Devil's Island (26 page)

“Very well.” Marcellus sighed and told her where to find Brutus. “But be careful. Prisoners are not supposed to be walking around the camp.”

Rebecca slipped off the table and said good-bye to the Apostle, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Then she left and followed Marcellus's instructions for navigating the camp.

Soon she came to the building he had described as the camp headquarters. As she approached the door, she heard voices coming from an open window. Something told her to stop before she crossed in front of it, so she did. As she listened, she recognized that one of the speakers was Damian.

Rebecca closed her eyes and leaned back against the outside of the building, her heart pounding. She started to run but then realized they might be talking about Jacob, so she stayed.

“And you underestimate the importance of keeping discipline,” Damian was saying. “It was necessary to establish my authority.”

“Discipline is one thing,” Brutus countered, “brutality is another. If you kill the prisoners, how can we keep the work going?”

“Prisoners are expendable. I can bring you an unending supply. And don't forget,
you
answer to
me
now. You'll run this place the way
I
see fit.”

They weren't talking about Jacob, Rebecca decided, so she started to leave. But when she heard Brutus's next question, her feet refused to move.

“Is it true you killed that boy's mother in Ephesus?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“The young woman prisoner, his sister.”

Damian's voice expressed his scorn. “You'd take the word of a convicted criminal over mine?”

“No,” Brutus replied evenly, “that's why I'm asking you.”

“She's just a hysterical girl. What I did or did not do in Ephesus is none of your business. I carried out my assignment from the emperor, and that's all that matters.”

“Did your assignment call for murder?”

“The woman struck a centurion.” Damian was shouting now. “I simply carried out her punishment on the spot. And that's the law around here too, Brutus. Any violation of the rules will bring
immediate
punishment. Do you understand?”

“Yes . . . sir.” Brutus sounded none too pleased to be answering to Damian.

Rebecca heard footsteps and realized Damian was about to leave Brutus's office. Immediately she turned and sprinted down the main street of the camp, running as fast as her exhausted feet would carry her. She didn't slow down until she had passed the mess hall and had come to the spot where the path started up the southern slope to their cave. Her breath came in deep gulps as she leaned against a rock to rest.

She looked back and saw Damian walking toward the mess hall.
I have to get out of here before he sees me!
Panic overrode her exhaustion, and Rebecca began climbing the rocky path up the mountain. She didn't look back, but she didn't hear anyone following her, so she gradually slowed her pace. Her feet were screaming from the miles she'd carried a heavy load, and in spite of Marcellus's ointment, her raw hands burned with pain.

Halfway up the mountain, Rebecca realized she was headed back to the cave alone—totally alone—and suddenly she was terrified of spending the night by herself in that dark rat-infested hole in the rock. She turned around and looked back at the camp, hesitating. But what choice did she have? If she went back down the mountain . . .

Servius!
He had said if she needed anything—and she did. She needed to be with someone, someone she knew and loved. But she didn't know where to find Servius. Yesterday he had said they'd found a cave not far from the camp; that's all she knew.

The hospital.
Marcellus had been kind to her. Perhaps he would let her sleep on one of the cots in the medical building. But if Damian found out, he would punish her severely, and Marcellus would also pay a price for breaking the rules. She couldn't ask him to risk that, and besides, if she walked through the camp again, one of the guards was bound to see her.
“No loitering in the camp,”
Brutus had told the prisoners when they arrived. That was one of the rules, and Damian would make sure that Brutus enforced it.

The sun was low on the horizon now, and shadows fell across the mountain. Rebecca thought she saw movement on the path below her, then concluded that her mind was playing tricks on her as she strained to see into the twilight.

It will be dark soon—I have to decide. Which way do I go?
she asked herself.

Rebecca shivered. The temperature had begun to drop as the sun went down. She had left her cloak in the cave that morning—this time intentionally—and now that garment seemed of immense significance to her. Not only did it represent warmth, it was her only possession, her only tie to her former life.

Not knowing what else to do, Rebecca turned around and started back up the mountain. When she had safely reached the cave, she went inside. While there was still enough light to see inside the dim interior, she went through the narrow passage to the inner chamber they had used for sleeping and retrieved her cloak and all three of their blankets. Then she went back to the wide funnel-mouth of the cave. She would pass the night here, she decided, just inside the entrance; she couldn't stand to be in the cave's inner room all by herself. It would feel like a tomb in the pitch darkness.

Still shivering, Rebecca wrapped herself in the cloak and the blankets and sat against the wall of the cave, watching the moon rise as darkness completely overtook the mountain. She was beyond tears now—starving, aching, feverish, and more alone than she had ever been.

She was afraid of what would happen if she went to sleep, so she remained sitting upright. In spite of her efforts to stay awake, however, exhaustion eventually closed her eyes and her head drooped to her chest.

Suddenly she snapped her head up.
What was that?
She listened to the sounds of the night and heard a rustling nearby.

The rats,
she thought.
It's probably the rats.
John had named them Damian and Domitian, she remembered as she drew the blankets tighter around her.

But it wasn't the rats, she realized a second later. It was footsteps. Someone had entered the cave. As soon as she heard the footsteps, she heard the sound of heavy breathing and smelled alcohol.

Rebecca threw off the blankets and jumped to her feet. “Who's there?” she asked frantically, wondering if she could make it outside the cave before the intruder came any farther. Or should she try to hide in the large chamber of the cave?

She didn't have a chance to decide. As the stranger moved toward Rebecca, he stumbled and brushed against her. Rough hands grabbed her, and she couldn't pull loose from their hold. The man was drunk but strong.

“Stay still, and I won't hurt you.”

Rebecca recognized her attacker then, and her fear escalated.

With a savage motion he pinned her against the wall and lifted her tunic, slurring his words as he expressed his evil design. “We have some unfinished business, Elizabeth.”

Rebecca's screams pierced the night, but there was no one to hear, no one to save her as her mother's murderer brutally raped her.

21

JOHN THOUGHT HE HAD BEEN DREAMING, but when he opened his eyes and felt the sunlight on his face—and the fire of the wounds on his back—he realized the beating had actually happened, although he couldn't quite remember the details. He was lying on a cot, not on the ground of their cave, but close to an open window in what must be the camp hospital. He closed his eyes again as he recalled the sound of the whips, the struggle to lift an impossibly heavy load onto his back. Hoofbeats—there had been horses . . .

Damian.
It started coming back to him. Damian had shown up in the quarry and had stopped Jacob from helping John with his basket. The next thing John knew, he had been struck from behind. Now he remembered the staggering force of the whip, the searing pain, and landing facedown in the dust. He remembered hearing Rebecca scream, and then he must have passed out.

Cramped from lying in one position for so long—
How long have
I been here?
he wondered—John wanted to turn over. But he could not figure out how to roll onto his other side without first lying on his back, and he didn't want to risk the pain; he hurt enough as it was, so he continued to lie on his side, now and then glancing out the window. He couldn't see any activity, but he could hear the distant sound of tramping feet as workers arrived at the harbor to empty their baskets.

After a few minutes, an officer in a red tunic came into the infirmary. This soldier wasn't wearing the leather armor of the prison guards or the other camp officials, John noted. As he drew nearer, John recognized him as the medical officer.

“I see you're finally awake,” Marcellus said. “That's good.”

“What day is it?” John asked hoarsely.

“Sunday.”

The Lord's Day,
John thought. He knew they had arrived on Patmos on a Thursday. But was that three days ago, or longer? He had no idea.

“They brought you in yesterday,” Marcellus said, answering the unspoken question. Then he pulled the thin blanket covering John down to his waist. “Let me look at your back.”

John winced as Marcellus examined his wounds and applied ointment to his back. After a minute, the stinging began to subside and the medication felt cool and soothing.

“Get some more sleep,” the medical officer told him. “When I come back, I'll bring some food, if you're able to eat.”

“I'll be able,” John said confidently, then promptly fell asleep again.

Later that day, when Marcellus returned, he helped John sit up, then handed him a bowl of the thin gruel served to the prisoners. “It's not much,” he apologized, “but it will keep you alive . . . I think.” He smiled tiredly. “Tomorrow I'll try to find something a little more nourishing.”

“That's very kind of you.” John sized up the medical officer as he sipped the watery mush. Not only did Marcellus not wear armor like the other soldiers, he did not seem to have the impenetrable interior defenses of the typical military man.

“I hear you're a preacher,” Marcellus said. “Not the usual type we get around here. And definitely older than most of the other prisoners.” “I'm older than almost everybody. Eighty-four.” John finished the gruel and handed the bowl back to Marcellus. He was beginning to feel better, now that he had eaten something. “I don't know why the good Lord has kept me alive so long.” John often wondered why he was still around when all the other apostles had paid with their lives for their service to the King of kings. It was a mystery, but one he had come to accept.

“Evidently they've started sending more atheists here—Christians, I mean. Another group arrived yesterday.”

“Have you ever known any Christians?” John asked. Marcellus shook his head. “Do you even know why we're called ‘Christians'?”

“I know that you follow some man named Jesus. One of the many messiah-types from Palestine.”

“
The
Messiah,” John said emphatically. “That's what
Christ
means, the Anointed One, or Messiah. Jesus of Nazareth was—and is—our Savior.”

“I see,” Marcellus said as he straightened the medical supplies on the table under the window. The supplies had been arranged in an orderly fashion before Marcellus began toying with them, and John realized his attention to them now was simply a way of looking busy while he talked about a subject that could possibly get them both in trouble. There were no other patients in the infirmary, however, so they appeared to be free to talk.

“Anyway, this Christ has been dead a long time.” Marcellus turned away from the window; perhaps he had been looking to make sure no one was outside. “Must have been fifty or sixty years ago—before I was born,” he added.

“Sixty-five years, to be exact. I know—I was there.”

“When He died?” Marcellus asked, incredulous.

“And when He was resurrected.” John paused to let that soak in. “I knew Jesus personally. Maybe I'm the last one alive who did. Outside of the children, that is. He loved children, and some of His youngest followers are probably still around. But I was one of His original disciples.”

Marcellus looked thoughtful. “When you say ‘resurrected' . . .”

John was tired and in pain, but he ignored his physical weakness as his spirit stirred within him. He was still a fisher of men, and unless he was mistaken, Marcellus was his next catch. The soldier's open questions signaled his spiritual hunger, and John began to cast his net.

“Tell me, have you witnessed many crucifixions?” he asked the medical officer.

The question seemed to surprise Marcellus, and he thought a moment before answering. His eyes narrowed as he said, “I've seen enough.”

“How many survivors have you treated?”

“Survivors? None.” Marcellus was clearly puzzled by John's questions. “It's a death sentence.”

“Exactly—and the soldiers make sure the condemned man is dead. I watched them crucify Jesus. Then I watched as the soldiers verified His death. One of them even stabbed Jesus in the side, and I saw water flow out with the blood.”

Marcellus looked at the Apostle intently, still waiting for an answer to his question.

“He was dead, and He was buried. Then, three days later, His tomb was empty. I saw the burial linens lying on the ground, and I saw His prayer shawl, which had been wrapped around His head before burial, according to our custom, neatly folded and placed to one side.

“And later that night, He suddenly appeared in the room where the disciples were staying. I saw the scars in His wrists. Right here”— John pointed to the inside of his wrist, poking an arthritic finger in the space between the two bones of his lower arm, just above the point where they connected with his hand—“where He had been nailed to the cross. Jesus still bore the marks. And He was very much alive.”