Devil's Island (11 page)

The third man was coming toward him, as well as the first, back on his feet now. Abraham gauged their distance and as they neared, he lunged and rolled, knocking them into each other. The first man fell back on the ground but the other one managed to stay on his feet. The rolling tackle had winded Abraham, and he didn't move fast enough this time. The legionnaire's sword caught him at the ear and slashed along the jawline to his chin. A burning pain seared his face as he tried to roll away, and suddenly two men were on top of him.

The soldier he had stabbed was bleeding profusely but wielding his dagger with a vengeance. Feeling what must have been a supernatural burst of strength, given his condition, Abraham caught the man's arm and wrestled the weapon away from him, while landing a kick to the groin that doubled another soldier over in pain.

The third soldier was still after him, however, and when Abraham looked up, he saw a sword poised over his midsection. He was about to die. He had survived the famine and the fires, only to lose his life just when he thought he had finally escaped.

At that moment the horse whinnied loudly and reared, his slashing front feet landing a hair's breadth away from the soldier standing over Abraham, distracting his attacker just long enough for Abraham to get to his feet. He was surprised the animal had not cantered off, but the warhorse had not been frightened away by the fighting.

With one motion Abraham grabbed the reins and leaped onto the steed. As if knowing what was expected, the horse raced into the night, trampling one of the soldiers in the hasty departure.

Abraham never looked back.

Two days later he arrived in Caesarea. He was famished and weak, having eaten nothing but a handful of dried grass since his escape. He had found plenty of water, though. The horse had sniffed out a stream, and after watering his mount, Abraham had drunk his fill and then cleaned his wounds as best he could.

He lay in the cool grass by the creek bank to dry off, basking in the warmth of the sunshine and the exhilarating freedom of fresh air.

Freedom, Tobias. I made it out—and with your money, I'll make it
to freedom.

He transferred a few of the gold coins from the money bags under his tunic to a leather wallet secured to his belt, and he silently thanked his cousin for the gift of his freedom as he resumed his journey.

At the outskirts of Caesarea, Abraham spied the Roman garrison. He dismounted and affectionately patted the horse that had saved his life. “They'll feed you well there, old friend,” he said, “and you'll serve another soldier as honorably as you served poor Claudius.” Then he shooed the horse in the direction of the fort.

When he reached the city, Abraham entered the first inn he came to, eager to consume his first real meal in months.

“What happened to you, traveler?” the innkeeper asked, pointing to Abraham's numerous scrapes and scratches.

“I fell into a ravine,” Abraham replied in a voice that indicated he did not wish to be questioned further.

The serving woman, probably the innkeeper's wife, brought his food and then watched Abraham warily as he ate.
I must be quite a
sight,
he thought,
especially if I look as horrible as I feel.
Abraham forced himself to eat slowly, aware that trying to eat too much after having been empty for so long could make him sick.

After his dinner, he asked for directions to the harbor and inquired about any ships that might be sailing to Asia. The innkeeper obligingly produced the name of someone to see at the harbor. Then he said, “You really should tend to that cut first. It looks like that ‘ravine' you encountered was carrying a sword.”

Before Abraham could refuse, the innkeeper's wife was pouring wine into the wound on his face, blotting it gently with a cloth. Abraham winced in pain and tried not to yell.

“When it quits stinging,” his would-be nurse said with a smile, “it will feel a lot better.”

Abraham was too happy to be alive to harbor a grudge for long. As the liquid fire dried on his face, the woman poured olive oil onto the cloth and dabbed it along the cut.

“There, doesn't that feel better?” she said. “You don't want to let a wound like that fester.”

Abraham paid his bill, thanked his hosts, and then walked to the harbor. He was overjoyed to find the captain the innkeeper had recommended and to learn that the grain ship he piloted was about to sail for Asia.

“Yes, we put in at Ephesus, and yes, I have room on board,” he said in answer to Abraham's rapid-fire questions. He named a price and Abraham gladly counted it out and tendered it.

“An hour later, and you'd have missed me,” the captain said. “We're ready to cast off. This must be your lucky day—and from the looks of you, it appears you could use some luck.” He smiled broadly at the new passenger and Abraham realized belatedly that he should have bargained for the fare. He didn't care about the cost, however; he was too relieved to have reached safety.

Forty-eight hours after he fled Jerusalem, Abraham was in the hold of a ship headed for Ephesus. He could scarcely believe the tumultuous events that had transpired over the last few weeks and months. According to his calculations, he had been in Palestine for 123 days. He had found and lost two of the dearest people he'd ever known. He had survived famine and what must have been one of the bloodiest wars in human history.

There has to be a purpose,
he thought as the sound of the water lulled him to sleep,
some reason God allowed me to survive when so
many others didn't.

Abraham wasn't sure what that purpose was, but he believed he would find it in Ephesus.

9

ABRAHAM BLINKED AND DAMIAN'S REVOLTING FACE swam into focus. At close range, he could see that the years had taken their toll on Damian. His face was lined and the skin under his eyes had the telltale bags that come with age. His sharp beak of a nose reminded Abraham of a bird of prey.
How like a vulture he is,
Abraham thought.

Damian was simply the chief predator, it now seemed to Abraham as he surveyed the hundreds of other vultures wearing red tunics and leather armor; there were almost as many soldiers as spectators in the crowd assembled around the colossal statue and the stone altar at the Temple of Domitian.

Lowering the purloined bowl he had held aloft for Abraham's inspection, Damian turned to the crowd. “Here is what's going to happen today,” he said. “This is a simple test of loyalty to the Empire. As you know, Rome does not care what gods you believe in as long as you pay homage to Caesar. I am proud to serve Emperor Flavius Domitianus”—he gestured to the gigantic statue—“in the important capacity of facilitating the expression of your loyalty and worship.”

You serve the emperor as a hired thug,
Abraham longed to say.

Damian swaggered in front of his audience, informing his captives and instructing the onlookers on the requirements of the mandatory sacrifice. “It's very easy,” he said. “You toss a pinch of incense into the fire on the altar and say, ‘Lord Caesar.' Although you may say more, no eloquent speech is required. Just two simple words:
Lord Caesar
.

“Failure to do so constitutes treason and will result in swift punishment.” Damian paused for effect. “Now, I am a reasonable man. A merciful man—”

Merciful!
Abraham bit his lip, wanting to scream that Damian was anything but merciful.

“So as long as everyone remains calm and there is no public disturbance or destruction of property,” Damian continued, “then instead of the death penalty, I will be content to impose the penalty of banishment to the island of Patmos—Devil's Island, as it's called.” His mouth lifted in a malicious grin at the nickname.

“Of course, all of your possessions will be confiscated, but your life will be spared. You will spend the rest of your days as a Roman prisoner, toiling in the rock quarries on Devil's Island. It's, ah, rather difficult work.”

Damian appeared to be salivating at that thought, and some of the spectators murmured their approval at the news that the Christians who refused to sacrifice would be sentenced to Devil's Island. The penal colony there was home to the dregs of society—robbers and rapists—as well as political prisoners and atheists.

“Now that we have the preliminaries established, let's get down to business.” Damian turned and walked toward Abraham again, but he stopped farther back than he had before, Abraham noted. He almost smiled when he realized the reason: the closer Damian got, the more obvious it was that he had to tilt his head up to look Abraham in the eye.

How that must gall him,
Abraham thought, determined to keep his back ramrod straight in order to emphasize his height.

“I had intended to start with you, Abraham, because we have something of a history, you and I. But it would be more fitting, don't you think, to begin with the . . . the elder statesman, if you will, of your illegal sect. The ‘Apostle,' I believe you call him. After all, he sets the example for your kind.

“Bring them here,” Damian ordered his troops, waving in the direction of the vehicle that had delivered John and Jacob. Two husky soldiers leveled their spears at the pair standing by the carriage and marched them toward the altar.

“I went to great trouble to find them, Abraham, and get them here for this occasion. I had to send two centuries—150 men—to scour the countryside. Did you think I wouldn't track them down?”

What Abraham thought was that Damian enjoyed this game of cat and mouse: he delighted in toying with his victims and prolonging the inevitable just to increase their anxiety.

Jacob's eyes flashed a silent greeting to his father as he reached the altar. He was only a few feet away now, and Abraham eagerly observed the son he had missed so much. The black eye and the scrape on his face were minor; they would heal quickly. But the wound Damian was about to inflict would last a lifetime, and Abraham's heart ached for his boy.

John appeared not to have suffered any injuries when he had been arrested. While the elderly man's body looked weak, his eyes blazed fire. Abraham had seen that cantankerous look many times over the years and often found it entertaining—when he wasn't on the receiving end of it. All he felt now was worry. John had been a friend as well as pastor, and Abraham cared for him deeply.

“So we begin with you,
Apossssstle
.” Damian drew out the word, making a mockery of the title.

He extended the bowl of incense toward John, who looked at it briefly, then closed his eyes and raised both of his hands in the position he used when praying or pronouncing a benediction over a gathering of the church.

“Shema Yisrael,”
John intoned.
“Adonai eloheynu, Adonai echad . . .”

Abraham recognized the ancient Jewish confession of faith, the monotheistic creed to which Christians adhered as well:
Hear, O Israel:
the Lord our God, the Lord is one.
He had recited the Shema daily for as long as he could remember, and without conscious effort his lips moved silently along with John as the Apostle continued in Hebrew: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength . . .”

“Stop that babbling!” Damian's anger erupted suddenly, and he swatted one of John's upraised hands as if he were reprimanding a two-year-old. “Speak clearly, old man. Will you make the sacrifice or not?”

John pushed aside the bowl Damian held in front of him. “I will not take your incense, and I will not make your sacrifice. There is
one
God, and His name is
not
Domitian.” He jabbed a gnarled finger at Damian's face. “It is Jesus Christ.
He
is the King of kings and Lord of lords, and at
His
name every knee shall bow—”

“Enough! There will be no sermons today. And as for bowing your knee,” Damian said gruffly, “you
will
bow to Rome. Devil's Island will bring you to your knees, I guarantee.”

Abraham watched with dismay as Damian called for leg irons. John winced in pain as one soldier pinned his arms behind him and another stooped to fasten the chains around his ankles, but he did not cry out, not even when the soldier tightened the shackles until the blood trickled down his legs onto his feet.

Appearing satisfied with the suffering he had caused the Apostle, Damian turned his attention to Jacob. He smiled, signaling that he had checked his anger again—for the moment, anyway.

“They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Abraham, and it's obvious this one is your son. Same hair, same eyes, same obstinate jaw—he looks just like you. Too bad he didn't follow in your footsteps, though. I understand he's become a preacher, like the demented Apostle here.”

Abraham could tell that Jacob was restraining himself with effort. His son would love to crush Damian's face right now, and with his greater size and strength, Jacob could physically punish Damian easily. But it would bring swift, and probably fatal, retaliation from Damian's minions.

“You heard the warning, boy. No sermons.” Damian took Jacob's hand and plunged it into the container of incense. “There's the altar.” He motioned with his head and then slowly released Jacob's wrist.

Jacob pulled out a pinch of the imperial incense but remained where he was. Slowly rubbing the powder between his fingers, he dusted the ground with it, saying firmly, “I will not sacrifice to Caesar. My loyalty is to the Lord Jesus.”

Abraham's chest constricted. He was both proud and heartsick. He saw Elizabeth, one arm still around Rebecca, bring a hand to her mouth while the soldiers shackled their son. Jacob did not resist or protest as a grim-faced legionnaire roughly pushed him away from the altar. The chains around his ankles clanged as Jacob took a few shuffling steps, adapting to the new restriction of his movement with the agility of youth. Abraham knew the indignity and the injustice of his punishment would be far harder on Jacob than any physical restraint.