Devil's Island (4 page)

His son's room had been empty when he left the villa, which meant Jacob had already gone to get the Apostle.
Hurry
, he urged them silently.

Abraham slipped between the buildings and walked back to the street side of the warehouse. He stood at the entrance, feet planted firmly apart and hands clasped behind his back, watching in the direction of Harbor Street. In spite of the darkness, he could see the broad avenue quite well. It was one of only three illuminated streets in the Empire—a boast Publius frequently delighted in making.

After a few minutes Abraham spotted two figures making their way down the street; one tall and straight, the other stooped. Abraham was glad for the lamps lining the colonnade, yet uneasy that the pair would be so easy to spot. He wondered if Damian was already on the lookout for John, and perhaps even Jacob.

I always knew I'd have to do something about you, Damian. Knew
you'd make good on your threats someday,
Abraham thought.

He was relieved when Jacob and John finally reached the harbor.

“Abraham.” John greeted him in a voice that was still strong and authoritative in spite of his increasing frailty. “Thank you for the courtesy of your personal ship. These old bones appreciate yet another one of your kindnesses.”

As they clasped hands, Abraham felt the bony elbow and the dry, leathery skin of the Apostle. He wondered for a moment how old the man was. Well into his eighties now, he calculated. John had not been a young man when they had met, and that was half a lifetime ago for Abraham. “I'm happy to make the
Mercury
available, John. You should have let me know sooner that you needed it.”

“It never occurred to me to travel by sea; most of the places I intend to visit are inland. And had I thought of it, I would not have wanted to impose. This is a busy time for your business.”

As Jacob walked up the loading ramp to deposit their gear on deck, Abraham explained to John that the
Mercury
almost never carried cargo and had been built primarily for speed and passenger use. “Watch your step,” he said, taking John by the arm and helping him up the incline. A sailor carrying two small wire crates followed them. The contents could not be seen in the darkness, but the soft cooing of pigeons disclosed what was inside. No ship in Abraham's fleet, including his personal cutter, ever sailed without several pairs of the tiny messengers.

The captain welcomed his passengers aboard. “We're ready to cast off, sir.”

Abraham nodded. “You'll be in capable hands,” he said to John. “Oppius Marius Kaeso is the most seasoned captain in my employ.”
Seasoned
was a good word for his trusted skipper, Abraham thought. An unruly head of salt-and-pepper hair framed Kaeso's weather-beaten face.

Abraham turned and embraced his son. “God be with you,” he said roughly. “Be prudent.”

“I will.” Jacob touched the leather wallet fastened to his belt. “Thank you, Father.”

“If you should need more money, Kaeso can arrange for it.”

A sailor on the dock below grunted as he untied one of the heavy ropes mooring the ship and heaved it aboard.

“Take good care of him, John.” Abraham squeezed the old man's shoulder.

“You have it backward. I'm bringing Jacob along to take good care of me.”

Abraham ignored the hint of merriment in the raspy voice. “You know what I mean. Watch out for him. Try to keep him safe.” A lump the size of a plum rose in his throat as he looked at his son.

“You worry too much, friend,” John said.

“There is much to worry about these days. Much to worry about.”

“Life is full of concerns.” John glanced in the direction of the Roman warships, almost ghostlike in their faint visibility.

Did he look at them deliberately?
Abraham wondered.
Does the
Apostle know the emperor is after him?

“But is the God we serve not bigger than all of your worries?” John asked.

Abraham gripped the Apostle's arm silently, then turned and walked quickly down the ramp. A crewman immediately moved the plank, and the captain gave the order to push away from the dock. The sleek ship began to move quietly out of the harbor as dawn arrived to burn away the mist.

Abraham watched the
Mercury
depart, softly quoting words from a favorite psalm:

Those who go down to the sea in ships,
Who do business on great waters,
They see the works of the Lord,
And His wonders in the deep.

Rebecca waited in the atrium for her mother, whom she often accompanied on calls to the sick or needy members of the congregation. Sunlight filtered into the open portion of the main entry to the villa, warming the colorful mosaic floor tiles.

Standing in front of a niche in the wall, Rebecca studied the scroll displayed there. When her father built the villa, so the story went, he had been furious at the architect for designing the elaborate alcove as a focal point in the wall—“a perfect place for the
lararium
,” the man had said. Every Roman home had its altar where the
lares,
the household gods, were displayed and daily prayers and offerings made. Abraham had been so angry at the unrequested innovation that he had almost made the architect tear the wall out and start over. Instead, he had left it intact and placed a beautifully copied scroll in the niche. The scroll contained the book of Joshua, and it had been opened to the passage that read, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

The front door opened and Rebecca turned as footsteps sounded on the tile. “Father!”

“Is your mother up?” he asked.

“Of course. She's filling a basket with food for our visit to Africanus's widow.” Rebecca was quite surprised by her father's unexpected appearance. He never returned from the harbor before midafternoon, and it was still early in the morning.

“Get her for me, please.”

Rebecca started to leave, then decided to ask the question that had been burning in her heart. She so seldom saw her father alone that she could not pass up the opportunity. “Father, have you spoken to Galen about me—about marriage, I mean?”

“This is not the time to get into that,” he said curtly. “I have far more important things on my mind.”

She was wounded by his tone but did not think she could live without an answer, so she persisted. “But you haven't promised me to anyone else . . . have you, Father?”

“What—? No.”

Rebecca exhaled slowly, relief washing over her. She had been fairly certain that Naomi was only teasing, but she was never quite sure how to take her sister.

“I'll speak to Galen soon,” Abraham said, his voice softening. “Now go find your mother.”

She ran swiftly toward the kitchen and returned in a moment with her mother.

Her parents went upstairs to talk, and when Rebecca grew tired of waiting, she went up to her bedroom. She could hear voices coming from the bedroom next door but could not make out what they were saying. It must have something to do with Jacob and the Apostle, she surmised, since her father had returned immediately after seeing them off.

After a few minutes her mother began to sob. Rebecca grew more frightened with every minute that passed. Elizabeth was tenderhearted and cried easily, but Rebecca had never heard such plaintive weeping. She wanted to go and comfort her mother, who was obviously in great distress, but she sat on her bed, listening uneasily, until the sobs subsided and her father finally left the room.

Abraham came looking for her. “Your mother is too upset to leave the house,” he told Rebecca. “Take the food and make the visit she had planned.”

Her father's face sagged with sorrow, and his eyes were red from weeping. Rebecca wanted desperately to ask what was wrong, but he turned on his heel and walked briskly out. She went downstairs and retrieved the basket her mother had prepared, then left to call on the family of Africanus, a former slave originally from Carthage, who had recently died. His wife and children were now dependent on the charity of fellow believers to survive.

Later that day the atmosphere at the family dinner was strained. Her mother did not come downstairs, and that worried Rebecca; she could scarcely remember an occasion when her mother had been too ill to dine with the family. Her father was brooding and silent, and she could tell he was simply going through the motions. He ate little, and his repeated glances at Jacob's empty place made Rebecca suspect that the crisis in their home had something to do with her brother.

Naomi chattered about trivial matters, and even Peter seemed to talk more than usual, or perhaps it was just that for once he was not overshadowed by his more charismatic twin.

With obvious relish, Naomi disclosed the latest gossip she'd heard. “I wouldn't mention this if Jacob were here because we'd have to listen to another one of his sermons, but I learned today that the city is planning a big festival for the twenty-fourth of this month because it's Emperor Domitian's birthday. There will be games in his honor at the stadium, and of course a celebration at his temple. I know
our
family won't go to that because people will be ‘sacrificing,' although it's really just paying respect to the emperor because of the greatness of the Empire.”

“Jacob never draws the fine line,” Peter said, “that the state religion calls for worship of the
genius
—the guardian spirit of the
gens,
or family clan—of the emperor.”

Offended at her siblings' flirtation with Roman religion, Rebecca said, “I for one would never sacrifice to the
genius
of the emperor. It's pagan—and blasphemous.”

“Jacob preaches against it,” Peter said, “but I personally don't see what is so different between that and our faith's frequent references to the patriarchs, such as Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, or Moses.”

“But we don't worship the patriarchs,” Rebecca countered, believing she should champion Jacob's cause although she felt completely inadequate to argue theology.

“We honor them, don't we? What's the difference between worship and honor or respect?” Peter asked.

“Well, we don't sacrifice to them,” Rebecca said. “We sacrifice only to God.” She paused, trying to formulate her thoughts. “Except we don't actually make sacrifices anymore. I mean, not like animal sacrifices or incense . . .” She looked to her father, silently appealing for support.

“We do not worship idols, and we do not worship any man, including the patriarchs,” Abraham said, finally joining the conversation. “And you're wrong, Peter. It's no longer a question of sacrificing to the
genius
of the emperor. Domitian has declared
himself
to be divine. And the sacrifice is no longer an optional way of paying respect. ‘Lord' Domitian, as he demands to be called, has made the sacrifice mandatory. Anyone who does not perform it is guilty of a crime.”

“Mandatory!” Rebecca suddenly understood why her father had wanted to hasten Jacob's departure, and why her mother was so distraught. It also might explain why she had seen several Roman soldiers in the
agora
earlier. They had not appeared threatening and seemed merely to be haggling with vendors, but she hadn't known what to make of their presence and she'd found it unsettling.

“But you're right about one thing, Naomi,” Abraham continued. “This family definitely will
not
attend the celebration on Domitian's birthday.”

“And what if I decide to attend with Julia and her husband?” Naomi added a fierce look to her verbal challenge.

Abraham paused a long time before answering—a sign, Rebecca realized, that he was making a great effort to curb an outburst of anger. “You will not defy my decisions or defile my faith,” he said softly but sternly. “Is that understood?”

Naomi sat up on the sofa she shared with Rebecca and glared at her father. “You don't care one iota about me. You don't even know anything about me or what I want out of life. I'm just another asset for you to manage.” Like a kettle boiling over, Naomi's words gathered steam and spewed out, scalding hot in their fury.

“And you don't care about this family, either, or you would not refuse to participate in any cultural activities. You won't attend the baths or the games. You won't set foot in a ‘pagan' temple even if it's just to attend a dinner party. I know, I know, ‘We don't eat meat sacrificed to idols.' So don't eat the meat! But at least put in an appearance now and then so we don't become complete outcasts.”

“That's enough, Naomi.” Abraham was on his feet instantly, and he made no effort to restrain his temper this time. “Go to your room—now!” he yelled, pointing to the door.

Naomi stood and carefully folded her napkin, placing it on the table before turning to leave. Her back was straight and her head high as she walked slowly out of the room.

Abraham drained his wine goblet in a single long swallow and then left the room without saying another word.

“I think I've lost my appetite.” Rebecca was on the verge of tears. “You'll have to excuse me, Peter.”

“It's all right,” he said when Rebecca stood to leave. “I'm quite accustomed to spending time by myself.”

There was a sad note to her brother's voice, Rebecca thought, but his face was inscrutable.

How can you live with people all your life,
she wondered as she walked upstairs,
and not understand them?
She didn't know why Peter was sometimes so withdrawn and aloof. And she certainly couldn't fathom the source of Naomi's increasing contempt for her family, particularly her father.

Naomi was growing more rebellious by the day, Peter was increasingly frail and forlorn, Jacob was in grave danger, her mother was terribly sad, her father was worried sick—Rebecca had an overwhelming feeling that everything in her life was dramatically changing. It was as if some unseen, unknowable watershed had been crossed, and nothing—no one—would ever be the same again.