Devil's Island Page 9

  “Now that we have the preliminaries established, let’s get down to business.” Damian turned and walked toward Abraham again, but he stopped farther back than he had before, Abraham noted. He almost smiled when he realized the reason: the closer Damian got, the more obvious it was that he had to tilt his head up to look Abraham in the eye.

  How that must gall him, Abraham thought, determined to keep his back ramrod straight in order to emphasize his height.

  “I had intended to start with you, Abraham, because we have something of a history, you and I. But it would be more fitting, don’t you think, to begin with the . . . the elder statesman, if you will, of your illegal sect. The ‘Apostle,’ I believe you call him. After all, he sets the example for your kind.

  “Bring them here,” Damian ordered his troops, waving in the direction of the vehicle that had delivered John and Jacob. Two husky soldiers leveled their spears at the pair standing by the carriage and marched them toward the altar.

  “I went to great trouble to find them, Abraham, and get them here for this occasion. I had to send two centuries—150 men—to scour the countryside. Did you think I wouldn’t track them down?”

  What Abraham thought was that Damian enjoyed this game of cat and mouse: he delighted in toying with his victims and prolonging the inevitable just to increase their anxiety.

  Jacob’s eyes flashed a silent greeting to his father as he reached the altar. He was only a few feet away now, and Abraham eagerly observed the son he had missed so much. The black eye and the scrape on his face were minor; they would heal quickly. But the wound Damian was about to inflict would last a lifetime, and Abraham’s heart ached for his boy.

  John appeared not to have suffered any injuries when he had been arrested. While the elderly man’s body looked weak, his eyes blazed fire. Abraham had seen that cantankerous look many times over the years and often found it entertaining—when he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. All he felt now was worry. John had been a friend as well as pastor, and Abraham cared for him deeply.

  “So we begin with you, Apossssstle.” Damian drew out the word, making a mockery of the title.

  He extended the bowl of incense toward John, who looked at it briefly, then closed his eyes and raised both of his hands in the position he used when praying or pronouncing a benediction over a gathering of the church.

  “Shema Yisrael,” John intoned. “Adonai eloheynu, Adonai echad . . .”

  Abraham recognized the ancient Jewish confession of faith, the monotheistic creed to which Christians adhered as well: Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one. He had recited the Shema daily for as long as he could remember, and without conscious effort his lips moved silently along with John as the Apostle continued in Hebrew: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength . . .”

  “Stop that babbling!” Damian’s anger erupted suddenly, and he swatted one of John’s upraised hands as if he were reprimanding a two-year-old. “Speak clearly, old man. Will you make the sacrifice or not?”

  John pushed aside the bowl Damian held in front of him. “I will not take your incense, and I will not make your sacrifice. There is one God, and His name is not Domitian.” He jabbed a gnarled finger at Damian’s face. “It is Jesus Christ. He is the King of kings and Lord of lords, and at His name every knee shall bow—”

  “Enough! There will be no sermons today. And as for bowing your knee,” Damian said gruffly, “you will bow to Rome. Devil’s Island will bring you to your knees, I guarantee.”

  Abraham watched with dismay as Damian called for leg irons. John winced in pain as one soldier pinned his arms behind him and another stooped to fasten the chains around his ankles, but he did not cry out, not even when the soldier tightened the shackles until the blood trickled down his legs onto his feet.

  Appearing satisfied with the suffering he had caused the Apostle, Damian turned his attention to Jacob. He smiled, signaling that he had checked his anger again—for the moment, anyway.

  “They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Abraham, and it’s obvious this one is your son. Same hair, same eyes, same obstinate jaw—he looks just like you. Too bad he didn’t follow in your footsteps, though. I understand he’s become a preacher, like the demented Apostle here.”

  Abraham could tell that Jacob was restraining himself with effort. His son would love to crush Damian’s face right now, and with his greater size and strength, Jacob could physically punish Damian easily. But it would bring swift, and probably fatal, retaliation from Damian’s minions.

  “You heard the warning, boy. No sermons.” Damian took Jacob’s hand and plunged it into the container of incense. “There’s the altar.” He motioned with his head and then slowly released Jacob’s wrist.

  Jacob pulled out a pinch of the imperial incense but remained where he was. Slowly rubbing the powder between his fingers, he dusted the ground with it, saying firmly, “I will not sacrifice to Caesar. My loyalty is to the Lord Jesus.”

  Abraham’s chest constricted. He was both proud and heartsick. He saw Elizabeth, one arm still around Rebecca, bring a hand to her mouth while the soldiers shackled their son. Jacob did not resist or protest as a grim-faced legionnaire roughly pushed him away from the altar. The chains around his ankles clanged as Jacob took a few shuffling steps, adapting to the new restriction of his movement with the agility of youth. Abraham knew the indignity and the injustice of his punishment would be far harder on Jacob than any physical restraint.

  It will be my turn next, Abraham thought. What will I do?

  An internal war waged in Abraham’s mind. He was furious with Damian and would do anything to protect his family from this monster’s savagery. But could he deny Christ? Abraham heard an inner voice say, If you deny Me before men, I will deny you before My Father in heaven.

  He tried to ignore the voice. Peter denied Christ, he told himself, and he was forgiven. If I made the sacrifice—if I threw the incense into the fire and said those two little words—wouldn’t God’s grace cover my sin?

  Thinking of the apostle Peter reminded Abraham of his son Peter, and he searched the crowd frantically. That’s who was missing! He couldn’t see Peter anywhere and he wondered what had happened to his frail, easily frightened son. How had he escaped this nightmare? Or had Damian already captured or killed him?

  Damian turned toward Abraham, but before he could extend the incense and demand the sacrifice, Naomi stepped forward. Shivering in her semiundressed state, she quickly walked up to Damian. A good two inches taller, Naomi stared at him boldly and said, “Look, I told your henchmen that I was not one of these religious fanatics. I’m cold and I want to go home, so let’s get this over with.”

  Naomi’s shapely feminine form was clearly visible beneath her thin sleeveless tunic, and Damian looked her up and down.

  “What spirit you have,” he said approvingly.

  “And common sense,” she replied. “A trait the rest of my family does not seem to possess.”

  Damian gave a snorting laugh at her bluntness. “How true, how true.”

  “May I?” Naomi asked, reaching for the incense.

  “As you wish.”

  She took a pinch of the incense and then walked officiously to the altar. With a dramatic flair Naomi flicked the incense into the fire. As it sparked and sizzled, releasing its aromatic fragrance, she said, “Hail, Caesar Domitian, Lord and God.”

  Damian smiled triumphantly. “Well done,” he said, bowing slightly in her direction. “If you’ll wait in the carriage, I’ll have someone drive you home.”

  As a soldier helped Naomi climb into the carriage, Damian avidly watched her every movement. “Smart girl, Abraham. And quite attractive. You must be very proud. Or very ashamed. Which is it?”

  Damian didn’t expect a reply, and Abraham kept silent, his mind spinning. He realized that Naomi’s action had probably saved the family fortune. Surely Damian would not dare confiscate his
estate if one of his heirs had proved loyal to the emperor. But, he thought, Damian may try to get his hands on my wealth through my daughter. Abraham had noticed the way Damian had looked at Naomi. And even if Damian were unsuccessful—which was likely, given Naomi’s fiery temperament and deep disdain for most men—Abraham could not trust his oldest daughter to use his money wisely. Naomi had proven yet again that she would act only in her own self-interest.

  It’s not that I love riches, Abraham rationalized. But protecting his family was paramount, and he was accustomed to using the power of wealth to move the machinery of government. There had to be a way around Damian’s machinations. There always was, if you had enough money. If the emperor had given an order, the emperor could rescind it. And all it took to get to the emperor was money, Abraham was convinced of it. He could always go to Rome and make a personal appeal to Caesar.

  As if he were making a simple business decision, Abraham mentally ticked off a list of factors to consider. One son had just been condemned to hard labor, another son was missing, his oldest daughter was intent on wasting her inheritance, and his youngest daughter was terrified at the prospect of Devil’s Island. And Elizabeth, his beloved Elizabeth. He could not stand by and watch his wife be put in chains. He couldn’t.

  Surely God would understand, he told himself. But if God understood, why was he so tormented by his decision?

  “Your other daughter is even more beautiful.” Damian had turned his attention to Rebecca. “Just like you, Elizabeth.”

  Damian’s back was to Abraham, so he couldn’t see the look on Damian’s face. But he saw the reaction clearly on Elizabeth’s—fear, loathing, and a flicker of anger.

  “What a pretty young thing.” Damian reached out and grabbed a handful of Rebecca’s long dark hair, pulling her toward him suggestively. “Fortunate indeed the man who makes a woman out of you.”

  “Damian, please.” Elizabeth’s voice was ragged.

  “How nice to hear you say my name, Elizabeth. It brings back such fond memories.”

  A decidedly dark memory surfaced in Abraham’s mind, and he reached the limit of silent endurance. He had to stop this now, whatever it took.

  “Damian!” he shouted. “Bring me the incense.”

  Damian’s sarcastic laughter echoed off the stone altar as he dropped Rebecca’s hair and whirled around. “Why, Abraham. Has your faith crumbled so quickly?”

  10

  ELIZABETH WATCHED IN HORROR as Damian offered the incense to her husband. No! Please, God, don’t let him do it, she prayed silently. Abraham doesn’t mean it. He’s mistakenly trying to protect me.

  She recognized the look on Abraham’s face—that dogged determination, that ardent desire to right an injustice. And she knew the way Abraham’s mind worked. He had always protected her and provided for her. It was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him. Her husband didn’t look the part—he was big, tough, and sometimes gruff—but he was a nurturer. He sometimes didn’t understand his children, but he loved them; there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them. Or for her.

  But to deny the Lord . . . surely he wouldn’t go that far, she told herself.

  Damian had looked almost gleeful when Abraham asked for the incense. Now Elizabeth watched numbly as Abraham dipped a meaty hand into the bowl of incense.

  God, have mercy on his soul, she prayed desperately.

  Abraham turned toward the altar and raised his hand over the flame. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then released the incense. “Lord Caesar,” he said. Abraham’s voice was clearly audible but cracked slightly as he pronounced the two blasphemous words the emperor had commanded.

  Rebecca gasped, “No!” and reached for Elizabeth’s hand.

  When Abraham turned around, his face was ashen, and Elizabeth was filled with an indescribable sadness. Part of her refused to believe her husband had caved under the pressure; another part understood and forgave, even as she prayed God would understand and forgive.

  “Damian.” Abraham’s voice was stronger now, Elizabeth noted, as he walked purposely toward his adversary. “I made your abominable sacrifice. You got what you wanted, so let the others go. Your quarrel is with me, not my family.”

  “My official business with you is concluded, Abraham. For the moment. But you’re right—we have some unfinished personal business to resolve.” Damian gestured to the other prisoners standing behind Elizabeth. “However, we shouldn’t keep all these church members waiting while you and I settle an old score. They must have the same opportunity to prove their loyalty to Caesar.

  “Besides,” he continued, “my quarrel is not with you alone. You forget that I also have an outstanding dispute with your lovely wife.” The word wife sounded somehow indecent as it rolled off Damian’s tongue.

  “Our dispute can be handled in private,” Abraham insisted.

  “Oh, I certainly intend to spend some private time with your family. Or at least some of them.” Damian looked pointedly at Rebecca and then turned to Elizabeth.

  “What do you think of your hero now?” he asked. “Did you ever imagine your husband would turn out to be such a coward?”

  Elizabeth looked at her husband reassuringly, trying to signal her love and forgiveness. Abraham’s love for me has always been his blind spot, she thought with a rush of tenderness mingled with deep regret.

  Surprisingly, she was not afraid of Damian this time. She’d always known the man was evil, had recognized it even as a girl. And when, after all these years, he had reappeared in their lives, she had known intuitively that Abraham could not protect her from Damian this time.

  Not like before.

  As she steadfastly regarded the man poised to destroy her entire family, Elizabeth let her mind wander to the long-ago conflict that could have culminated only in this moment. She recalled the first time she ever laid eyes on Abraham . . .

  “I found him on the pier,” Quintus told Elizabeth. “He’d been staggering around for hours, stopping people and asking for directions, mumbling that he had to find ‘the last apostle.’ After I heard him say that a few times, I finally realized he meant John.”

  Quintus was tall for his age, but the teenager was as thin as a reed, all arms and legs. Elizabeth could not imagine how he had managed to get the heavy man draped over the donkey and up the steep hills to John’s house.

  “The harbormaster thought he was drunk or crazy and wanted to throw him in jail for creating a disturbance.” Quintus huffed with the effort of trying to get the man, who was lying facedown across the saddle, his arms and legs almost touching the ground on either side of the animal, to his feet. “At first I thought he was out of his mind too, then I realized he was sick. Look at that wound on his face.”

  Elizabeth cringed when the two of them got the man upright and she saw the jagged line down his jaw. It was red and swollen and oozing. Infected, no doubt.

  “He doesn’t look as if he would be this heavy,” she said as she draped one of his arms around her shoulder and helped Quintus drag him inside. “He’s skin and bones. Half-starved, it looks like. And burning with fever.”

  “Do you think I did the right thing?” Quintus asked when they had laid him across John’s bed. “Bringing him here, I mean?”

  “Of course. John would never turn him away. And he might have died in jail—he’s very sick.” Elizabeth looked around John’s sparsely furnished bedroom. She knew where everything was because she visited John frequently—not only to make sure he had something to eat regularly but to help around the house. Cooking and cleaning were not a high priority for John. With an adequate household staff at home, Elizabeth was not needed there, and she found satisfaction in serving the Apostle in mundane matters so he could focus on the ministry.

  “Get another tunic from that chest,” she told Quintus. “And an extra cover for the bed. I’ll go get a basin of water. We’ll clean him up as best we can and try to get his fever down.”

  When Quintus undressed the si
ck man, they found out why he was so heavy. “Look at this,” he said as Elizabeth returned. He upended a leather bag and dumped its contents onto the bed. Gold coins spilled all over the blankets he had piled over the stranger. Quintus cupped his hands together and scooped the coins up, then let them fall again, smiling as the gold pieces clinked together in a heap. “There’s another bag just like this one. They were tied to his waist, underneath his tunic. Have you ever seen so much money?”

  Elizabeth had seen that much money before, but only in her father’s bank. The man Quintus had rescued was carrying a small fortune in gold coins. If he had survived jail, it would have been as a pauper; someone would certainly have robbed him. It was likely that Quintus had saved not only the man’s life, he had saved his wealth as well.

  As she sponged the cool water onto his face, the man began to rouse. He grabbed her hand and clutched it tightly, his strength surprising her. “Do you know where I can find John?” he asked, his voice a feverish croak. His eyes did not quite focus on her as he muttered, “John knew the Lord.”

  “You’re in John’s house,” she told him. “He’ll be home soon. In the meantime, we’ll take care of you.” The sick man couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open for very long, and he groaned as she sponged the water over his wound.

  “Quintus, bring me a cup of fresh water, please.”

  Elizabeth studied the man’s face while Quintus was gone. He must have been handsome before all this happened to him. She had seen bruises and scrapes on his arms and legs, as well as the horrible cut on his jaw, and he had obviously been near starvation. His eyes fluttered open again, and she blushed at being caught staring at him.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped. “Are you an angel?”

  Before she could reply he drifted off again.

  When Quintus returned, Elizabeth said, “Help me hold his head up.”