Devil's Island Read online

  “Execution or exile. That is the punishment.”

  The two friends stared blankly into space for a moment. Publius appeared quite pained as he continued. “If John is a target, it stands to reason that your son will also come to the commander’s attention. Jacob accompanies the old preacher everywhere he goes.”

  Abraham’s heart sank. Jacob, oh Jacob, he thought. Why do you have to be so outspoken? Whatever made you want to be a preacher like John?

  “So if Jacob is singled out,” Publius continued, “you’re bound to be targeted as well. You know they can confiscate the property of anyone convicted of such a crime, and you’re the wealthiest man in Asia. Actually, you wouldn’t even have to be convicted of a crime, not in the sense of a trial. Damian has special orders from the emperor that override the local governing auth—”

  “Who?” Abraham bolted forward as he snapped out the question.

  “The commander,” Publius replied, his eyebrows arching on his malleable face. “Lucius Mallus Damianus . . .”

  Abraham did not hear another word Publius said. Damian! How could he bear to tell Elizabeth that Damian had returned, and that Jacob was his prey?

  2

  THE TRICLINIUM, WITH ITS THREE SLOPING SOFAS arranged around the large square table, was the most important room in the house, and dinner with her family was the highlight of Elizabeth’s day. She slipped off her sandals and left them at the foot of the couch, then stretched out on the plush mattress covered in a rich, crimson-striped brocade.

  Although each sofa accommodated three people, the family reclined in pairs when dining alone. Elizabeth and Abraham shared the center couch, the position of honor. Jacob and Peter occupied the couch to their left, and Naomi and Rebecca were to their right. The fourth side of the table was left open for service. While one servant poured wine and another placed dishes of boiled eggs in sauce, salad greens, and oysters on the table to begin the meal, Elizabeth leaned on her elbow and surveyed her family.

  Peter appeared to be in pain, although he hadn’t complained. In the last few years he seemed to have given in to it more; some days he never left his room. Elizabeth had often thought that if it had been Jacob whose ankle had been badly twisted at birth, he would have tangled with the devil himself rather than give up and spend the day in bed.

  Her husband seemed to be distracted. Abraham had not touched his cup of mulsum, the warm, honey-sweetened wine he loved. Probably brooding over a business problem, she guessed. If it were something she needed to know, he would tell her later; they had no secrets.

  Rebecca exhibited her usual sunny disposition. She was sweet and >even-tempered, and remarkably unspoiled. Unlike her older sister, Elizabeth thought with a maternal pang. Naomi had always been self-centered, but lately she seemed to be gripped by cynicism. Naomi’s attention was wandering now, and she drummed her fingers on the large napkin spread protectively over the curved head of the couch.

  The twins presented a contrast, as always. Peter was typically quiet and merely picked at his food, while Jacob ate heartily and conversed with the others. He did seem a bit subdued, however, and Rebecca was quick to pinpoint the cause.

  “When are you and the apostle John leaving?” she said to Jacob.

  “We’re not. At least not right away.” Disappointment was etched in the set of Jacob’s square jaw. “It’s difficult for him to ride long distances anymore because of his advanced age—”

  “Advanced? He’s older than Methuselah.” Naomi nibbled at one of the boiled eggs and grimaced. “Too much vinegar in the pine-kernel sauce,” she commented. “Surely we could afford a better cook.”

  “I’m surprised you even know who Methuselah is,” Jacob said dryly.

  “I know much more than you’d ever give a woman credit for.”

  Elizabeth shot Jacob a warning look that stopped him from offering a quick retort.

  He contented himself with a frown at his older sister and continued. “Anyway, John was chilled to the bone when I arrived this morning, and too stiff to mount a horse. He said he would write Polycarp and ask him to come to Ephesus, but I suggested we hire a carriage. I think John could make the trip that way.”

  “Who is this Polycarp, dear?” Elizabeth did not recall hearing the name.

  “He’s a disciple of John, someone he wants me to meet—a leader of the church in Smyrna, even though he’s only a few years older than I am.”

  Two servants began bringing the main course to the table: mackerel smothered in herbs and coarse pepper, pieces of roast duck rolled in honey and poppy seeds, and several vegetable dishes. All of the household servants were Christians, and Jacob spoke freely in their presence.

  “John said I could preach in some of the churches,” he said eagerly, “and he feels an urgent need to visit them—‘one last time,’ he said—because he feels that something cataclysmic is about to happen.”

  For the first time during the meal, Abraham’s attention was piqued. “What do you mean, ‘cataclysmic’?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I don’t know—I don’t think John knows, either. Perhaps it’s simply that he’s nearing the end of his life and knows he may never have another opportunity to minister to the other churches. Or maybe he senses in his spirit that something . . .” Jacob paused to take a sip of wine while he groped for the right words. “Something unusually significant, or disastrous, is about to happen.”

  Abraham stared so intently at Jacob that Elizabeth wondered if father and son were about to renew the argument they’d had this morning. Dear God, no, she prayed silently. Let there be peace.

  “If you ask me,” Jacob continued, “it obviously has something to do with Emperor Domitian’s declaring himself Lord and God—”

  “Oh, please. Spare us another sermon about the perils of emperor worship.” Naomi spoke over her brother while rolling her eyes dramatically.

  “—And receiving sacrifices at the grandiose temple our city fathers so thoughtfully built in his honor.” Jacob glared across the table at his sister as he finished speaking.

  “Hush, Naomi! As for you, Jacob—” Abraham’s stern voice dropped a notch as Elizabeth placed her arm on his sleeve. “Son, your righteous indignation is appropriate, but you have a tendency to express it without thinking. You must be careful about speaking so openly in public, as I’ve warned you.”

  “But Father, how will people know the truth unless we preach it? They are lost and dying without God, worshiping idols of gold and silver, and now worshiping a man who dares to call himself Lord and God.”

  “And how will the people hear the truth if the preacher gets himself thrown in jail—or killed?”

  Elizabeth gasped involuntarily at Abraham’s words. She had not heard her husband talk like this before, and it troubled her. His opposition to Jacob’s calling to be a preacher had stemmed from his disappointment that his son would not follow him into the business world—or so she had thought. Perhaps Abraham had been more worried for their son’s safety than he had let on.

  “We have enjoyed a great deal of toleration,” Abraham continued more calmly, “but the political climate is changing. Drastically.” He picked up the cup of mulsum and sipped slowly, his glance saying to Elizabeth, I’ll tell you about it later.

  “All I’m saying is, don’t go looking for trouble, son; it will find you easily enough. Preach the truth, but be judicious about it.”

  Abraham turned and looked at his son for so long that Jacob finally asked, “Do you think something terrible is about to happen, Father? Something ‘cataclysmic’?”

  “My prophetic ability is limited to business forecasts.” Abraham smiled wanly. “I’ll leave spiritual prophecy to the Apostle.”

  Everyone fell silent; the mood had turned somber. “You should have told me John was sick,” Elizabeth said after a long moment. “I would have sent food, and someone to look after him.”

  “He’s not sick, Mother. Just old and stiff. Still as feisty as ever, but getting rather feeble.” Jacob turn
ed to face Abraham. “I will heed your advice, Father,” he said deliberately. “I cannot promise to stop preaching, but I will promise to be more careful.”

  Abraham nodded. “Good enough.” His voice had become husky with emotion and he cleared his throat. “You mentioned something about hiring a carriage so John could go on this trip.”

  Jacob’s rugged features became instantly animated. “I figured all your wagons would be in service now, making deliveries. But I thought perhaps we could use your personal coach, or maybe you could arrange to hire a carriage for us.”

  “I can do better than that. Take the Mercury and sail for Smyrna or Pergamum, then hire a carriage to take John wherever he wants to go.”

  Jacob sat straight up and gave a jubilant whoop. Naomi’s mouth flew open. “The Mercury ?” She stared at her father for a moment, then turned to her brother. “How long will you be gone?” she asked, her voice frigid.

  “What does it matter to you?” Jacob replied.

  “I realize sending Jacob in my private cutter spoils your scheme of wheedling me into a trip to Rome,” Abraham said to Naomi. “We’ll talk about that later. For now”—he pointed at Jacob—“I want you to leave and tell John as soon as we finish dinner. I’ll alert the captain and crew. Make whatever preparations you need, but be at the harbor ready to cast off by daybreak. I’ll meet you there to see you off.”

  “Daybreak? Why the urgency?” Elizabeth swallowed hard. She was satisfied with Abraham’s change of heart toward Jacob’s ministry but wary of its suddenness. Now she had a premonition of disaster.

  “John himself expressed the urgency,” Abraham said, “and the Mercury is stocked and ready to sail. There’s no need for delay.” His tone of voice left no room for argument.

  After dinner Naomi strolled along the colonnade of the large open peristyle adjoining their villa. Peeved that her father was sending Jacob on some fool’s errand to Smyrna when she’d had plans to use their private ship, Naomi thought a walk would be soothing. She loved the peristyle with its spacious, meticulously tended garden and fountains. That is, she liked it now, when it was quiet and dignified; Naomi hated it on Sundays, when as many as a hundred people congregated on the tiled walkways surrounding the garden.

  Actually, she did not mind large crowds of people—as long as they were the right people. But the people who gathered in their home on “the Lord’s Day,” as they called it, were not the right people; they were an odd mixture of young and old, rich and poor, well-bred and uncouth, and most of them either pitied her or scorned her. Naomi, in turn, pitied their dependence on a childish faith and privately scorned their sermons and hymns to Christ.

  Naomi’s mood did not improve when she found her sister sitting on a stone bench by the central fountain.

  “I like your new dress,” Rebecca said pleasantly. “I’ve never seen a blue that brilliant before.”

  Naomi did not value her sister’s opinions on fashion, but at least Rebecca hadn’t tried to insult her. Jacob had had the nerve to tell her she looked like a peacock.

  “It’s quite flattering, don’t you think?” Naomi extended her slender arms and made a graceful pirouette, careful not to dislodge the numerous pins and combs that held her dark auburn hair piled high atop her head. She was quite proud of her abundant hair and its rich color, an exotic blend of her mother’s fiery red locks and the glossy jet of her father’s.

  “And I like to wear vivid colors,” Naomi added. “It lifts my spirits.”

  “The new dress, the new hairdo . . . are you expecting a visitor?”

  “No, I’m just trying out some of the latest styles before I go to Rome.”

  “Father said at dinner you wanted to go to Rome, but it’s too late in the year for him to take us now.”

  “I didn’t say anything about the family going.” Naomi’s smile faded at the thought of her entire, boringly religious clan accompanying her; she hadn’t suggested it to her father. He kept a small villa in the hills of Rome and sometimes took the family with him on business trips, but Naomi had a different purpose in mind for her trip, and she wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.

  “I think Rome would be a good place to find a husband,” she announced to her sister.

  “You make finding a husband sound like a shopping trip.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. And Rome has a much better selection of merchandise.” Naomi threw back her head and laughed.

  “But Ephesus is a huge city,” Rebecca said, “one of the wealthiest cities in the Empire. Surely you can find a husband here.”

  “Rome is the center of the world, and that’s where I belong. Perhaps married to a senator—yes, I like that idea.”

  For a moment Naomi let her imagination take her all the way to the emperor’s palace, seeing herself surrounded by the highest echelon of Roman society. A rich, powerful husband would be her ticket, and she would not even mind if he were old or ugly—or both—as long as he was stupendously wealthy and influential.

  “I’m content to stay here and let Father take care of arranging a marriage,” Rebecca said. “And how can you even think about going to Rome when Jacob could be in trouble?”

  “He wouldn’t be in trouble if he would learn to keep his mouth shut. And you’re content only because you assume you’ll marry your beloved Galen. What if Father has already struck a bargain with someone else? Perhaps a wealthy acquaintance who can inject fresh capital into the shipping business.”

  “We don’t need that kind of money, and Father would never do that to me. Never.” Rebecca’s large eyes widened, and the contrast of her dark eyes and deep-nut-brown hair against her delicate fair skin gave her the appearance of a startled doe.

  “Don’t be too sure. Money begets money, dear heart, and money drives the world.”

  Rebecca folded her hands in her lap and composed herself. “Father is going to speak to Galen soon. Mother said so.”

  “I don’t know what you see in him. I suppose Galen is handsome enough, but he’s not forceful. And he’s poor—a silversmith. If it weren’t for his scruples, Galen could make a lucrative business selling charms and amulets and temple souvenirs. He wouldn’t have any clients at all if Father hadn’t introduced him to some wealthy merchants who can afford silver plates and goblets rather than stoneware.”

  “Galen is a very talented artisan, and also a Christian—something you seem to care nothing about in a husband but that is very important to me.”

  Naomi resented her younger sister’s holier-than-thou attitude, and she couldn’t resist goading Rebecca. “Perhaps Galen does not love you as much as you imagine, and that’s why he has not asked Father’s permission to marry you.”

  “That’s not true! He does love me. He even wanted to—”

  Rebecca suddenly stopped speaking, and Naomi knew she had been about to reveal something. From the crimson flame of Rebecca’s cheeks, Naomi guessed what Galen had wanted to do. “He wanted to kiss you,” she said knowingly.

  “He is too much of a gentleman to kiss me before we’re married.” Rebecca’s hands fidgeted nervously in her lap and her voice dropped to a dreamy whisper. “But he did hold my hand.”

  “Answer me one question,” Naomi snapped. “Did Galen want to kiss you because of love—or was it lust?”

  “Why do you have to talk like that?” Rebecca bolted from the garden bench and ran to the shelter of the colonnade.

  The sound of Naomi’s laughter echoed off the flagstones. Poor lovestruck child, she mused, almost regretting having provoked her sister, then deciding it was to Rebecca’s advantage to have her illusions shattered. She’ll soon learn that love is never what you expect it to be. And it never lasts.

  Abraham’s heart was as heavy as his footsteps when he climbed the stairs to the upper level of the villa, where the bedrooms were located— all except Peter’s. Elizabeth had converted a small room off the library on the ground floor into a bedroom for him.

  Jacob had rushed out shortly after dinner, E
lizabeth reminding him to take a torch because it would be dark by the time he reached John’s house. Abraham paused at the door of Jacob’s bedroom now, wondering if he was doing the right thing by sending Jacob away. But what else could he do? The Tenth Legion was here, with orders from the emperor, and with Damian in command.

  He searched the recesses of his mind, trying to recall the monster’s face. He’d seen it only twice, and as memorable as his encounters with Damian had been, Abraham wondered why the face was not permanently etched in his memory. But he remembered only bits and pieces of Damian’s physical appearance, disjointed elements that he could not quite put together to make a composite. Dark hair, that was easy; he was a Roman. Bony knees—an odd thing to remember; but then Abraham had seen them at close range, looking up at them from the ground. And such cruel eyes. If nothing else, he would recognize Damian again from the hatred in his eyes.

  It’s been twenty-five years, Abraham thought. Maybe he’s bald and paunchy and toothless now. No matter if he were. Damian had an entire cohort of soldiers to carry out his orders. Somewhere between four hundred and six hundred men, and they were here to root out Christians.

  When Abraham entered their bedroom, Elizabeth was sitting on the side of the bed, her shoulders slumped. “I thought you had to go to the harbor,” she said, “to make sure the captain is prepared to sail in the morning.”

  Abraham set the clay lamp he had carried upstairs on the table by the bed. Several lamps were already burning, and a charcoal brazier had been lit to take the chill off the room. “Kaeso is ready. I spoke to him before I left the harbor this afternoon.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean you already knew you were going to send Jacob and John to Smyrna on the Mercury ?”

  “All I could think of was that I had to get Jacob away from here quickly . . .” He knew that was the wrong place to start, so he let his thought trail off, wondering how much to tell Elizabeth, wishing he could protect her from the truth, and knowing he couldn’t.