Devil's Island (23 page)

As Jacob marched toward the quarry with the other prisoners, he fretted over Rebecca.
Tomorrow I'll make sure she eats her gruel,
he promised himself.
She can't work all day on an empty stomach. And
John . . .

Jacob looked at the Apostle, who was walking a few steps ahead, beside Rebecca. He was having no trouble keeping pace with the crowd, his tall stick swinging confidently as he marched.
But how
long can he last hauling rocks?
Jacob wondered.

The prisoner who had given them directions outside the mess hall stepped alongside Jacob. “Didn't mean no offense earlier,” he said. “She your wife?” He pointed to Rebecca.

“Sister,” Jacob answered.

“I got a sister too.”

“I see.” Jacob didn't know what to say, and he wasn't sure if talking was against the rules. Some of the others were carrying on conversations, but they kept their voices low and their eyes straight ahead of them.

Soon they passed the last of the ramshackle buildings that made up the camp.
These must be the barracks for the soldiers,
Jacob thought. They offered more protection from the elements than the standard army tent, but they looked none too sturdy.

“They call me Tonsorius,” his new friend said.

“Tonsorius?” Jacob caught himself before he laughed out loud.

“Yeah. Used to be a barber.” The man ran a calloused hand over his wild mane of hair. “Could use a haircut myself now.”

“Mine's Jacob.” It didn't seem appropriate to shake hands, so Jacob simply stated his name.

“What'd you and your sister do to get sent to this godforsaken place?” Tonsorius asked.

“We refused to sacrifice to Caesar.”

“And they sent you to Devil's Island for that?”

Jacob nodded. “What did you do?”

“I was a little too good at my job,” Tonsorius said with another gap-toothed grin. “Slit a man's throat.”

Jacob jerked his head to look at the convict walking beside him. “You murdered him?”

Tonsorius shrugged. “Found out he had forced himself on my sister. He needed killing, I figured.”

Jacob glanced at Rebecca and desperately wished he could yank his sweet innocent sister out of this gang of murderers and thieves and hide her someplace. She didn't belong here, and she wasn't safe here. Jacob knew that if someone forced himself on Rebecca, he could turn into a Tonsorius in an instant.

“I didn't charge him for the shave, though,” Tonsorius added, as if that explained the situation to his satisfaction.

Jacob certainly did not know how to respond to that. After a while he asked, “Do you have any advice for a newcomer like me?”

Tonsorius beamed, obviously pleased with the question. “You saw Brutus, the camp commander, when you arrived. He's tough and unbending, but not excessively cruel. Of course, he doesn't have to be—there's plenty of others ready to crack the whip for him. But you cause trouble, and he'll make trouble for you.”

Just as Tonsorius warmed to his subject, he fell quiet for a minute. The guards were looking their way. Jacob kept his eyes on the dusty road as they trudged up the barren hill in silence.

“The trick is to work steady,” Tonsorius said after a minute or two. “Work too fast, and you'll make enemies out of the rest of us. Work too slow, and you'll get the overseer's whip.”

Jacob nodded soberly. He wasn't worried about working too slow; he was strong and sturdy. But what about Rebecca and John?

“When you do get the whip, Marcellus will patch you up if they hurt you too bad.”

“Marcellus?”

“The medical officer. Good fellow. Not many like him around here.”

Jacob saw huge boulders just ahead and knew they had reached the quarry. The prisoners in front were stooping to pick up what looked like baskets.

“One more thing,” Tonsorius said. “Drink water every chance you get. You'll wilt like a daisy if you don't.”

“Where—”

“They'll have water on the side of the road when we start hauling.”

“Thanks for the help.” Jacob gave the wild-looking man a final glance as they parted.
Tonsorius seems harmless enough . . . for a murderer,
I suppose.
The reality of the situation hit Jacob hard. He was on a prison island with hardened criminals and probably would be for the rest of his life. In a few years he would look like Tonsorius, with rotten and missing teeth, unkempt hair, and filthy rags for his clothing. He might as well have received a death sentence—it would have been more merciful
.

Keep your eyes on Christ and not the circumstance,
Jacob told himself, remembering John's story from the previous evening. That was not going to be easy.

Passing in front of the lean-to where the equipment was stored, Jacob stopped to pick up one of the tightly woven straw baskets. They were odd-shaped containers with one side curved and the other side flat, so they would fit against the workers' backs. Instead of handles, the basket had leather straps that looped over the shoulders. He ran a few yards to catch up with Rebecca and John, who had already picked up their baskets.

They quickly fell into the work pattern. Huge chunks of stone had been chiseled out of the mountain and placed in massive piles some two hundred yards apart. Several prisoners at each pile used sledgehammers to break the boulders into smaller pieces, and the other prisoners' job was to load the split rock into their baskets and haul it down the mountain to the construction site at the harbor, roughly a mile away.

As he gathered rocks and loaded his basket, Jacob noticed there were almost as many guards as there were prisoners. The work crews would have to be carefully supervised, he realized, to make sure one of the prisoners did not use a hammer or pickax as a weapon.

One of the guards saw Rebecca pick up her half-full basket, as if testing to see how heavy it was. “Fill it to the top!” the guard shouted. “Make every trip to the harbor count.” With that he cracked his well-oiled leather whip in the air over their heads, the sound echoing off the walls of the quarry. Rebecca flinched and immediately went back to loading rocks under the glaring eye of the guard.

Tonsorius was right,
Jacob thought.
The overseers are eager to use
their whips.
He had a feeling they would use threats of force to drive the inmates beyond their physical ability.

“When your basket is full, start to the harbor immediately,” another guard barked.

His own basket almost to the brim, Jacob slowed his pace to allow Rebecca and John to catch up with him. Rebecca sneezed several times from the dust they stirred up as they worked, and Jacob fought down another wave of anger.
She doesn't belong here.
The phrase echoed in his head along with the sound of the overseers' whips, which they cracked regularly for effect.

Soon all three of their baskets were full. “Time to go,” John said. With a great effort, he tried to swing the heavy load up and over his shoulders. As John grunted and tried again, Jacob realized there was no way the Apostle could lift it. Quickly, Jacob lifted the basket of rocks and placed it on John's back, then did the same for Rebecca, and the trio began their maiden voyage toward the harbor.

The sun was already bearing down, and in spite of the mild temperature, the exertion caused the sweat to pour from their bodies. With only a bowl of gruel in his stomach, Jacob felt his strength already being drained. The basket straps dug into his shoulders, leaving his arms numb. He grew angrier with every step they took, knowing it was a major effort for John and Rebecca just to walk under the weight of the loads on their backs. John used his walking stick for balance; even so, Jacob feared he would topple over any minute.

Every few yards along the road a guard stood watch to make sure no one tried to escape or waste time. Jacob looked ahead of him down the mountain. The long line of criminals trudging toward the harbor under their heavy burdens looked like ants in single file marching toward a jar of honey. There would be nothing sweet at the end of this trail, however.

How do I keep my eyes on Christ and not the circumstance?
Jacob asked himself. He started to ask John, then decided to wait until later; he didn't want the elderly man to have to answer while he struggled to carry his basket.

Finally they arrived at the harbor, emptied their baskets, and started back for another load. Apparently they didn't start fast enough. The crack of a whip filled the air. Already Jacob had become so accustomed to the sound, he didn't immediately realize that the tail of the whip had caught John from behind. But when John stumbled and then righted himself before falling, Jacob noticed the bright red line that appeared at the back of the Apostle's neck. It was a glancing blow, not a direct hit, but it unleashed the fury Jacob had been struggling to suppress.

Without thinking, Jacob growled his anger and dropped his basket, starting for the guard who had used the whip. Just as quickly, John grabbed his forearm and said, “Stop it! Don't give him a reason to kill you.”

Jacob trembled from the effort to stifle his emotions. Rebecca, pale and frightened, looked at him pleadingly.

“Pick up your basket,” John said. “Let's go.”

Jacob knew John had just saved his life, but he still had trouble calming himself as they started back to the quarry.
Only one load,
he thought,
and I'm ready to explode. Rebecca's too delicate. John's too
weak. And I'm too angry. We're never going to make it.

As they walked the mile back to the piles of rock to repeat the whole process, Jacob noticed prisoners wielding large jugs stationed on the side of the road. He hadn't noticed the water carriers earlier. The three of them stopped for a quick drink from the common cup. Rebecca drank and then poured some of the water over her hands, which were dry and red.

She doesn't belong here. We don't belong here.

The noise of the quarries was monotonous—the hammers seemed to fall into a pattern, punctuated by the staccato of whips slicing through the air. Occasionally there was a muffled cry when a whip found a human target. The work was mindless and strenuous— and seemingly endless.

Stoop down, pick up a rock, toss it in the basket. Stoop, lift, toss. Stoop, lift, toss.

When they had refilled their baskets, Jacob again hoisted John's and Rebecca's on their shoulders, and they made another round-trip down to the harbor and back up to the rock piles. Jacob's shoulders and back ached, and his feet were almost numb, but he estimated he was in much better condition than the others. Before long, Rebecca's hands were raw and bleeding, which simply fueled Jacob's anger because he was helpless to do anything for her.

It was late afternoon, he guessed, when they made their third trip to the harbor. He was worried about Rebecca, who had hardly spoken all morning—
What was there to talk about, anyway?
he asked himself—and John appeared on the brink of physical exhaustion, yet he smiled gamely as Jacob removed the basket from his stooped shoulders and dropped the rocks into the water.

“These rocks are heavy,” John said as he rubbed a shoulder, “but we will survive because we are standing by faith on the Solid Rock— Christ Jesus.”

Jacob frowned. He knew what John said was true, but he was in no mood to hear a sermon. He had tried keeping his eyes on the Savior and not their dire situation, but he couldn't see Christ anywhere on Devil's Island. This was living hell.

As Jacob turned to go back to the road leading up the mountain, he noticed a new ship in the harbor. The old hulk they had sailed in on yesterday had departed, and in its place at the dock was a much larger, newer ship. In a split second Jacob took in the scene: sailors lowering the gangplank, guards herding shackled prisoners into rows on the main deck—twice as many as had been in their group—and a soldier in a red-plumed helmet swaggering in front of them as if he were Caesar himself.

Damian.
Jacob froze at the sight.
He's here with a boatload of prisoners.
Jacob knew without being told that they were Christians, probably from the towns around Ephesus, and that they had been subjected to the same ordeal his family had been through.
That murderous
snake,
Jacob thought, as the image of his mother falling under Damian's sword flashed through his mind and stabbed his heart.

“Get a move on!” a voice shouted.

“Jacob, the guards . . .” Rebecca tugged on her brother's arm, a worried look on her weary face.

He immediately turned around and started up the hill with her and John. “Did you see the new arrivals?” he asked.

She shook her head no.

Good,
he thought. He did not want the knowledge of Damian's presence to add to his sister's trauma. Damian had leered at his beautiful sister earlier—did the monster have his sights set on her?

Surely Damian wouldn't be staying, Jacob told himself. He was probably just dropping off another group of his victims. But why did he accompany that ship personally? Damian hadn't traveled to Patmos with their boat. So what was he doing here?

As he wearily put one foot in front of the other, Jacob continued to stew over Damian's arrival, Rebecca's safety, and the injustice of their imprisonment. But when the forced laborers reached the quarry again, thoughts of Damian left Jacob's mind as he gave himself over to the mind-numbing, backbreaking work.

19

ABRAHAM COULDN'T SLEEP. He had just buried his wife of twenty-five years and knew he would never recover from the overwhelming loss. After the simple, very private funeral, Abraham had put off going upstairs as long as possible. Even after the rest of the household had gone to bed, he remained downstairs. Quintus had sat with Abraham, so he wouldn't have to be alone.

Finally, when he saw Quintus was about to fall asleep sitting straight up, Abraham told him, “You don't have to keep me company; go on home.” But when Quintus stood to leave, Abraham had second thoughts. “No, it's too late,” he said. “You should stay here tonight. Take Jacob's room.” A lump had formed in Abraham's throat as he thought of the two empty bedrooms upstairs that belonged to Jacob and Rebecca.
I want my children back,
he thought forlornly.