my enemy and I prevailed. It was just and honorable. It is your people who skulk around in the shadows like dogs, intent on butchering innocent Romans at every turn. And that will never be tolerated. I offer no apologies. If Rome seems brutal to you, it is because we are trying to preserve order in this chaotic land of yours. I will not debate politics or religion with you. I am a soldier. I serve no one but Rome. Rome is good at heart. Rome brings order and safety and trade and prosperity. I have seen it with my own two eyes, at the very ends of this earth. In your land I see nothing but jealousy and deceit and corruption. I see ignorance and greed. I see laws without purpose. I see counterfeit kings. I see hypocrite priests living like princes off the ignorance of the poor. I see beggars and thieves and murderers. You are not a great people. You will never be a great people. You are a little people. Your nation will always be weak. You will always wear a yoke. That is your destiny.”

  “Go away from my house. Leave us be.”

  “I do not know why I feel the need to justify myself to you. I guess I am just getting old. Regardless of what you may believe, I do not intend to hurt the boy. I just want to talk to him. I tried to save him back in Jerusalem. But he is just another stiff-necked, hardheaded Jew. He refused to cooperate, so I left him to taste the bitter consequences of his actions. This is different. The boy’s father Septimus Salvo has died. The boy needs to be told. I owe it to Septimus. He was a good friend to me for many years. And he was devoted to this slave Viktor. How that came to be, I do not know and I do not care. It is my duty to fulfill my friend’s final wishes. Tonight, I will stay at Herod’s palace up the Wadi Qelt. Tomorrow, I will head north on the valley road. My route will take me past this house. If you can manage to look beyond your hatred, and you change your mind, give me a sign.”

  CHAPTER 70

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  The wind blew cold, gathering speed as it funneled into the Wadi Qelt, its icy tendrils hungrily seeking out any exposed flesh. Eliana gathered her cloak tightly around her neck and carefully picked her way along the darkened road. To the right, the hill rose sharply, a jumbled mass of fractured bedrock. To the left, the ravine dropped down into complete darkness. The moon had yet to rise and the hillside seemed to soak up the starlight like a dry ocean sponge. The girl could barely distinguish the road from the abyss, cautiously seeking firm footing with every step. And with every step, her imagination conjured up empty space beneath her sandal and a long fall to the jagged rocks below. Still, she never once considered turning back to the shelter of her home.

  Since childhood, Eliana had watched travelers climb this road to the palace that straddled the chasm above, observing the mysterious and sometimes bizarre processions from the shade of her father’s orchard in the valley below. Yet she had never set foot upon it until now, and for good reason. It was the path to iniquity. Up ahead lay everything her father had warned her against, everything her father despised. Up ahead lay Herod’s domain, a place of wickedness, ungodliness, and abomination. It was a grim prospect. Yet, shivering in the rising wind, she pushed on.

  Hardly more than a cart path cut into the steep flank of the wadi, it was not the luxurious approach she had expected. It was rough and steep, and her legs began to grow weary. Up ahead, two huge torches blazed in the darkness. As she drew closer their glow gradually illuminated the path, and with her fear of falling abating, Eliana quickened her pace. Passing between the two stone monoliths that flanked the road, she stepped into the magnificent forecourt of the palace. The marble façade of the building sparkled in the rippling torchlight. Its massive proportions drew her eyes to a soaring white portico that seemed to pierce the night sky like a colossal javelin, its richly engraved pediment supported by slender columns of pink sandstone. Beyond the portico, a bridge of tight stone arches spanned the steep wadi. The structure on the other side of the ravine was smaller, but multileveled, with baths and terraces that cascaded down the incline. That side of the palace blazed with a multitude of torches and firepits, the comforting sounds of lute and lyre and laughter wafting warmly across the abyss. Eliana had gazed up at Herod’s winter palace since she was a child, her imagination running wild. Now up close, she realized it was even grander than she had ever imagined. It was like a little piece of Jerusalem set down in the wilderness. She stood in the shadow of the monoliths, mesmerized by the sight.

  “You there. Come out into the light where we can see you.”

  Eliana froze, turned toward the voice. Two palace guards stood at rigid attention just inside the portico, nearly invisible behind the colonnade. Each held a lance across his chest, a sword and dagger hung from their belts.

  “Step out into the light. Do it now.”

  Eliana complied, boldly stepping forward, more boldly than she felt.

  “What have we here?” one guard said with a sneer. “A pretty little river lily out alone on such a cold night. What are you doing here, pretty little river lily?”

  “I have come to speak to the Roman centurion Lucilius Germanicus.”

  “So you have come out here in the dark of night to speak to the great primus pilus. Is that so?”

  “Yes, that is correct. He visited my father’s house earlier and I have some information for him.”

  The two guards left their posts and sauntered toward the girl. She wanted to flee, but stood her ground as the men moved closer. One reached out to pull the shawl from her head. The other grasped her arm and spun her toward the light of the torch.

  “What a pretty flower you are,” one guard taunted.

  “I can just imagine what urgent information you have for the primus pilus,” said the other. “It sure is cold out here. Why don’t you warm us up? Why don’t you give us a little information? I am sure you have enough information for everybody.”

  Eliana pulled free of the grasping men. “Get your hands off me. Have you no honor? Have you no decency?”

  “Honor? Decency? Ha! Those are hollow words coming from a harlot. A harlot who is willing to lie with a stinking Roman.”

  The two louts continued to make sport of the girl, crowding her, pulling at her cloak. Eliana fended off their coarse advances as best she could, using her agility to keep away. She wanted to run. She knew she could quickly outdistance them, and surely they wouldn’t stray too far from their posts. But rushing headlong down the steep path beside the wadi in absolute darkness would be suicide. So she just kept moving, hoping they would tire of their game. Hoping they would come to their senses. They didn’t. The more she struggled, the more excited they became, their leering faces looking more like jackals than men. She realized they weren’t going to stop and she hated them for it. She either had to flee or snatch a dagger that hung from their belts and plunge it into their throats. Opting for escape, she was about to bolt for the relative safety of the darkness when she heard a faint tinkling of bells coming from the dimness of the wadi bridge. The guards immediately stopped their mean-spirited amusement—a look of abject terror upon their faces—as a pale and slender form floated gracefully through the portal and into the forecourt.

  “You heard me. Unhand that girl and get back
to your posts immediately,” the woman commanded. “How dare you treat a visitor to my home in such a manner? I shall report your conduct to the master. And you shall be punished severely.”

  The tormentors had become the tormented. “Please, my lady, do not report us,” they whined. “We were only inspecting the waif for weapons. You cannot be too careful these days, with the Zealots and all.”

  “Do not insult my intelligence. How dare you be so insolent? I saw what you were doing. Get back to your posts and pray that I decide to have mercy on you, because I know—and you know, too—that your master will not be merciful. If my memory serves me, the last time a guard took liberties with a local girl…well…let us just say he received his just rewards. Do you know what became of him?”

  The guards shook their heads.

  “No? Well, I believe he now guards a sultan’s harem somewhere in upper Syria. Such is the domain of the eunuch.”

  The two men stared back blankly.

  “Let me speak in terms you will understand. Do you two know what a gelding is?”

  As the guards scrambled back to their posts in the portico, the finely dressed lady took Eliana’s hand, the imperious voice now soft and kind. “Did they harm you?” she asked. “If they did, they will pay dearly.”

  Eliana shook her head. “No, I was not harmed.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. Do not be afraid. What is your name, child?”

  “I am Eliana. My father is Yehuda Ben-Ephraim. He owns the orchards down in the valley, at the mouth of the wadi.”