Devil's Island (25 page)

Jacob deposited a final rock in his basket, then straightened up to look Damian in the eye. Rebecca, trembling, held tightly to her basket and kept her eyes on the ground.

Like a cocky little rooster, Damian crowed from his horse, “Military oversight of this work camp now falls within my jurisdiction, so I'll be paying personal attention to you.” He smiled expansively. “But don't let me distract you from your new career here on Devil's Island. Carry on.”

Jacob choked back a curse as he watched Damian laugh and motion in their direction, then lean over to say something to Brutus privately.

“Time to go.” John placed a hand on Jacob's arm to get his attention. “Help me with my basket,” he said quietly.

Jacob hoisted the basket as John turned his back and extended his arms toward the shoulder straps.

“What are you doing?” Damian shouted at Jacob. “Put that basket down.”

Jacob obstinately held the heavy basket in front of him. “But it's full.” He glared at the man the emperor had put in charge of Devil's Island. “Our job, as you well know, is to fill the baskets and carry them to the harbor.”

“I said, put it down!
Your
job is to carry
your
basket—not his.”

“I'm just putting it on his shoulders. He'll carry it down the mountain—then I'll carry my own basket.” Jacob's voice rose with his anger.

“Put it down, now!” Damian's voice was a screech. “Now!” He nudged his horse closer to Jacob and the Apostle, cracking the whip over their heads. “Every man carries his own weight on this island.”

Jacob set the basket down, feeling an inner rage he didn't know a human could feel.

Damian smirked at John. “Now pick up your basket, old man.”

John stood silently, making no move to pick up the basket. He'd been unable to lift it from the very beginning, and Jacob knew it was pointless for John even to try now.

As Jacob heard the leather weapon whistle through the air again, he reached down and picked a rock out of the basket. He watched as Damian's whip struck the Apostle's back full force, once and then again. He saw the blood spurt, saw John drop to his knees and fall facedown in the dirt, heard him moan in agony, heard Rebecca scream. And then Jacob drew back his arm and unleashed all his pent-up fury in a single throw of his powerful arm, hurling a stone the size of an orange at the object of his rage.

The missile found its target. The rock crushed into Damian's head with such force that his helmet buckled like butter and he fell off his mount, unconscious.

Instantly Brutus dismounted. “Guards!” he called unnecessarily.

Jacob had already been surrounded by soldiers with their swords drawn. While the swordsmen held him at bay, another soldier grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms behind him, and yet another held a dagger to his throat.

Brutus held up a hand. “Wait!” he ordered the guards, then he addressed Jacob. “What's your name, prisoner?”

Jacob swallowed hard before answering the commander. He knew his life was over, yet he didn't regret his action.

“If this officer is dead, Jacob, you will be crucified today as an example for every criminal on this island. If he's merely unconscious, you'll be sentenced to serve at the oar of a Roman warship for life.”

Brutus knelt down and turned his attention to Damian.

Rebecca reeled and almost collapsed at the proclamation. No matter what happened to Damian, she would lose Jacob forever. Perhaps John too. The Apostle had moaned once when he was struck, then he fell silent; his eyes were closed and he hadn't moved. Rebecca couldn't tell if he was still breathing. Was there no end to this horror?

She watched as Brutus pried the dented helmet from Damian's battered, bloody head. He lifted Damian's eyelids one at a time and examined the pupils, then he felt the wrist for a pulse. Finally the camp commander stood and announced, “He'll live.”

Rebecca gasped in relief. Her brother would not be crucified.

Brutus walked in front of Jacob and angrily pointed his long forefinger at him. “Rome will use those strong arms of yours to row their warships for the rest of your life.” Then he ordered the legionnaires, “Take this prisoner to the brig and chain him there. I'll ship him out of here tomorrow.”

“No, you can't!” Rebecca screamed, and Brutus whirled around.

“What do you mean, I ‘can't'? And who are you?” he demanded.

“I'm his sister.” Rebecca took a deep breath and then her words poured out in a desperate torrent. “Please don't send him away. He was just trying to help an eighty-four-year-old man, a man who was too old and weak for this kind of work. And the officer he threw the rock at—” She almost choked on the words. “That monster killed our mother—ran her through with his sword and left her in the streets. And just now he was beating an old man for no reason. No reason! He's not a soldier, he's a butcher—”

“Watch your tongue,” Brutus ordered.

The commander stepped toward her, and Rebecca saw the veins pop out on his grimy forehead. He was tall, like her father, and towered over her. Unlike her father, however, his presence was a threat to her survival. Nevertheless, she continued to plead for her brother's release; she had nothing to lose.

She raised her gaze to meet the commander's. “Please don't send him away,” she said earnestly. “He's all I have left of my family. I can't make it without him.”

Brutus started to speak and then hesitated, and Rebecca thought her words had reached whatever humane impulse might remain in the hardened officer. Then he looked around at the guards, who were gauging his reaction, and the prisoners, who were gaping openmouthed at her audacity.

“Get back to work,” he shouted. “All of you.” He turned and walked away without looking at Rebecca.

The guards handcuffed Jacob and led him away, then Brutus mounted his horse and started barking orders. “Get a stretcher up here for this prisoner,” he said, pointing to the Apostle, who was still lying facedown in the dust. “If he's alive, take him to the camp hospital.”

“We don't need to wait for a stretcher,” one of the guards said. The beefy man leaned down and picked up John, then threw the frail man over his shoulder like an old rug. Blood dripped down John's back and ran into his snowy hair as he hung silently over the soldier.

“Put the tribune on his horse,” Brutus ordered, “and get him to Marcellus immediately.”

Two soldiers lifted Damian and draped his body over the saddle. One of them took the reins and led the magnificently groomed horse out of the quarry and onto the rocky road to the harbor.

Rebecca watched in shock as first her brother and then the Apostle were taken away. She felt cut off, abandoned, utterly alone in the most godforsaken place she could ever imagine. She was hungry, thirsty, and bone-weary—and she wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and die.

“You heard the commander,” one of the overseers said. “Get back to work.”

Rebecca looked at the basket at her feet. It was full of rocks. If she didn't pick it up and start carrying it to the harbor, she would hear the whip crack over her head. Tears rolled down her face as she stooped over and reached for the handles. She managed to lift the basket but couldn't get enough leverage to swing it up to her shoulders. Jacob had done it for her each time they'd loaded their baskets before. What would she do now?

“You!” One of the overseers called a prisoner over. “Help her get that basket on her back, then get your loads down to the harbor. Now!”

When she glanced at the prisoner sent to help her, Rebecca realized it was the wild-looking man she had seen outside the mess hall their first morning. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

Without a word, he picked up her basket and she put her arms through the straps, then he walked beside her as they left the quarry with a dozen or so of the others whose baskets were full. There was steady foot traffic in either direction on the harbor road.

“Sorry about your brother,” the man told her.

Rebecca nodded her thanks, tears coursing down her cheeks. Jacob had told her the man's name last night and she tried to think of it now, but her mind wouldn't cooperate.

“The old man, was he your grandfather or something?”

“My pastor.”

“Pastor?” The man looked puzzled, as if he didn't understand the term.

“A spiritual leader,” she told him. “We're Christians.”

“Oh, Christians.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I've heard of them but never met any before. Of course, we don't get to meet too many people around here.”

He reached up and scratched his head, and when Rebecca saw the movement of his hand against the unruly tangle of wiry curls, she remembered.
Tonsorius—a barber. That's his name.

“Except criminals,” he continued. “But I guess you are a criminal or you wouldn't be here. Except you and your brother don't seem like criminals . . .” Tonsorius left his thought unfinished, as if the mental exertion of talking could not be borne at the same time he was carrying such a heavy physical burden.

When they got close to the harbor, Rebecca asked, “Do you know where the brig is, Tonsorius? Could I get to see my brother before they ship him out?”

He shook his head. “Can't help you there. They'd never let you get close enough, anyway.”

“But I have to see him one last time. I have to.” The tears she thought had stopped began to flow again.

Tonsorius regarded her for a long time. “Talk to Marcellus. Maybe he can help you.” He looked doubtful, but he gave her directions to the camp hospital and wished her success.

After they dropped their rocks at the harbor, an overseer informed them there was not time to make another haul before sunset. He appeared supremely disappointed as he said, “Go ahead and report to the mess hall for the evening meal.”

As hungry as she was, Rebecca did not go with the others to the mess hall. She waited until the guards were looking in the other direction, then she slipped into the main part of the camp, following the directions Tonsorius had given her to the hospital.

Used to the limestone and marble of the public buildings of Ephesus, Rebecca thought the rough wooden structures of the prison camp all looked alike. They were dark, drab rectangles, and if their weather-beaten boards had ever seen paint, it had faded years ago. She found the building marked with the staff of Asclepius—a rod with a serpent coiled around it, the symbol of healing—and knew she had found the hospital.

Inside, she scanned the row of cots. Most of them were unoccupied, but a man was bending over the last one, and she recognized the white-haired patient he was tending—John.
The Apostle is alive!
she thought with a brief flash of joy.

“How is he?” she asked when she had crossed the room.

“Unconscious still.” The man looked at her curiously as he spoke, and Rebecca realized she must look a fright.

“Will he be all right?” She looked at the Apostle lying so still on the cot. He was on his side, but she could tell that his face was bruised where he had fallen. She shuddered to think what his back must look like after the lashing he'd received.

“It's too early to tell. In a younger man his injuries would not be fatal, but at his age . . .”

Rebecca struggled to remain calm. There was nothing she could do for the Apostle now. She needed to see her brother, and Tonsorius had said this man could possibly help her.

“Are you Marcellus?” she asked. When he nodded, she said, “You made me stand in the water when we arrived.”

“How are your legs?”

“Better.” She hadn't thought about her chafed ankles all day. After working in the quarries, there wasn't any place on her body that wasn't sore.

“Let me see your hands,” he demanded.

“Why?” She didn't want the doctor to examine her, she wanted to ask him to help her find Jacob.

“Because they're bleeding.” Marcellus sounded impatient.

Rebecca finally looked down at her hands. They were not just filthy; her knuckles were bloody, several nails had split, and there was caked blood on the palms of her hands where blisters had formed and then burst open.
No wonder they hurt so much,
she thought.

Marcellus made her sit on a supply table while he carefully cleaned her hands and applied some ointment. As he worked, she talked to him about Jacob and asked how to find the brig.

“Your brother is lucky,” Marcellus told her. “He could have killed that officer. It so happens he was simply knocked out cold for a while. Then he came to, yelling and screaming.”

“He's okay?” she asked, fear crawling up her spine as it suddenly dawned on her that Damian was somewhere in the camp, maybe in the hospital right now. She did not want to run into him.

“With a knot like a goose egg on his head, he won't be able to wear a helmet for a few days. But he'll be fine.” Marcellus noticed her looking around. “He's not here anymore,” he said, then went back to work.

When he finished with her hands, Marcellus used the ointment on her legs. “I can tell you where the brig is,” he said finally, “but it's useless to go there. You would need Brutus's permission to see your brother, and he won't give it.”

“But I have to ask him—I
have
to see my brother. I can't let him go away forever without saying good-bye.” Rebecca struggled not to cry as she thought about never seeing Jacob again.

Marcellus turned away, an angry look on his face. He busied himself with the supplies on the table, then after a moment said, “I admire your courage, young woman, but you really should go back to your quarters. It's dangerous for you to be out after dark—”

“It's not dark yet,” Rebecca protested. “And I have to see him.” It was all she could think about. She didn't know what she would do after that, but Jacob was her lifeline, and she couldn't just let him go.