The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  Robert grunted as he swung his legs off the sofa and slowly pushed himself upright. He wasn’t young and he wasn’t sturdy. Aged joints and stiff muscles pained him, making every task a nagging effort. The air was hot and close and the dusty little apartment seemed to press in upon him. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted brightly through the window blinds, casting vivid stripes upon the table where the communication module demanded his attention. How he hated that sound. Eyes scanning the room until he was absolutely sure of where he was, he punched the accept button.

  “Yes?” he rasped. “That you, Janka? I must’ve fallen asleep. What time is it? Was I supposed to pick up the kids today?”

  “Hello? Professor Jankowski? Is that you, sir?”

  “Uhh, hold on a minute please.” Robert sat up a little straighter, smoothed back the corn-silk remnants of what had once been a thick shock of jet-black hair, and coughed roughly into his palm to clear the phlegm from his throat. And even though he had disabled the video function of the communicator long ago, he vainly attempted to rejuvenate his damp sleep-wrinkled shirt, fumbling with the irritatingly tiny buttons. Finally mustering a sufficient degree of dignity, he answered. “Good afternoon, this is Robert Jankowski.”

  “Shalom, Professor. It’s Aaron Gitelman.”

  “Aaron Gitelman?”

  “Yes, sir. I was one of your graduate assistants at Tel-Aviv University. I worked on the Tel-Megiddo excavations with you. Remember? We coauthored a paper tracing the evolution of early Christian burial chamber iconography. We received an award from the American Journal of Archeology…remember?”

  “I sure do,” Robert lied. Settling deep into the threadbare sofa, the old man laid his head back on the cushion, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. “How are you doing these days, son? Did you continue in archeology, or did you find yourself a more lucrative occupation?”

  “Yes sir, I’m still in archeology. I’m working for the Israel Antiquities Authority now. I also have a fellowship at Hebrew University. You started out there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I sure did. It’s a wonderful institution. I have many fond memories of that place. Is Dean Meir still there? No, of course he isn’t…what am I thinking? That was ages ago. Anyway, I’m proud of you, son. It’s always gratifying to hear that one of my students is doing so well. Weren’t you the one from Czechoslovakia…or was it Romania?”

  “I immigrated to Israel from Czechoslovakia, sir.”

  “That’s right. You did your undergraduate work at Charles University in Prague, did you not?”

  “Yes sir, that’s me.”

  “Of course…Aaron Gitelman…I remember you very well. You were one of the brightest students I had the privilege to work with. It’s all coming back to me now. I knew you’d be successful. I’m glad you stuck with archeology. It’s wonderful to hear from you, son. Keep up the good work. I hope everything turns out well for you. I have to be going now. I’m expecting a call from my daughter Janka,” Robert said, lying again. He had no interest in revisiting the past. These days, some memories were even harder to bear than the blasted forgetfulness. “I have to be going now. I wish you the best. Shalom, my friend.”

  “Wait, Professor. I need to talk to you. It’ll only take a minute.”

  The old man yawned, settling even deeper into the cushions, eyelids drooping as the fog of slumber began to collect in the low-lying recesses of his consciousness. He yawned again. “Yes, sure… What is it, son?”

  “Back in the old days, you often joked about having us look for your name in the excavations. Do you remember telling us that?”

  Robert sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. “Yes, I remember. Go on.”

  “Well, the strangest thing happened at our dig in Jericho. We’ve been working on a first-century necropolis at the mouth of Wadi Qelt near Herod’s winter palace. Last April, we uncovered an early Christian tomb. It was totally unexpected, since all the adjacent vaults at the site are obviously Judaic in origin. As you know, this is quite rare since most early Christians were Jews and adhered to Judaic burial customs. And because of the persecution, early Christian communities tended to be fairly insular. But this tomb is definitely early Christian. It has all the classic iconography around the burial niche.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “This vault is situated among what appears to be a wealthy extended family. And as I said, every other vault in the necropolis is definitely Jewish. Yet this one is decorated with all the symbols of early Christian believers. And there’s something else.”

  “Yes, Aaron, what is it?”

  “Well…the strangest part of all is the name of the individual interred there. As was customary, it is inscribed directly on the side panel of the ossuary. And I thought of you immediately.”

  “Okay Aaron, you have my undivided attention now. What does it say?”

  “First of all, the ossuary is badly deteriorated and parts have totally disintegrated. The lid itself had collapsed and fragments are mixed in with the remains. Still, we were able to obtain a relatively clear image of the inscription by using graphics-enhancement software. And the final results are…well…they’re quite baffling. The name itself contains a curiously unconventional amalgamation of cultures. And it is written in ancient Hebrew and repeated in what appears to be…please excuse me…I feel foolish even saying this. It is written in what appears to be Modern English.”

  “Aaron, please tell me, what does it say?”

  “Well, sir…believe it or not…the inscription says, ‘Viktor Jankowski Salvo.’”

  CHAPTER 74

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Aloud thump echoed through the spartan mud-brick dwelling. The two women turned toward the source of the sound, their eyes betraying their unease. Yoshi reached out and grasped Eliana’s hand, holding it protectively against her breast. Josef appeared from the adjoining room, sword in hand, advancing warily toward the heavily braced and bolted door. At the jamb he paused, listening intently, flinching as a fist pounded solidly against the wood once again. Then another thump, followed by a series of thumps, followed by a gruff voice.

  “You in there. Are you hard of hearing? It is Lucilius Germanicus. I want to speak with the girl. Open the door. It is cold as the heart of Hades out here.”

  His caution now focused into narrowed-eyed animosity, Josef did not lower his weapon, nor did he back down. He did not like the Roman. In fact, the beast made Josef’s blood boil. The man was an affront to everything Josef held dear. And having to spend another night in a Roman garrison did little to lighten his mood. The muscles bulged in his forearm as he gripped the sword with deadly intent, a racing pulse throbbing visibly in his neck. Eliana went to him and gently touched his shoulder.

  “It is all right, Josef. We are safe here. Put your weapon down. He means no harm. It is just his way.”

  Josef stood his ground, still eyeing the door with unconcealed hostility.

  “Go now. If I need help I will call out. I promise. Go on.”

  Reluctantly, the proud Jewish ironsmith left the girl’s side, joining Yoshi in the rear of the dwelling. Drawing back the stout metal bolt, Eliana opened the door and stepped aside as the burly centurion filled the opening, stooping to avoid the lintel.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were settled in and had your meal,” he said, awkwardly brushing at a spatter of wine that stained the front of his tunic. “It was a tiring ride today and I know a soldier’s quarters must seem rather rough to you. Are you in need of anything?”

  “No,” Eliana replied. “The accommodations are more than adequate. We are quite comfortable and we have eaten.”

  “Very good. Every garrison has lodging for guests and officials. It is usually reserved for Romans, but I promised your father I would look after you.”

  “We are fine. We appreciate your kindness and generosity.”

  “Very well then, I shall leave you to your slumbers. Tomorrow, we set off at first light. I want to reach Alexandrium befo
re the heat of the day, so be ready. I will leave you now.”

  The centurion’s actions belied his words. He did not depart, but stood self-conscious and unsure, his gaze wandering aimlessly around the room. A curious vulnerability touched his face, his eyes. Josef listened from the other room, hatred etched deep into his forge-weathered features, hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting for a signal from the girl. Waiting for the call for help. A call to action that he not-so-secretly craved. But a call that would unquestionably result in his own bloody destruction. Mercifully that call did not come. When he was absolutely certain that the girl would not come to any harm, he and Yoshi retired to their bedchamber, though he kept a restless vigil until he finally heard the Roman stomp back out into the night.

  “Sit here for a while,” Eliana said, puzzled by the centurion’s uncharacteristic shyness. “Warm yourself beside the fire. The desert night blows cold this time of year.”

  Requiring no further coaxing, Lucilius dropped heavily onto a splintered bench beside the hearth. Eliana settled into a chair on the opposite end of the fireplace, both staring silently into the dancing flames.

  Finally, Lucilius broke the awkward silence. “You are quite an exceptional rider. Especially for a girl. You kept up with a detachment of competitive young cavalry officers. Not an easy feat. Even the old woman rides well. I was surprised.”

  “Thank you,” Eliana replied. “My father taught me to ride when I was a child.”

  “Those horses are fine stock. Suitable for a king.”

  “My father takes great pride in his stable. He would be pleased to hear you say that.”

  “I am impressed by the way you handle yourself. Your father must be proud of you. From what I see, he is a lucky man. He has so much in a land where so many have so little. Tell me, is he a usurer? I have been told that many Jews become wealthy in this fashion.”

  “Absolutely not. My father is not a moneylender. He would never take unfair advantage of anyone. He is a good man…a pious man. He has worked hard for what he has and he gives generously to those who have less. He is respected and loved by the people of Jericho, both believers and nonbelievers. You can ask them yourself.”

  “I believe what you say. You are an honest girl. I did not mean any disrespect to your father. In a way, I envy him. The gods have surely smiled upon that man. He has everything that men covet…wealth, property, a respectful family, a comfortable home, sturdy horses. You know, I have a daughter myself back in Rome. Her name is Justina. She is about your age, maybe a bit younger. When I last saw her, she was just a child. I used to get letters from her…sweet letters. She spoke of matters I did not even understand. Still, I so much looked forward to those innocent messages. Lately, the letters have become less frequent. I am afraid the passing years have left us strangers. There were times when her words were all that kept me from losing myself in the battles and the bloodshed. Some men become little more than killing machines. Little more than animals. I have tried to rise above that. I have dedicated my life to Rome. I have done my duty…more than my duty. I have kept my self-respect. I have given my family a good life. But I have been gone too long. I think I have lost my family in the process.”

  “Do you not visit your homeland?”

  “No, not for many years. I have traveled the breadth of the empire. I have fought the barbarians from Gaul to Germania to Britannia. I have advanced from a common foot soldier to commander of the first cohort of a legion. I tell you, that is no small accomplishment. Especially for the son of a landless proletarii. I have sacrificed much. In years…and in blood. I have sacrificed the love of my family as well. And now they have sent me to this land. Here, I am not conquering armies for the glory and security of Rome. Here, I punish thieves and beggars and highwaymen. I am little more than a vigiles urbani…a watchman. I have to bow to bureaucrats like a palace guard. It is humiliating. I have served Rome my whole life. I was proud to be a soldier. I was proud to fight for my homeland. Now I am tired. Perhaps it is time to go home. Home to a house of strangers. Home to a nation of hypocrites.”

  “Surely you will be honored for your service.”

  “If only I believed that was so. Times are changing. Rome is not the same as it was when I was a young man. I fear what awaits me. I fear what Rome has become…what I have become. I do not know if I can stomach all the scheming and backstabbing that goes on there. I refuse to be a pawn in cowardly intrigues. I refuse to surrender my honor to abet conspirators in their seditious lust for power. Never will I forsake those things that make me a good soldier. But today’s virtue will surely be tomorrow’s undoing. And I am too old to change what I am.”

  “Why do you speak so? Are you not a powerful man?”

  “I was a powerful man. Now I am little more than a puppet. Pontius Pilate pulls my strings and I jump. He is a frightened little man, but he controls my destiny. All it takes is one negative report back to Rome and I am finished. It seems that a soldier’s reputation can be destroyed there at the drop of a satiric remark, a whispered innuendo. All my work and all my sacrifice will be for nothing. So I jump. He orders me to do things that no general ever dared demand of me. Things far beneath the dignity of my rank. He even ordered me, a primus pilus, to oversee a common execution. That accursed fool was absolutely terrified that some rustic preacher was attempting to incite a rebellion. Pilate was convinced that this man commanded a secret Hebrew army. Preposterous! That preacher was no rebel. He had no army. He was a gentle man surrounded by a flock of gentle people. He presented no danger to Rome. From what I learned, his only crime was irritating the Temple priests. But I had no choice. Pilate threatened me with insubordination. I had to stand there and watch that innocent man die, so I could officially report that the insurrectionist threat had been crushed. It was preposterous. But I swallowed my pride and followed orders like a proper soldier. I…performed…my…duty.” The centurion spat out the words like a mouthful of desert sand.

  Then he paused, seemed to peer into the past. When he resumed, his voice had grown husky and somber. “I am not squeamish. I have watched men die before, many at my own hand. But I tell you, this preacher was not an ordinary man. He suffered terribly, but not once did he plead for mercy. Not once did he curse me. He endured his agony like a warrior. I would be proud to die so well. And then, he spoke out to your god. And do you know what he said? He asked your god to forgive me. Forgive ME! I thought my ears were betraying me. When I moved closer to hear his words more clearly, he looked down at me. He looked right into my eyes. Looked at me with pity. He looked at me, a primus pilus of Rome, the commander of an army, the man charged with his execution…he looked at me with pity. He looked right into me. Past the armor, past the flesh and bone, right into my heart. I felt naked before him. I felt ashamed. I felt deserving of that pity. Life was draining from his body and he pitied me. And…love. There is no other way to describe it. In his mortal agony, he loved me. I could feel it…the power of his love. It was like being struck by a Tubanti war club. I had to fight to stay in my saddle. I shall never forget it as long as I live. Never.”

  Eliana sat stunned at what this man was telling her, this all-powerful figure of Roman military authority. She wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, but could think of no words to say. So she said nothing.

  “Then he finally took his last breath,” Lucilius continued. The centurion seemed unable to stop, the words spilling out in a hot torrent. “This man was a Jew. I should have felt nothing. Why should I care? Another dead Jew? Pilate has been nailing them up like banners at a festival. Yet I felt an unbearable loss. The whole countryside seemed to sigh with that last breath. We all stood transfixed in the silence. But it was deeper than silence. It was like a vast emptiness. Then the very earth began to tremble beneath my feet. And the light drained from the sky. I realized that this was not an ordinary man. This was a man truly beloved by the gods.”

  Eliana watched as the centurion pulled himself together, physically reining in his unbri
dled emotions. When he resumed, his voice seemed to be coming from some faraway place, his gaze focused on something far beyond the mud-brick walls.

  “Since that day I have had dreams, vibrant dreams. Dreams about a place. A place with rolling green hills and a large sweet-water lake. When I first came to Palaestina, the 10th Legion was quartered in the Galilean hills outside Sepphoris. I spent much of my first year there. I took many journeys to what your people call the Sea of Galilee. I believe that is the place in my dreams. That lake, those hills…something is calling me there. I must find out what it is. Capernaum is located on the shore of that lake. We shall find your Viktor there. And maybe there I will discover what it is the gods require of me.” The centurion shook his head, seemed to pull himself back to the present. “Please excuse me, child. I talk too much. I have had too much wine this night. I should not trouble you with my weakness.” Lurching to his feet, he moved toward the door. “We set off at dawn. Be ready. I have a duty to perform.”

  After he had slammed the thick wooden door behind him, Eliana sat beside the fire, staring into the flames until all that remained were glowing embers and the lonesome howl of the cold desert wind.

  CHAPTER 75

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  “Eliana!” Viktor jumped to his feet, dumping the fishing net from his lap. “Is it truly you? What are you doing here? How did you get here? Where is your father?”