Devil's Island (10 page)

Abraham leaned against the nearest building to catch his breath for a moment and to survey the area. From here he would turn east and follow the wall a short way until it curved north, and then, he estimated, he would be a quarter- to a half-mile south of the entrance to the aqueduct. He filled his lungs with air and forced his weary legs, already shaky, to keep going. Most of the people were headed in the opposite direction, and as they streamed around him, a few of them looked at Abraham as if he had lost his mind.

The sun was sinking low in the western sky as he reached the part of the eastern wall where Tobias had found the abandoned water channel. The crowd was not as dense here, but he slowed down and waited, not wanting anyone to follow him into the aqueduct. It would be hard enough escaping notice by himself; he didn't need hangers-on to contend with. A few yards away from his target, he sat down by the wall, hoping to appear too exhausted to go farther; in reality he was closely watching the melee in the streets.

In a few minutes, several looters started arguing over something they had stolen, and a fight broke out. Abraham seized the opportunity afforded by the distraction to scramble down the short embankment and behind the brush and debris covering the entrance.

Once inside the stone tunnel he sat down, both to rest and to make certain he had not been followed. With no cushion left on his bones, Abraham found the bedrock hard and uncomfortable, but the stone was cooler than the streets and afforded shelter from the bedlam aboveground. The shouting from the streets now sounded muffled, and after a few anxious minutes of watching and waiting, he leaned his head back and allowed his eyes to close. Gradually his breathing returned to normal, and he relished the solitude of his hiding place.

Fearing he might doze off if he relaxed too much, Abraham stood to his feet and stretched.

“Ouch,” he muttered as he rubbed the top of his head. He had forgotten that the aqueduct would not quite accommodate his full height.

At the end of the tunnel he pushed aside some dead branches and debris and peered into the shadows outside. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had stood here with Tobias, but it had been only a few weeks.
So much has happened in such a short time
, Abraham thought.
So much tragedy. So much death. So much unspeakable heartache.

He stepped gingerly into the open, having observed no activity from the direction of the Roman camp on the Mount of Olives. Then he turned and craned his neck to look up at the inferno that was Jerusalem. He was approximately a hundred feet below the top of the wall, but he could hear the sound of slaughter emanating from the city above. The cries of the desperate and dying reverberated all the way to the valley. As Abraham had feared, the battle for Jerusalem was culminating in a bloodbath. He supposed he should be grieving or shocked or panic-stricken, but he was none of those. He was simply numb—too exhausted, too hungry, and too disaster-weary to fully appreciate the significance of the events he was witnessing.

At nightfall the armies would be returning to their camps, so he hurriedly began the descent to the valley floor, wincing as the tangled vines and thorny bushes clinging to the rocky hillside scratched his arms and legs. He headed west, skirting the walls of the city in the opposite direction he had just traveled. As he reached the southwest corner of the city and turned north, twilight was deepening the shadows. With dismay Abraham realized he would not be able to make it past the northern suburbs before night blanketed the valley, which meant that he would have to sleep somewhere in the vicinity of the main Roman camp at the northwestern corner of the city. He prayed for a clear, moonlit night so he could travel as far as possible.

Suddenly, when he was below Herod's Tower, he heard shouts and saw combatants burst through an opening in the stone wall where it had been breached during the siege. Abraham threw himself to the ground and crawled on his belly toward cover. The hillside was so bare, there wasn't much left to hide behind, but the shadows were deep, and there was a tangled knot of dried vines that hung from an outcropping of rock. He tried to slide underneath it and prayed the approaching darkness would protect him from notice.

Soon he realized that Roman soldiers had chased a handful of revolutionaries outside the walls.

“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 cart 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.