Devil's Island Page 8

  “Coward! Where is your courage now?” one of them shouted as an unarmed rebel begged for his life, babbling that he had never wanted to fight in the first place.

  Abraham thought of Tobias, who had also been forced to join the battle against his will, and he stifled an outcry as he watched the slaughter in front of him. Not content to have run the coward through with his sword, the attacker pulled it out and swung it high. Then he swiftly brought it down with a powerful two-handed stroke against the man’s throat. A spurt of blood arced up from the rebel’s neck as his head was severed.

  Two Roman tribunes on horseback came up from the south, riding past Abraham toward the skirmish. By the time they arrived, the rebels had been butchered and the Romans were sheathing their swords.

  “What’s going on?” the taller one asked as he quickly dismounted. “Do we need more troops in this area?”

  “No,” one of the soldiers replied. “Just some stragglers we chased all the way from the temple. They were trying to remove some of their precious treasures.”

  “Good work,” the shorter tribune said as the soldiers searched the bodies for the spoils of war. Abraham reckoned the man was barely above the military’s minimum height requirement of five feet, eight inches. But what he lacked in height he evidently made up for in callousness. The officer walked around the bodies of the fallen revolutionaries, kicking the severed head to turn it over and laughing hoarsely. “You startled this one. His eyes were about to pop out of his head.”

  The first officer ordered the soldiers to return to their camp, saying that the two tribunes were headed to the general’s headquarters. The legionnaires tramped off wearily, complaining of how long the Jews had held their ground and how glad they would be to get out of this backwater outpost and return to civilization now that Palestine had been completely conquered. They passed within twenty feet of Abraham but did not notice him, and he exhaled slowly as they disappeared down the hill.

  The taller tribune prepared to mount his horse, but the other man placed a hand on his arm to stay him. “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Claudius?” Twilight was fading rapidly and Abraham could not quite make out the expression on the scrappy tribune’s face, but the threat implied in his voice was unmistakable.

  The tribune named Claudius did not flinch. “I did not make the complaint against you, Damian, someone else did. I just happen to be the one Tiberius Alexander sent to fetch you,” he said, his disgust for the other officer obvious. “Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long for you to come to his attention.”

  “The Jews themselves set fire to the porticoes,” the tribune named Damian protested, “and Tiberius knows that.”

  Claudius did not back down. “General Titus had commanded that the fires be allowed to die out so the temple itself would be spared. Evidently someone saw you throw a torch directly into the temple.”

  “I was unaware of the order.”

  “I doubt that, but I’m not the one you have to answer to.”

  The two men glared at each other silently for a moment, until Claudius finally said, “You’re not under arrest, Damian. The commander simply wants to hear your side of the story.”

  The tension was so thick between the two men that Abraham could feel it where he lay in the shadows.

  “Are you going back with me willingly,” Claudius continued, “or shall I report to Tiberius that you refused and let him send a search party for you?”

  “No need for that,” Damian replied sarcastically. He reached for the reins of his horse as if he were preparing to mount, but Abraham saw the subtle movement of Damian’s other hand feeling for something at his waist.

  The moment Claudius turned and put his foot in the stirrup, Damian whirled around and grabbed him from behind. Before Claudius could utter a protest, Damian had plunged a knife into the vulnerable spot between the tribune’s helmet and his chest armor. A low gurgle issued from Claudius’s split throat, and he slumped to the ground as Damian released his hold on him.

  Abraham was stunned. Watching the death of the rebels had been one thing; it’s what happened in a war. But this was cold-blooded murder. He’d never witnessed such ruthlessness, and was horrified at the barbarous conduct of a Roman officer against one of his own comrades. But then, the man was apparently guilty of arson as well. Fear gripped Abraham, knowing he was now alone on the hillside with this vicious killer.

  His fear rose as Damian took a few steps in his direction, and Abraham worried for a panicky moment that he had given himself away. But Damian soon turned and walked back. He leaned down, apparently checking to make sure Claudius was dead, then he stood up and lifted his tunic. Damian relieved himself on the bodies of the tribune and the fallen rebels, cursing the renegade Jew Tiberius Alexander, who served as the Roman commander’s chief adviser.

  His desecration complete, Damian mounted his horse and galloped off in the direction of the Tenth Legion camp. Abraham wondered if the villainous tribune would ever face the consequences of his crimes, but somehow he doubted it. Arson against the temple would be hard to prove, given the firestorm of the final battle for Jerusalem; most of the city was in flames. And whoever found Claudius’s body would assume he was a casualty of war, not a murder victim.

  Abraham waited until he could no longer hear the hoofbeats of Damian’s horse, then he stood stiffly. He was scratched and scared, but still in one piece. It was completely dark now, which was probably the only reason he had been able to remain hidden.

  He heard a snorting sound nearby and froze, then he realized it was Claudius’s horse.

  The horse! he thought, his spirits rising. I need that horse.

  He inched toward the sound, not wanting to frighten the animal, and not wanting to stumble over the carnage. Abraham got close enough to smell leather and sweat and blood, then close enough to detect a dark, hulking object directly in front of him. The warhorse was nudging his master’s body, waiting for a command.

  Abraham reached up and patted the horse’s muzzle, speaking softly to calm him as he felt for the bridle and reins. “Come on, boy. Let’s get out of here.”

  As the moon rose, Abraham was able to make out the shape of the Roman wall barricading the city to his left and the original stone wall to his right. He let the horse have free rein, knowing it would head toward the army camp to the north. That was the direction he needed to travel to reach the road that would take him to Caesarea, although he intended to steer clear of the camp itself. But first he had to find a way past the second wall, and as the horse ambled across the valley, Abraham searched for any sign of an opening.

  He could see the fires still raging in the city above him, could smell the pungent aroma of burning wood and human flesh, could hear faint cries of terror and pain. Hundreds of thousands must have lost their lives today, he thought. Many of them pilgrims, just like me. He gave silent thanks to God for preserving his life and prayed for protection on his journey ahead.

  Progress was slow. The horse was tired and Abraham didn’t quite know where he was. Although he wanted to hurry, he did not urge the horse to gallop, fearing he might encounter another group of soldiers.

  A half hour too late, it dawned on him he should have taken the dead tribune’s sword and helmet. Abraham knew he would never be mistaken for a soldier up close, but from a distance the helmet might have made him appear to be a Roman officer returning to camp. As for the sword—well, he had no scabbard, so carrying it would have proved difficult, but it might have come in handy for defense. If anyone, soldier or otherwise, suspected he was escaping Jerusalem with a fortune in gold tied around his waist, Abraham would be in grave danger. At least I have the dagger I took from Tobias’s house, he reminded himself.

  The pale sliver of a moon was straight overhead when he caught a faint gleam of metal ahead on his left. Shortly after that he felt a change in the airflow around him. It’s a gate, an open gate! Abraham was jubilant at the discovery, but his enthusiasm faded when he realized that a c
art pulling a large catapult was blocking the opening. He dismounted and felt his way around the heavy equipment. It was leaning precariously to one side; one of the cart wheels had broken under the weight. Enough space was left between the wreck and the wall that he could easily pass through to the other side, and Abraham thought the horse could make it out as well, if he could persuade the animal to step over the splintered wheel. He’d have to be careful to avoid the projecting corner of the catapult; it could slide completely off the cart and crush them.

  Abraham walked through the gate, holding the horse’s reins behind him. He turned and cajoled the huge beast into the opening.

  “Ho! Who’s that?”

  The shout startled Abraham, and he dropped the reins. The horse, halfway through the gate, reared on its hind legs and then hurtled over the broken wheel as three soldiers rushed toward Abraham, drawing their weapons as they ran. He hadn’t seen them as he had approached the catapult. Were they supposed to be guarding the open gate? Repairing the cart? Where did they come from? Why hadn’t he heard them?

  Abraham had a fraction of a second to decide whether to make a run for it or to stay and fight. On foot, in the pitch dark, he wouldn’t have a chance. He wasn’t sure what his chances were against three armed soldiers, but that was the decision he made, and instantly the dagger was in his right hand.

  Abraham had never been a brawler or a soldier, but he had always been athletic, and in spite of his fatigue and hunger, his reflexes were keen and as quick as a cat’s. He saw the first soldier’s movement a split second before he heard the sword slice the air. Abraham dodged, grabbed the man’s arm, and kicked him in the shins. Thrown off balance, the man swung his sword aimlessly toward Abraham. He ducked, avoiding it easily, then felt another soldier try to stab him from behind. Abraham jerked away so fast that the man’s dagger merely cut through his cloak and tunic but did not break the skin. With one arm he pried himself loose from the man’s grip on his shoulder, and with the other hand he stabbed blindly. His dagger struck the man in the forearm, and the soldier dropped his weapon as blood gushed from an artery in his wrist.

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.