Devil's Island (24 page)

Abraham had gone upstairs with Quintus and shown him to Jacob's room, then entered the master bedroom, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life. He could not bear to sleep in the huge, carved bed without his wife, so he had removed the bedcovers and spread them on the floor.

Now he lay sleepless on the cold, hard floor, haunted by memories. He had forgotten to light the charcoal brazier—one of the servants usually did that, but most of them were gone now—and the room was chilly. Suddenly he couldn't stand the thought of Elizabeth lying in the tomb, unprotected from the elements, and he wanted to take a blanket to the mausoleum for her.
I need to cover
her up,
he thought irrationally. In cooler weather she would always sleep in two tunics at night, snuggling against him to share his body heat. And if he got up in the mornings before Elizabeth, he always tucked the covers around her so she would stay warm.

Abraham was not only haunted by memories of his wife, he was haunted by his sin. He remembered the words of King David, “My sin is ever before me.”
That's how I feel,
he thought.
There's no way I
can put it out of my mind.

His thoughts drifted to Job, the biblical figure who had lost all his children as well as his fortune.
I managed to keep my fortune,
Abraham thought,
but I lost my wife and two of my children.
He had never thought his life would parallel that of Job, but now he had a better grasp of Job's suffering. Abraham remembered how, in the midst of his catastrophes, Job's wife had told him to “curse God and die.” Job had complained and questioned, but he had not cursed God. While Abraham hadn't cursed God, he had denied Him—and right now he wasn't sure there was a difference.

For a long time Abraham lay trapped in his spiraling thoughts, and then finally, toward dawn, he closed his eyes . . . and promptly opened them in hell.

Abraham felt the flames lick at his body and heard bloodcurdling screams. Damian's countenance—or was it Satan?—appeared before him. “Welcome to my kingdom,” the floating face said with a roar of fiendish laughter.

The flames were far hotter than any fire on earth, and the pain they inflicted was beyond bearing. Uncontrollable screams of agony bellowed from Abraham's mouth. He looked down at his hands, now scorched and blackened, as demons surrounded him, mocking and taunting him. “Your money won't help you here. Caesar can't deliver you from this pit.”

He had never been so thirsty. His mouth was parched, his lips were swelling, and his tongue was so thick, he could not swallow. “Water,
please,”
he cried out. “Just a drop of water.”

“There's no water here—and no mercy. This is your eternal reward.”

The smell of human flesh burning without the relief of death was a gut-wrenching stench. Abraham looked down a dark, unending corridor of human bodies on fire, screaming, writhing, and cursing. This was suffering on a scale his mind could not grasp. He screamed, “Why am I here . . . Why?”

Then he remembered: he was a traitor. He had denied Christ and worshiped Caesar.

From his waterless inferno, Abraham looked across an immeasurable divide and saw the throne of God, brilliant in its splendor. A river flowed from beneath the throne, and Abraham knew he would never touch a drop of its clear, sparkling water. Instead, he would burn in this agony of pain for all eternity, out of reach of the river, separated from God.

Then came a pain far greater than the physical pain, an unimaginable anguish. He saw Elizabeth standing beside the river. How beautiful, how radiant she was in her robe of white, her burnished golden-red hair adorned by a martyr's crown. Abraham extended his arms toward her and shouted with all his might, “Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth!”

The sound of his own screams woke him up. The nightmare had left the blankets twisted and his clothes soaked with sweat. His head was pounding, and he gingerly touched the knot where the soldier's club had caught him just above the ear.

Abraham got up and opened the shuttered window. As daylight streamed into the room, he blinked and rubbed his sleep-swollen eyes.
It must be almost noon,
he realized. He gripped the windowsill, visibly shaken by the graphic dream. In Scripture, God had often spoken to men in dreams, warning them or even foretelling their future. Had God sent this dream? Was God going to send him to hell?

In the distance Abraham could see the blue-green waters of the sea, and he suddenly remembered a verse from one of the ancient Jewish prophets: “You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea.”
But surely not this sin,
Abraham reasoned.
I denied the Savior. I
broke the first commandment.

In broad daylight he seemed to see things more clearly. Abraham realized he had left his first love, Christ. All those years ago he had fallen in love with Jesus; that love had taken him to Jerusalem and then brought him to Ephesus—had brought him to Elizabeth. It hadn't been wrong to love Elizabeth; it was wrong to love her more than he loved God, however. Over the years Abraham had let his profound love for his wife and children overshadow his devotion to God, and at the very moment it had mattered the most, he had been loyal to them rather than to his Savior.

It was also wrong, he realized now, to think he could resolve situations that were out of his control. “I'll fix this,” he had told Elizabeth when Damian arrived in Ephesus with his legionnaires.
What made me
think I could manage things that only God could control?
he wondered.

Abraham knew the answer now: pride. He had trusted his own strength more than he had trusted God. But this hadn't been a business crisis he could settle with skillful negotiation or an influx of cash. This had been a spiritual test, and he had failed it miserably.

Abraham hung his head in anguish. Was there forgiveness for him? He wished he could talk to John, ask the Apostle to pray for him. Abraham didn't think he could pray for himself, and if he could, he wasn't sure God would listen to the plea of a traitor.

His gaze fell to the open peristyle below his bedroom window, and he remembered something John had said as the church met there one Sunday. Abraham had been sitting on a bench in the garden while he watched the white-headed preacher pace back and forth on the colonnaded porch, gesturing as he spoke.

“If we claim to be without sin,” John had said, punching the air with his forefinger, “we are deceiving ourselves. The truth is not in us!” Then the Apostle had suddenly stopped and opened his arms expansively. “But if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us. He will forgive us,” he had repeated for emphasis, “and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

John had known the Lord's faithfulness for more than six decades; he knew what he was talking about. Encouraged by his memory of John's words, Abraham began praying aloud.

“Father God—Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—I confess my sin before You and humbly ask Your forgiveness. Cleanse me by the power of Your blood, and restore to me the joy of my salvation. As You gave Samson a second chance, give me a second chance to prove my love and loyalty for the Son of God. I have sinned a great sin, but please forgive me, heavenly Father. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.”

Abraham felt the stirrings of a fragile peace, the first peace he had felt in weeks. He still felt an immense burden of sorrow, but the torment that had accompanied it was gone.

As he bathed and dressed, Abraham decided he would still go to Rome and appeal to Caesar. He would try to win Jacob's and Rebecca's release from Devil's Island—and John's too, of course. But Abraham knew now that
God
would have to be the One to bring an end to their imprisonment. Abraham would put the appeal in motion, and this time he would leave the results to the sovereign Lord of the universe.

As soon as he went downstairs, Abraham's peace was in jeopardy.

Without Servius, the household staff was in disarray. Abraham had to wander from room to room to find someone to prepare a meal for him; when the food finally arrived in the dining room an hour later, it was inedible.

Then Quintus appeared, wearing his I-really-don't-want-to-tell-you-this look, the one he always wore when there was bad news to report. Abraham led him out into the peristyle, where they could talk privately as they strolled.

“Naomi was at the harbor this morning . . .” Quintus hesitated a moment, waiting for Abraham's nod. When it came, he continued, “To see Kaeso.”

“Kaeso?” Abraham was instantly alert. Naomi was hatching a scheme of some kind; he could feel it.

“He came to see me as soon as she left. Her visit didn't sit well with him.”

“What did she want?”

“She told Kaeso to prepare the
Mercury
to sail for Rome—tomorrow. The captain informed Naomi that he took orders only from you, no one else. She said she was acting on your behalf, that you were going to appeal to Caesar for Jacob and Rebecca, and that if you were too ill to sail, she would be going alone.”

Abraham had not mentioned his plan to Naomi, and he suspected that was not her true motive at all. What she really wanted to do was to go husband-shopping in Rome, but that wouldn't have sounded important enough to convince Kaeso to sail. She had guessed what her father's next move would be and then tried to manipulate the situation to her advantage.
Would she really have sailed without me?
Abraham wondered. It didn't matter now; she wouldn't have the opportunity.

“I told Kaeso I'd check it out with you,” Quintus added. “Did you send her to make the arrangements with Kaeso? Are you going to Rome?”

“No, I didn't send Naomi as my messenger, but I am planning to go to Rome. And the sooner, the better.”

“But the shipping season is over. All of our ships are going into dry dock in a few days.”

“The
Mercury
is much faster than any of our commercial ships. We should be in Rome before the storms arrive. And if not, well, it's a risk I have to take.” Abraham thought of what was at stake. Thought of his young daughter living in a prison camp with hardened criminals— men who were more like savage animals than humans. Thought of his son condemned to a life of hard labor. And he knew the risk was well worth it.

“It's something I have to do, Quintus. If God is in this plan, then He will preserve me through any storm. And I believe God is with me.”

Abraham paused, thinking of his nightmare, the morning's introspection, and his prayer. “I repented, Quintus. I asked for forgiveness, and I believe I received it.”

Quintus nodded slowly. “Good. I'm glad.”

The two men walked in companionable silence for a minute. “I don't know how long I'll be gone,” Abraham said. “Probably until spring. Watch over the business for me. I trust you to make whatever decisions might be necessary in my absence.”

“I'll do my best, sir.”

“And make sure Peter is all right. I hate to leave him alone . . .” Abraham would take Naomi with him, he decided. Perhaps the best thing for her would be to get married and live in Rome; it seemed to be what she wanted more than anything. He wished Peter would go with them but knew he would refuse; Peter was simply too afraid of sailing.

“I'll check on him regularly.”

When they walked back through the house to the door, Quintus appeared reluctant to leave.

“Is there anything else?” Abraham finally asked.

Quintus shook his head. “No, just . . . I just wanted to say that I'll pray for you.” He extended his hand. “Godspeed, Abraham.”

Abraham choked up as they clasped hands, suddenly feeling it would be the last time they would ever see each other. “And God be with you, friend.”

20

AFTER TWO DAYS ON DEVIL'S ISLAND, Jacob's entire existence had been reduced to a pile of rocks. He was aware of nothing but dust, sweat, pain, thirst, and gut-twisting fear of the unknown.

Behind him Rebecca sneezed, but Jacob avoided looking in her direction. He couldn't stand it anymore. It broke his heart to see her face and arms covered with with marble dust, her hands and feet caked with blood and dirt.

It was late afternoon and John was slowing down. Jacob could tell the Apostle was trying not to groan as he bent down and then straightened up—over and over and over again. The old man had to be near the point of complete collapse.

We don't belong here.

Jacob's basket was two-thirds full again when he heard horses galloping through the entrance of the quarry. He had forgotten that Damian's ship had arrived yesterday; now he saw the crimson plume on one of the helmeted riders and recognized his family's persecutor. The other man on horseback was the commander of the prison camp. Brutus appeared to be showing Damian around the quarry, pointing in different directions as their horses sauntered slowly through the giant dust bowl hollowed out of the rocks.

The guards had noticed the visitors on horseback too, and while their attention was diverted, Jacob switched his almost full basket with John's nearly empty one. John gave him a grateful look, and they both went back to work.

Damian's presence was like an invasion of the Prince of Darkness. It galled Jacob that their mother's murderer enjoyed freedom, while he and his sister had been sentenced to slavery on this rocky wasteland simply for their religious beliefs.

They were almost ready to begin yet another trip to the harbor when Brutus and Damian rode close to the area where they were working. Suddenly Rebecca dropped the rock she was carrying, and Jacob knew by her startled reaction that she had finally recognized Damian. John appeared not to notice the men on horseback; he worked without looking up.

“Well, well. The old Apostle and the rich young preacher-boy.” Damian held the reins loosely in one hand as he raised the other in greeting. “And the beautiful, sweet, innocent little sister.”