Devil's Island (33 page)

When Cassius opened the door to escort her out, Naomi spied his assistant cowering before a tall silver-haired man who was demanding to see the banker immediately.

“Senator,” Cassius called out in his ingratiating lisp. “I do apologize for keeping you waiting. Something unexpected came up.”

The tall man turned and started to respond. When he saw Naomi, he stared with obvious interest. “If this is the ‘something unexpected' that detained you, it's quite understandable,” he said smoothly.

Even without Cassius's greeting, Naomi would have known the man was a senator: he wore the distinctive white toga with the broad purple stripe and the short boot stamped with the letter
C,
standing for
centum
, a reference to the original one hundred senators of the former Republic.

“Introduce us, Cassius, so I can make the lady's acquaintance.”

The compliment earned the senator a dazzling smile from Naomi.

Cassius complied with the request, introducing them and briefly explaining that Naomi had just arrived in Rome after nearly being shipwrecked. With the way Cassius lisped, Naomi couldn't quite decipher the man's name. All she knew was that she had been in Rome only a few hours and she had already met a senator. What incredible good fortune!

Her dark mood vanished instantly as she quickly and surreptitiously appraised her first prospect for a husband. His curly silver hair was neatly trimmed and styled, and the well-manicured hand was not encumbered with a wedding ring. While he was older than her father, the senator was fit and well preserved for his age. And she could tell by the appreciative look in his eye that his interest in her was definitely not of the fatherly sort. Not particularly handsome, his patrician appearance was nevertheless attractive to Naomi. She knew immediately that he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and she determined that
she
would be exactly what he wanted for the moment.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Senator.” Her voice was silky, her gaze frankly admiring.

Cassius suddenly changed from a hard-nosed businessman into a congenial host. “Since Naomi is here alone, I've offered to look out for her while she's in Rome.”

“I'm sure the lady will have no shortage of gentlemen wanting to look out for her,” the senator said, “myself included.” His eyes never left Naomi's face, and she felt a ripple of excitement as he asked, “Would you do me the honor of dining with me this evening?”

After a slight pause to give the impression she needed time to consider the request, she said, “I'd be delighted.”

“I've been invited to the palace,” he added casually, “and Caesar's banquet hall is definitely something you should see while you're in Rome.”

“I've heard it's splendid.”
The palace!
He spoke as if it were simply another tourist attraction. Her heart raced at the thought of actually dining in the very pinnacle of power. She wondered if the emperor himself would be there. Surely he would, if it was some kind of state event. Her thoughts immediately went to what she would wear, how she would arrange her hair . . . and then her face fell.

The senator noticed her distress and appeared concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm afraid I have nothing suitable to wear. Most of my clothes were destroyed in the hurricane.” If it took every gold coin in her possession, she vowed silently, she would buy an expensive new tunic and
stola
the minute she left the bank. There was no way she would miss an opportunity to appear at the palace on the arm of a senator. But she'd had a sudden flash of inspiration and gambled that she could use the situation to her advantage.

“You see, I intended to buy a new wardrobe immediately,” she said with a scorching look at Cassius, “but I've just learned that all my funds are being held until a certain misunderstanding is cleared up.”

The banker looked decidedly uncomfortable as Naomi launched into a description of the meeting they'd just had in his office. “So buying a new wardrobe today is out of the question,” she concluded, “and I wouldn't want to be an embarrassment to you at Caesar's banquet, no matter how much I would enjoy your company.”

She lowered her lashes and cast a look she hoped would convey just how very much she wanted to attend and how much she needed his help to intervene with Cassius.

“Even if you wore the rags of a common laborer, a woman as uncommonly beautiful as you would never be an embarrassment.” Wilting the banker with a glance, the senator said, “There must be something you can do, Cassius. I'm sure this will all be straightened out in a few days. Why don't you give the lady an advance against her father's letter of credit?”

It was more of a demand than a question, and the banker knew it. He looked as if the senator were holding a sword at his throat. “I suppose the bank could advance a small amount,” he said slowly.

“A
reasonable
amount.” The senator named a figure in a voice that dared Cassius to challenge him. “And I'll stand good for it, if need be.”

“Of course,” the banker said, his face brightening at the senator's guarantee. “I'll direct my assistant to take care of the transaction right away.”

“I suggest you handle it personally,” the senator replied dryly. He placed a possessive hand on Naomi's arm. “In the meantime, my dear, let me take you to the best dressmaker in Rome. We haven't much time to find an outfit that will cause you to turn the head of every official who dines at Caesar's table. And I have no doubt you will.”

“Senator,” Cassius implored as they started to leave, “what about the financial matter you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Oh, that. It will keep until tomorrow,” the senator said with a smile in Naomi's direction. “A personal matter requires my attention first.”

27

ABRAHAM LAY ON THE SHORE, his cheek pressed into the sand, a long strand of seaweed twisted around his almost bare body. He was parched, sunburned, and famished—but he was alive. There had been no whale, he thought, yet God had miraculously placed him on dry ground, just as He had Jonah.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in the water. About thirty hours, he guessed, exhaustion fogging his mind. Abraham closed his eyes and reexperienced the sensation of flying through the stateroom and shooting up the mammoth wave, then plunging into the depths of the sea. He'd held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst, then he finally broke through to the surface with a desperate gasp. He had the presence of mind to strip off his clothes immediately, so the weight of the water-soaked fabric wouldn't drag him to the bottom of the ocean like an anchor.

Over and over, the vicious waves flipped his large frame into the air the way a child tossed a rag doll. It was early afternoon, but the hurricane had turned the skies as dark as ink. All Abraham could see was water, dark green walls of water that churned and rolled and threatened to suck him under with every turbulent wave.

After a while his eyes had burned from the brine and his arms and legs had felt like lead. His head hurt from the deafening roar of the storm, and fighting to keep above the surface of the water became a battle Abraham could not win; the strength and fury of the hurricane were too powerful for a mere mortal to overcome.

Finally, he was sucked under water for so long that the urge to breathe became too great to resist. He knew he was about to lose consciousness if he didn't breathe, but he also knew that if he did breathe he would inhale water—not air—into his lungs, and then it would be over. But he could not hold out against the sea any longer.

His eyes had been open as he was pulled under by the wave, but Abraham could see nothing in the roiling water. Now, he closed his eyes and contemplated how the first gulp of seawater would feel in his lungs. Would he enter a dreamlike state between death and life? He thought of Elizabeth. Would she be waiting for him on the other side? Would God welcome him, a repentant traitor, into heaven?

Sinking in a watery grave, about to succumb to the desperate need to breathe, he suddenly felt a solid substance jammed against his body. It was a dream . . . or was it? He was dying . . . or was he?

Abraham did not consciously wrap his arms around the submerged object, but when it rose to the surface with the next wave, it dragged him up with it. As his screaming lungs finally found the air they craved, he comprehended that the object he was clutching was indeed real. It was huge, it was solid, and it was floating.

And so was he.

Abraham clung to his inanimate rescuer. The object he'd encountered underwater and ridden to the surface was wooden, about twelve feet long, and so broad he couldn't completely get his arms around it. As his mind began to clear, Abraham realized he was holding on to a remnant of the main mast of the
Mercury
. The storm had snapped the massive oak timber like kindling and sent it hurtling into the sea after him. An object that size could easily have killed him; instead it had saved him, and the only conclusion he could reach was that God wanted him alive.

With a great effort, Abraham hauled himself on top of the wooden beam and stretched out along its length. Utter exhaustion claimed him then, and he lapsed into the bliss of unconsciousness. When he woke, the fierce winds had died and the water was as smooth as silk.

Cautiously, Abraham raised himself to a sitting position and straddled the mast. He wondered if the
Mercury
had ridden out the storm, or if the hole punched into the stern had capsized her. He looked around him, searching the water for any signs of wreckage. As far as he could tell, there was none. There was something else he looked for but couldn't see: land. Even before the storm blew in, Kaeso had been uncertain of their position because of continued rain and poor visibility for several days. Now, Abraham realized, he could easily be a hundred miles or more from land, but he had no way of knowing.

As darkness fell, he stretched out again, lying on his stomach. Stripped down to his undergarment, he shivered in the cold night air. He shivered, and he prayed.
Lord, if You spared me from the hurricane,
surely it was not so I could die of exposure on the open sea.

When morning arrived, there was still no sign of land. Abraham was a strong swimmer, and if he had seen land, he would have plowed his way through the water toward it. Instead, he lay on top of the mast and paddled, trying to set a course for the northeast; Rome lay somewhere in that direction.

By midday, Abraham was still chilled to the bone, yet the sun had started to burn his salt-soaked skin. His mouth was as dry as a boll of cotton, and his lips were cracked and sore. He longed for just a sip of water but knew that drinking the seawater would be deadly: the salt would further dehydrate him.

By midafternoon, figuring that another night in the water would kill him, Abraham began to despair of life. He'd already been in the water for more than twenty-four hours, and now, with no land in sight, and no sign of another ship, surviving seemed impossible. Abraham held out little hope for a passing ship; no one else would have been so foolhardy, or so desperate, to be on the ocean in the middle of November. He should never have tried to make the trip.

Finally, just as he was about to abandon all hope, Abraham spotted land. He uttered a hoarse shout for joy, then began to swim as hard as he could. It had taken the last ounce of his strength, but he managed to reach the shore.

For a long time he lay on the beach, thanking God and marshaling his survival instincts. The only possible purpose for his deliverance, Abraham reasoned, was the appeal to Caesar for the lives of Rebecca, Jacob, and John. Abraham counted his own life as worthless, but if something could be done for his children, and for the Apostle, then he must find a way to do it—with God's help.

The danger to them would be even greater, he realized, if the
Mercury
had weathered the storm and Naomi made it to Rome. He knew now that his oldest daughter was not just rebellious; she was heartless. She hated him, and she would probably go to any lengths to destroy him. And what could destroy him more than thwarting his attempt to free her brother and sister?

If she had the opportunity, Naomi would do just that; she certainly wouldn't lift a finger to help them. And if she found a way to get her hands on his fortune, Abraham thought, she would bleed him dry. He would have to find a way to get to Rome before she managed to do that. Of course, there was always the possibility she hadn't survived the hurricane; he simply didn't know.

Standing to his feet, Abraham brushed off as much sand as he could and looked around. He had to find shelter before nightfall. Seeing a few buildings in the distance, he realized he was close to a small village. As he approached it, he came across an old fisherman mending his nets. The man's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he looked up and saw a huge, half-naked sea urchin walking toward him.

“I was tossed overboard in the storm,” Abraham explained.

“A bad one, it was,” the man said with a slow nod.

“Where am I?” The man gave the name of the village, but Abraham didn't recognize it. “What is the nearest port?” he asked the fisherman.

“That would be Syracuse.” The old man's fingers deftly worked the strands of rope with which he made his living.

Syracuse. The capital of the province of Sicily and a major Mediterranean port. The
Mercury
must have been blown off course by a hundred miles or more, Abraham realized. Syracuse was on the eastern side of the island, and they had been headed for the western side. Still, it was good news. Abraham's ships had sailed in and out of the harbor there a number of times, and he was bound to find someone he knew in Syracuse, or someone who at least recognized his name.

“Can you help me get there?” Abraham asked.

“Aye. Tomorrow.” The man brushed a strand of dingy gray hair off his forehead and glanced at the sun, now lying low on the horizon. Then he looked Abraham up and down, as if deciding whether the large man posed a threat. Evidently Abraham passed muster. “You'd better come home with me till then.”