petermaize

The Jubilee Machine Part VII

Badri figured he had at least 48 hours to track James down, correct the damage he’d done and prevent him from doing any more. Although Badri couldn’t go to his office, Ken wasn’t under suspicion yet, so he had unrestricted movement. There was no need to go to the decelerator. Badri had no intention of making another jump himself.  That was no longer necessary.

When Badri had first learned that James was making jumps, he wasn’t sure what his intentions were. Perhaps James was merely a renegade who desired to be the first human to travel through time. He certainly wouldn’t do it for mundane reasons like amassing a fortune or becoming a petty tyrant over awestruck primitives in the past.

No, James would have big, big plans. And Badri needed to know how dangerous he was. So he took the risk of going to Jerusalem to search the epistle site himself. He needed to see what James was up to.

Badri had chosen the 19^th century for several reasons: first, he would not draw too much attention with his South Asian complexion and odd accent. In the late 1800’s, the British ruled large parts of Asia, including Egypt and India. Badri would be able to masquerade as the envoy of the semi-autonomous rulers of Rajasthan. He could speak English in most situations and his limited ability with Near Eastern languages would not be a major liability.

Those were the logistical reasons for choosing the 19^th century. But there was one other reason: to outwit James. Badri had not seen the epistle that had mysteriously turned up in Jerusalem only days after Benton made his historic jump—he’d only heard about it, and was unsure of the exact content of the epistle. Badri assumed that James was responsible for planting the epistle, and he was alarmed because everyone said the epistle was left by Badri. Surely this was part of James’ scheme.

Badri knew that Benton had made it to Jerusalem in the 3rd century. James would also have known that Benton reached the Jerusalem drop site, because of his conversation with Benton in the Illinois mental hospital. Of course, Benton would have left an epistle behind, and it would have contained his allegations that he was deliberately sabotaged. James would have to remove that epistle, and replace it with one that incriminated someone else. When Badri had arrived in Jerusalem, the location of the drop looked much as it would have when Benton found it. They had selected a very good location. This part of Jerusalem outside of the original city walls would not be developed until the 1950’s. Prior to that it was rural, easy to find because of landmarks, and remained undisturbed.

Badri had not found Ellen’s body, much to his relief. The body would have been just bones after 17 centuries, but he was not eager to find those bones. To his surprise, Badri didn’t find any epistle—no forgery that bore his own name and nothing from any other team member. He found only one tiny clue. Carefully searching the entire site, Badri noticed a shard of clay with a faint, crude outline scratched on it. Badri immediately recognized it as the logo of the San Diego Chargers football team—a curved lightning bolt. James hated all sports and wouldn’t recognize even the New York Yankees insignia. An innocuous scratching that looked like it could even have been naturally created, would not have attracted James’ attention. But Benton knew Badri was a big Chargers fan, having spent many years in San Diego as a student and later professor. When Badri examined the piece of pottery he recognized the Hebrew letter בּ

It was the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet, analogous to the English letter B. Badri surmised that Benton had left it as confirmation that he had been there, knowing that later jumpers might remove any other obvious messages that he left behind. Such a clever young man! And such a waste of a life!

Badri’s mission had been a failure. He didn’t locate the epistle that incriminated him, and found nothing that revealed James’ activities or intentions. When Badri returned to the present (amazed that he really could plot a return loop to bring him back within hours of his departure) he knew that the Cassandra project was over, and that terrible developments had already been set in motion.

His only goal from that moment on was to stop James. That meant he had to find him. and confront James directly.

But where was James?

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Dr. Mellon had ordered that none of Badri’s team would be allowed into the decelerator as of Monday. As a lifelong government employee, he hadn’t considered that some people might work on weekends, especially those who were clandestinely traveling through time. The weekend security staff hadn’t been informed of any restrictions. In the orderly world of university research, people followed the rules. At this moment, the rules said that the Math Team (Mellon’s uninspired term that no one used unless they were talking with him) had unrestricted, all-hours access to process calculations and conduct simulations until Monday at 9am.

So when James and Jeremy walked into the decelerator room, no one was there to stop them. James knew that in a matter of days, Dr. Mellon would order a full investigation into how the team had been using the decelerator. Already Mellon had ordered the computers in Badri Singh’s office to be seized and examined, following a formal complaint from James that Badri was transferring information from the computers in the decelerator room. James had also implied that something dire was taking place, and that Badri couldn’t be trusted.

They switched on all the machines and began cycling the decelerator. It was hilarious that no one from the Cassandra team ever actually came into this room—the room that housed their time machine. For the dozen researchers outside Badri’s team, the decelerator was something that had been built for the future—similar to the way a toddler might view a bicycle. Someday they would be allowed to ride. Right now, the training wheels weren’t even attached.

“Tell me how Budapest has changed, Jeremy,” James said, as he punched calculations into the control grid.

“The first time I could hardly detect any change. Which is what I expected, of course.

But then after I returned, and arranged the treaty with Duke Hrad, I think I really set something in motion.”

Jeremy had served a useful purpose by returning to the same point in time and making alterations, so that James could assess what happened. From Jeremy’s viewpoint, he was ‘setting up house’ for his own personal future.

“So the second time you were there you could see the results of your intervention in the epoch.”

“I think so. But for example, there was a surprising lack of systemic change…” Jeremy began.

“Good to hear it,” James muttered, leaning over the control panel. He stood up. The decelerator was ready. He hadn’t heard a word Jeremy had said.

“You created some problems for us in Paris, you know. Your rather impetuous attempts to intimidate the gendarmerie required some attention on my part.”

James leaned over and stared into Jeremy’s eyes.

“That’s why I had to kill you.”

Jeremy froze.

“What?”

“I killed you. It was easy.”

Jeremy moved around the desk, wide eyes fixed on James. James waited patiently for the full impact to take hold. There are so many layers in these things, he thought. Jeremy put his hands on the desk, supporting himself.

“You shouldn’t joke about something like that, James.”

“I’m not. You can tell I’m serious, can’t you, Jeremy. And it scares you, doesn’t it?”

“Stop it, James.”

“You’re not trapped in that Grandfather Clause, are you?” James sighed dramatically.

“Multiverses, my boy. You’re dead in one, but you’re alive here, and that’s all that matters. Alternate Set theory. It was correct. I was correct. The beauty is that both theories are correct, similar to light being both a particle and a wave simultaneously. We do create universes when we arrive in the past, but we can also, through careful calculation, re-enter our original universe. That, of course, should be obvious, or else we would never have known poor Benton’s fate, and you and I would not be here conversing in the same world that produced our wonderful machine. We’d be in a universe of our own creation. But actually, to paraphrase the old line, we have the best of both worlds!”

Jeremy couldn’t speak. James’s smile faded and he stepped toward Jeremy.

“You should have seen your face,” James said softly and coldly. “You were drunk, so it was easy to lure you to a secluded place with some ridiculous promise. Then—poof—I caught a loop back here. Safe and sound. Impossible to convict me in the 21^st century for a murder committed several hundred years earlier. They’ll know you were missing, but they won’t figure out what happened to your body.”

James smiled broadly. “Perfect alibi, eh?”

“But you couldn’t have….” Jeremy was puzzling through the implications with a mind slowed by dread.

James had taped a pistol to the top of a beam shortly after the decelerator had been built. He could see the value in having a weapon for special emergencies. Times like this.

“Get in the decelerator, Jeremy.”

Jeremy wouldn’t move. He was shaking, which didn’t look too much different from his usual jittering.

James sighed with exasperation. “Jeremy, the game is over. I’m offering you the chance to go back to your precious 13^th century and live like a king. There really is no alternative. Remember, I’ve already killed you once.” He pointed the gun at Jeremy’s chest.

Jeremy meekly climbed into the sphere and assumed the crouch. James closed the door.

“Now I get to do it twice.”

He pressed the button and Jeremy disappeared.

“Isn’t time travel remarkable?” James said, as he put the pistol back in its place. “So efficient.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

It took Benton several months to make his way to Israel. He travelled at night, scavenged for food as he could, a mutilated outcast always on the edge of civilization. He nearly starved to death after leaving Keshdah’s caravan. Already malnourished and sick, Benton stumbled through the desert, but eventually he reached the Euphrates river and was able to forage or steal enough food to survive.

Then slowly he made his way to Judea. Every piece of land he travelled through was under the sovereignty of the Roman Republic. Rome was still in its prime at this time, with more than a hundred years until the Vandals and Huns and Goths over-ran the empire. Even then, the Eastern empire would continue to exist for three hundred years after that.

None of this historical knowledge was of use to Benton as he made his way through Syria and Scythia. Only one thing mattered: to reach the Epistle Drop.

Once he arrived in Judea and buried his epistle, Benton planned to find a way to create a loop on his own. It was theoretically possible, but he would have to calculate the time and location. For the master mathematician this would be an epic challenge, similar to an average person trying to multiply 50-digit numbers in their head.

But Benton would have nothing but time to create a loop in time.

His first goal was to get to an epistle drop point and let the Cassandra project know what he was doing—tell them what had happened, that he was a traveler blown drastically off course, but seeking to find his way safely to home port.

Then he might need to find a job. If anyone was willing to trust a mutilated beggar with a funny accent, they would find that the investment was well worth it. Benton knew a few things that would come in handy to 3rd century entrepreneurs.

Damascus offered the first opportunity to improve his lifestyle. Damascus was a bustling trade centre, filled with Christians and Jews, Romans and Arabs, all pursuing their own spiritual and mercantile destinies. Benton found work in a granary, at first as an unpaid servant who delivered parchments and fetched food and cleaned away the manure when the horses had departed. He was fed once a day and given a place to sleep under a table.

But soon the overseer was intrigued by Benton’s calculating ability. The invention of algebra was still nearly a millennium away, and calculations of volume and space were conducted by hand, with simple weights. But Benton repeatedly astonished his bosses by his ability to correctly estimate how much grain occupied a specific space, along with other feats. Within a few weeks Benton was able to buy his freedom, and become an assistant to the granary owner.

Benton was constantly depressed, though. Now that his focus had transcended daily survival and avoidance of pain, he was able to focus on non-essential parts of human life, and this provoked despondency. He was an alien beyond imagining. No one he spoke with could understand him, even when they could share a language. No one could guess that this damaged man knew secrets that they couldn’t fathom or even imagine. The very foundations of worldly knowledge that sustained the Arabs and Jews and Persians that Benton met were no more than childish notions. Their thoughts on life, society, nature and law were primitive. The people were so simple that Benton couldn’t bear to be around them.

After he had put a few denarii together, Benton left suddenly, buying a place on a cart headed to Jerusalem.

The very night he left Damascus, Benton met the first person that he could tolerate. He was a Syrian named Bartholomew. Bartholomew sat next to Benton at a splintery wooden table in a filthy inn, where the lamb was gristly and tough, and the wine was disgusting.

Benton sat alone, as always. He hated speaking to anyone, because everyone he met wanted to know what country Benton was from. His Aramaic had gotten pretty good, but it obviously wasn’t his native tongue. Benton was afraid that he would meet someone who would be able to debunk whatever story he concocted, raising suspicion and possible trouble with the law.

So when a man with short hair and beard and a clean, simple tunic sat on the bench across from him, Benton didn’t even look up. He was trying to find an edible scrap of lamb on his plate. But Benton’s attention was caught by the man’s clasped hands and bowed head, as he prayed over his food. Probably a Jew, Benton thought, until he heard the muttered word “Yeshua”.

Benton hadn’t met any Christians since he had arrived in the 3rd century. He knew they’d been present in Damascus, but Benton stayed near his granary and seldom explored outside the neighborhood where he worked.

Benton was not a religious person. He had no use for organized religion, and the only reason he was not an atheist was because scientifically the possibility of a supreme being or Initial Cause could not be ruled out. But sitting next to a Christian somehow provided a tenuous cultural link for him. Like most Americans, Benton grew up in a culture permeated with the worldview, beliefs and traditions of Christianity. There was some comfort, as if the man shared a common bond with Benton. At this moment, having been tortured, discarded, shunned and outcast, this was as close to fellowship as Benton had been.

It was the other man who spoke first, though.

“Brother, it seems that you have suffered in life. I pray that your suffering has come to an end.”

Benton looked the man over. He had a large nose and large brown eyes. Put him in a T-shirt and he could have fit right in at a Dallas Cowboys game or a shopping mall. He seemed serious and sincere.

“Me too.” Benton replied. The man smiled.

“I am Bartholomew, son of Racahn, of Sidon,” the man said. In 20^th century America they would have shaken hands. Here, Benton had learned it wasn’t done when strangers met in inns.

“I am Nahon,” Benton said, using the name he had given himself, borrowed from a trader in Damascus.

Bartholomew smiled, and asked questions as he began eating his lamb.

“Where are you from?”

“Europe.”

This response sometimes brought another slew of questions, but overall it was the safest story, since no one Benton had met in this epoch had ever been to Rome’s European possessions, or knew anything about them. Benton was free to describe them as he wished, and he had a ready-made excuse for all his peculiarities.

“My, my,” the man nodded. “Europe. So far away. I pray that your journey will go well.”

Benton had to ask.

“You are a Christian?”

“Yes, I am. Are you?”

“No, no. I am familiar with your religion, and I think it has many fine points. But I’m not a religious man.”

“But you have a soul, don’t you?”

Benton believed he had a soul. Whether and how it survived beyond his death were unclear to him—always had been.

“Don’t we all?” he asked in reply.

Bartholomew took a swig of wine before answering.

“Of course. And you must make sure that your soul will be safe for eternity.”

Benton nodded. He wasn’t bothered by this third century proselytizer for some reason.

“My friend, don’t try to make me a Christian tonight,” he said. “You will be wasting your time.”

Bartholomew grinned.

“Fair enough, then I will try again tomorrow. Perhaps we will share the road for awhile. I am on my way to Jerusalem. And you?”

“Jerusalem.”

“Hmm,” the man mused, eyes straying to his plate.

“Well, then. We will share the road. But I promise I will not drive you away.”

“You have a deal.”

 

Badri figured he had at least 48 hours to track James down, correct the damage he’d done and prevent him from doing any more. Although Badri couldn’t go to his office, Ken wasn’t under suspicion yet, so he had unrestricted movement. There was no need to go to the decelerator. Badri had no intention of making another jump himself.  That was no longer necessary.

When Badri had first learned that James was making jumps, he wasn’t sure what his intentions were. Perhaps James was merely a renegade who desired to be the first human to travel through time. He certainly wouldn’t do it for mundane reasons like amassing a fortune or becoming a petty tyrant over awestruck primitives in the past.

No, James would have big, big plans. And Badri needed to know how dangerous he was. So he took the risk of going to Jerusalem to search the epistle site himself. He needed to see what James was up to.

Badri had chosen the 19^th century for several reasons: first, he would not draw too much attention with his South Asian complexion and odd accent. In the late 1800’s, the British ruled large parts of Asia, including Egypt and India. Badri would be able to masquerade as the envoy of the semi-autonomous rulers of Rajasthan. He could speak English in most situations and his limited ability with Near Eastern languages would not be a major liability.

Those were the logistical reasons for choosing the 19^th century. But there was one other reason: to outwit James. Badri had not seen the epistle that had mysteriously turned up in Jerusalem only days after Benton made his historic jump—he’d only heard about it, and was unsure of the exact content of the epistle. Badri assumed that James was responsible for planting the epistle, and he was alarmed because everyone said the epistle was left by Badri. Surely this was part of James’ scheme.

Badri knew that Benton had made it to Jerusalem in the 3rd century. James would also have known that Benton reached the Jerusalem drop site, because of his conversation with Benton in the Illinois mental hospital. Of course, Benton would have left an epistle behind, and it would have contained his allegations that he was deliberately sabotaged. James would have to remove that epistle, and replace it with one that incriminated someone else. When Badri had arrived in Jerusalem, the location of the drop looked much as it would have when Benton found it. They had selected a very good location. This part of Jerusalem outside of the original city walls would not be developed until the 1950’s. Prior to that it was rural, easy to find because of landmarks, and remained undisturbed.

Badri had not found Ellen’s body, much to his relief. The body would have been just bones after 17 centuries, but he was not eager to find those bones. To his surprise, Badri didn’t find any epistle—no forgery that bore his own name and nothing from any other team member. He found only one tiny clue. Carefully searching the entire site, Badri noticed a shard of clay with a faint, crude outline scratched on it. Badri immediately recognized it as the logo of the San Diego Chargers football team—a curved lightning bolt. James hated all sports and wouldn’t recognize even the New York Yankees insignia. An innocuous scratching that looked like it could even have been naturally created, would not have attracted James’ attention. But Benton knew Badri was a big Chargers fan, having spent many years in San Diego as a student and later professor. When Badri examined the piece of pottery he recognized the Hebrew letter בּ

It was the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet, analogous to the English letter B. Badri surmised that Benton had left it as confirmation that he had been there, knowing that later jumpers might remove any other obvious messages that he left behind. Such a clever young man! And such a waste of a life!

Badri’s mission had been a failure. He didn’t locate the epistle that incriminated him, and found nothing that revealed James’ activities or intentions. When Badri returned to the present (amazed that he really could plot a return loop to bring him back within hours of his departure) he knew that the Cassandra project was over, and that terrible developments had already been set in motion.

His only goal from that moment on was to stop James. That meant he had to find him. and confront James directly.

But where was James?

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Dr. Mellon had ordered that none of Badri’s team would be allowed into the decelerator as of Monday. As a lifelong government employee, he hadn’t considered that some people might work on weekends, especially those who were clandestinely traveling through time. The weekend security staff hadn’t been informed of any restrictions. In the orderly world of university research, people followed the rules. At this moment, the rules said that the Math Team (Mellon’s uninspired term that no one used unless they were talking with him) had unrestricted, all-hours access to process calculations and conduct simulations until Monday at 9am.

So when James and Jeremy walked into the decelerator room, no one was there to stop them. James knew that in a matter of days, Dr. Mellon would order a full investigation into how the team had been using the decelerator. Already Mellon had ordered the computers in Badri Singh’s office to be seized and examined, following a formal complaint from James that Badri was transferring information from the computers in the decelerator room. James had also implied that something dire was taking place, and that Badri couldn’t be trusted.

They switched on all the machines and began cycling the decelerator. It was hilarious that no one from the Cassandra team ever actually came into this room—the room that housed their time machine. For the dozen researchers outside Badri’s team, the decelerator was something that had been built for the future—similar to the way a toddler might view a bicycle. Someday they would be allowed to ride. Right now, the training wheels weren’t even attached.

“Tell me how Budapest has changed, Jeremy,” James said, as he punched calculations into the control grid.

“The first time I could hardly detect any change. Which is what I expected, of course.

But then after I returned, and arranged the treaty with Duke Hrad, I think I really set something in motion.”

Jeremy had served a useful purpose by returning to the same point in time and making alterations, so that James could assess what happened. From Jeremy’s viewpoint, he was ‘setting up house’ for his own personal future.

“So the second time you were there you could see the results of your intervention in the epoch.”

“I think so. But for example, there was a surprising lack of systemic change…” Jeremy began.

“Good to hear it,” James muttered, leaning over the control panel. He stood up. The decelerator was ready. He hadn’t heard a word Jeremy had said.

“You created some problems for us in Paris, you know. Your rather impetuous attempts to intimidate the gendarmerie required some attention on my part.”

James leaned over and stared into Jeremy’s eyes.

“That’s why I had to kill you.”

Jeremy froze.

“What?”

“I killed you. It was easy.”

Jeremy moved around the desk, wide eyes fixed on James. James waited patiently for the full impact to take hold. There are so many layers in these things, he thought. Jeremy put his hands on the desk, supporting himself.

“You shouldn’t joke about something like that, James.”

“I’m not. You can tell I’m serious, can’t you, Jeremy. And it scares you, doesn’t it?”

“Stop it, James.”

“You’re not trapped in that Grandfather Clause, are you?” James sighed dramatically.

“Multiverses, my boy. You’re dead in one, but you’re alive here, and that’s all that matters. Alternate Set theory. It was correct. I was correct. The beauty is that both theories are correct, similar to light being both a particle and a wave simultaneously. We do create universes when we arrive in the past, but we can also, through careful calculation, re-enter our original universe. That, of course, should be obvious, or else we would never have known poor Benton’s fate, and you and I would not be here conversing in the same world that produced our wonderful machine. We’d be in a universe of our own creation. But actually, to paraphrase the old line, we have the best of both worlds!”

Jeremy couldn’t speak. James’s smile faded and he stepped toward Jeremy.

“You should have seen your face,” James said softly and coldly. “You were drunk, so it was easy to lure you to a secluded place with some ridiculous promise. Then—poof—I caught a loop back here. Safe and sound. Impossible to convict me in the 21^st century for a murder committed several hundred years earlier. They’ll know you were missing, but they won’t figure out what happened to your body.”

James smiled broadly. “Perfect alibi, eh?”

“But you couldn’t have….” Jeremy was puzzling through the implications with a mind slowed by dread.

James had taped a pistol to the top of a beam shortly after the decelerator had been built. He could see the value in having a weapon for special emergencies. Times like this.

“Get in the decelerator, Jeremy.”

Jeremy wouldn’t move. He was shaking, which didn’t look too much different from his usual jittering.

James sighed with exasperation. “Jeremy, the game is over. I’m offering you the chance to go back to your precious 13^th century and live like a king. There really is no alternative. Remember, I’ve already killed you once.” He pointed the gun at Jeremy’s chest.

Jeremy meekly climbed into the sphere and assumed the crouch. James closed the door.

“Now I get to do it twice.”

He pressed the button and Jeremy disappeared.

“Isn’t time travel remarkable?” James said, as he put the pistol back in its place. “So efficient.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

It took Benton several months to make his way to Israel. He travelled at night, scavenged for food as he could, a mutilated outcast always on the edge of civilization. He nearly starved to death after leaving Keshdah’s caravan. Already malnourished and sick, Benton stumbled through the desert, but eventually he reached the Euphrates river and was able to forage or steal enough food to survive.

Then slowly he made his way to Judea. Every piece of land he travelled through was under the sovereignty of the Roman Republic. Rome was still in its prime at this time, with more than a hundred years until the Vandals and Huns and Goths over-ran the empire. Even then, the Eastern empire would continue to exist for three hundred years after that.

None of this historical knowledge was of use to Benton as he made his way through Syria and Scythia. Only one thing mattered: to reach the Epistle Drop.

Once he arrived in Judea and buried his epistle, Benton planned to find a way to create a loop on his own. It was theoretically possible, but he would have to calculate the time and location. For the master mathematician this would be an epic challenge, similar to an average person trying to multiply 50-digit numbers in their head.

But Benton would have nothing but time to create a loop in time.

His first goal was to get to an epistle drop point and let the Cassandra project know what he was doing—tell them what had happened, that he was a traveler blown drastically off course, but seeking to find his way safely to home port.

Then he might need to find a job. If anyone was willing to trust a mutilated beggar with a funny accent, they would find that the investment was well worth it. Benton knew a few things that would come in handy to 3rd century entrepreneurs.

Damascus offered the first opportunity to improve his lifestyle. Damascus was a bustling trade centre, filled with Christians and Jews, Romans and Arabs, all pursuing their own spiritual and mercantile destinies. Benton found work in a granary, at first as an unpaid servant who delivered parchments and fetched food and cleaned away the manure when the horses had departed. He was fed once a day and given a place to sleep under a table.

But soon the overseer was intrigued by Benton’s calculating ability. The invention of algebra was still nearly a millennium away, and calculations of volume and space were conducted by hand, with simple weights. But Benton repeatedly astonished his bosses by his ability to correctly estimate how much grain occupied a specific space, along with other feats. Within a few weeks Benton was able to buy his freedom, and become an assistant to the granary owner.

Benton was constantly depressed, though. Now that his focus had transcended daily survival and avoidance of pain, he was able to focus on non-essential parts of human life, and this provoked despondency. He was an alien beyond imagining. No one he spoke with could understand him, even when they could share a language. No one could guess that this damaged man knew secrets that they couldn’t fathom or even imagine. The very foundations of worldly knowledge that sustained the Arabs and Jews and Persians that Benton met were no more than childish notions. Their thoughts on life, society, nature and law were primitive. The people were so simple that Benton couldn’t bear to be around them.

After he had put a few denarii together, Benton left suddenly, buying a place on a cart headed to Jerusalem.

The very night he left Damascus, Benton met the first person that he could tolerate. He was a Syrian named Bartholomew. Bartholomew sat next to Benton at a splintery wooden table in a filthy inn, where the lamb was gristly and tough, and the wine was disgusting.

Benton sat alone, as always. He hated speaking to anyone, because everyone he met wanted to know what country Benton was from. His Aramaic had gotten pretty good, but it obviously wasn’t his native tongue. Benton was afraid that he would meet someone who would be able to debunk whatever story he concocted, raising suspicion and possible trouble with the law.

So when a man with short hair and beard and a clean, simple tunic sat on the bench across from him, Benton didn’t even look up. He was trying to find an edible scrap of lamb on his plate. But Benton’s attention was caught by the man’s clasped hands and bowed head, as he prayed over his food. Probably a Jew, Benton thought, until he heard the muttered word “Yeshua”.

Benton hadn’t met any Christians since he had arrived in the 3rd century. He knew they’d been present in Damascus, but Benton stayed near his granary and seldom explored outside the neighborhood where he worked.

Benton was not a religious person. He had no use for organized religion, and the only reason he was not an atheist was because scientifically the possibility of a supreme being or Initial Cause could not be ruled out. But sitting next to a Christian somehow provided a tenuous cultural link for him. Like most Americans, Benton grew up in a culture permeated with the worldview, beliefs and traditions of Christianity. There was some comfort, as if the man shared a common bond with Benton. At this moment, having been tortured, discarded, shunned and outcast, this was as close to fellowship as Benton had been.

It was the other man who spoke first, though.

“Brother, it seems that you have suffered in life. I pray that your suffering has come to an end.”

Benton looked the man over. He had a large nose and large brown eyes. Put him in a T-shirt and he could have fit right in at a Dallas Cowboys game or a shopping mall. He seemed serious and sincere.

“Me too.” Benton replied. The man smiled.

“I am Bartholomew, son of Racahn, of Sidon,” the man said. In 20^th century America they would have shaken hands. Here, Benton had learned it wasn’t done when strangers met in inns.

“I am Nahon,” Benton said, using the name he had given himself, borrowed from a trader in Damascus.

Bartholomew smiled, and asked questions as he began eating his lamb.

“Where are you from?”

“Europe.”

This response sometimes brought another slew of questions, but overall it was the safest story, since no one Benton had met in this epoch had ever been to Rome’s European possessions, or knew anything about them. Benton was free to describe them as he wished, and he had a ready-made excuse for all his peculiarities.

“My, my,” the man nodded. “Europe. So far away. I pray that your journey will go well.”

Benton had to ask.

“You are a Christian?”

“Yes, I am. Are you?”

“No, no. I am familiar with your religion, and I think it has many fine points. But I’m not a religious man.”

“But you have a soul, don’t you?”

Benton believed he had a soul. Whether and how it survived beyond his death were unclear to him—always had been.

“Don’t we all?” he asked in reply.

Bartholomew took a swig of wine before answering.

“Of course. And you must make sure that your soul will be safe for eternity.”

Benton nodded. He wasn’t bothered by this third century proselytizer for some reason.

“My friend, don’t try to make me a Christian tonight,” he said. “You will be wasting your time.”

Bartholomew grinned.

“Fair enough, then I will try again tomorrow. Perhaps we will share the road for awhile. I am on my way to Jerusalem. And you?”

“Jerusalem.”

“Hmm,” the man mused, eyes straying to his plate.

“Well, then. We will share the road. But I promise I will not drive you away.”

“You have a deal.”