Devil's Island (36 page)

And he would tell her immediately. He grabbed his cloak, stormed out of the room, and left the villa.

He had been walking for ten minutes, fuming silently and glaring at everyone on the street, when he realized he couldn't confront Naomi in the heat of his anger. If Mallus were there, Abraham feared he would kill the man with his bare hands. He did not want to let go of his anger, but he did not want to kill a man in a blind rage. Rationally, he knew that Mallus was not the one responsible for Elizabeth's death, but emotionally Abraham couldn't help blaming the man who had sired a murderer.

Abraham walked the streets aimlessly, not knowing what to do, then finally realizing there was nothing he could do. Naomi had made her choice.

Over the next few days, however, Abraham began to wonder if Naomi was actually aware of the choice she had made. He and Elizabeth had never talked to their children about having a connection with Damian in the past. And it was doubtful that Naomi had been aware of Damian's full name—Lucius Mallus Damianus—during the few weeks he'd been in Ephesus before arresting the Christians there. So it was possible she had never connected the man she'd married with her family's persecutor.

But surely the senator would have told her he had a son. How could she not know? Unless Mallus had realized who she was and deliberately kept the information from her.

On Friday Abraham finally decided that the only way to find out was to talk to Naomi, and that the best time to do it would be at the reception that night. With other people around, he would be less likely to give vent to his anger, and Mallus would be less inclined to make a scene.

Naomi couldn't have been happier. Guests were arriving—they were expecting hundreds of luminaries, including the emperor—musicians were playing, and she was directing it all.

Lucius's home—their home, she reminded herself—was an architectural marvel. Built on different levels of the hillside, it was filled with priceless works of arts. A showplace home. And Naomi was the showpiece wife. She loved the role.

At each buffet table a steward steadily poured wine into an elaborate fountain. The wine flowed from the ornate silver bowl on top, decorated with clusters of gold grapes, into tiers of smaller leaf-shaped bowls before spilling into two dozen golden goblets circling the base of the fountain. As guests removed the full goblets, the stewards replaced them with additional goblets and repeated the process. The effect was delightful to watch and almost decadent in its extravagance.

The new gown she'd had made for the occasion was equally extravagant. The silk was the deep royal hue of lapis lazuli, and the bodice was decorated with tiny opals. Naomi wore a magnificent necklace of lapis and opals with matching earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. The jewelry was a wedding present from her husband, who had bought it, he said, because the fire of the opals matched the fire of her hair.

It had taken Naomi several hours to get dressed for the evening. She had bathed in perfumed oils, and Fulvia, who was an expert in the use of kohl, had helped her apply cosmetics while a beautician curled and styled her hair. When he had seen the results, Lucius had been lavish in his praise, saying, “No woman in Rome can match your beauty, Naomi.”

Now, as she stood by his side and greeted their guests, she smiled, recalling his words and the way he had fingered the stones draped gracefully around her neck. “You know,” he'd said, “the ancient Romans believed that lapis lazuli is a powerful aphrodisiac.”

“We'll test that theory later,” she had promised with a laugh.

Her husband continued to introduce Naomi to a succession of dignitaries, including Marcus Cocceius Nerva, whom Lucius described as “an expert in the law and confidant to every emperor since Nero.” Nerva had a thin face perched on top of a very long neck, and Naomi instantly guessed from his dour demeanor that the senator was staunchly conservative.

Soon, a rather large, overbearing senator dragged Lucius to one side to lobby for some proposal he wanted to bring before the Senate. Naomi found the intrusion rude, but she supposed that was the price of being a public official. Lucius winked at her over the top of the man's head, and she went to get a glass of wine.

Already flushed from the excitement, Naomi found that the glass of wine warmed her and lifted her spirits even further. She was searching for Lucius again when Lepidus approached and said that her father wanted to speak with her. She hadn't been sure her father would accept the invitation and was rather hoping he wouldn't, but she'd felt obligated to ask him. Well, she would treat him as graciously as the other guests, and she hoped he would be civil to Lucius.

Naomi followed Lepidus to one of the recessed alcoves off the wide hall to the banquet room. She'd almost forgotten what an imposing presence her father made; when she saw him now, he seemed to fill up the alcove.

“Father.” She held out her hands and kissed him on the cheek. His greeting was polite but his posture aloof.

“You look radiant, Naomi. Marriage agrees with you.”

His eyes did not match his words, she thought. He was trying to suppress a flare of anger.

“I know it's sudden, but please be happy for me, Father.”

“You just met this man, Naomi. What do you really know about him?”

“Enough to know he's everything I wanted.”

“So, tell me about him.”

It was a command, not a request, and Naomi reminded herself to curb her tongue. She was determined not to let her father get her riled on what could be the most important night of her life. “He's a widower,” she said. “He's older than I am—much older, actually. But I like that. He's very stable, and very influential.”

“He's unscrupulous.”

Abraham's eyes flashed as he spat out the word, and Naomi nearly snapped back at him. But she kept her voice level as she said, “You haven't even met him yet, how can you judge him?”

“I know who he is, and I know what he is . . .”

“Let me introduce you to him. You may change your mind.” Naomi started to lead him into the banquet hall, but he stopped her.

“Not yet,” Abraham said. “I want to finish our conversation first. Please.”

He appeared to make an effort to control himself, so she agreed.

“Does your husband have any children?” he asked.

“A son. I haven't met him yet.”

“And what is his son's name?”

“I don't remember. He's in the military, off serving the emperor somewhere in the East.” Naomi had no idea why he was questioning her like this, and her patience was wearing thin. “Father, I have guests to attend to. Won't you join me in—”

“I said, what is his son's name?” Her father shouted the question.

“I don't know! And I don't know why you're so upset.”

Lucius suddenly stepped into the alcove. “Naomi, darling, I heard voices . . .”

“Lucius, this is my father, Abraham.”

Abraham refused the hand Lucius extended, and his eyes continued to bore into Naomi as he spoke. “Tell her who your son is, Senator.”

“My son? What has Damian got to do with this?”

“Everything! He has everything to do with this!”

Damian? That's his son's name?
Naomi couldn't remember if Lucius had ever called his son by name.
But that was the name of—

“His son is the homicidal maniac who killed your mother!”

Lucius took a step back as her father shouted and pointed a finger in his face.

This isn't happening,
Naomi thought.
My father and my husband
are about to come to blows at my wedding reception.

“His son is the one who sent your brother and sister into exile.”

“Father, please—”

“Did you know that when you married him, Naomi? Did you?”

She put a hand on her father's arm. “No, I didn't know that.” Her touch diverted his attention away from Lucius. “But now that I know,” she said, “it doesn't change anything. I married Lucius, not his son.”

“Your husband's son—your stepson—tore our family apart, and it doesn't matter to you?” The veins in his neck bulged until Naomi feared he would explode.

Lucius stepped forward. “Now, look here—”

This time Naomi put a hand on her husband's arm, telling him, “Damian had no choice, really. Mother attacked one of his officers—”

“He didn't have to murder her on the streets of Ephesus,” Abraham said. “He could have formally sentenced Elizabeth instead of running her through with his sword. But that's not his style, is it, Senator? It wasn't his style twenty-five years ago, either, was it?”

Lucius's mouth dropped open. “Elizabeth . . . Ephesus.” He turned to Naomi. “When you told me about your family,” he said slowly, “I didn't realize who your mother was. She was engaged to my son at one time, but her father broke it off.”

“Tell her
why
Rufus broke it off,” Abraham demanded.

“How could it possibly matter now—”

Abraham interrupted the senator. “He broke the engagement because Elizabeth was frightened of Damian, and because Rufus had received firsthand information that Damian had murdered a fellow officer.”

“That was a preposterous story, and I don't know why Rufus concocted it—”

“It's a true story, and I know it's true, because I'm the one who saw Damian murder the tribune in cold blood. Damian was a murderer then, and he's a murderer now!”

Naomi's head was spinning. She heard voices and looked around to see that people had gathered around the alcove. She was morti-fied that they had heard the commotion. Just then, a trumpet fanfare sounded from the portico outside, announcing Caesar's arrival.

Lucius signaled two servants who had approached with the crowd. He pointed to Abraham and told them, “Escort this man off my property, and do not allow him to return under any circumstances.”

“Now,” Lucius said to his wife and their guests, “let's greet the emperor.” Naomi pasted a smile on her face, took her husband's arm, and turned her back on her father.

30

REBECCA SET THE QUILL PEN DOWN and flexed her fingers.
Time
for a break,
she decided. Whenever her hand or her eyes grew tired, she took a break; she did not want to make any mistakes as she painstakingly copied John's account of the revelation he'd received four months ago.

She took pride in her work, believing it was her purpose for being on Devil's Island. And without the work, she most certainly would have gone crazy by now. Rebecca hadn't been off the mountain in all those months, and the isolation had taken a toll on her.

Carefully, she picked up the makeshift writing desk—a piece of scrap lumber Marcellus had salvaged—that was resting on her lap. Then she stood and placed the desk on the folding stool she'd been sitting on. The stool was another contribution from Marcellus. The medical officer visited her and John at least twice a week, sometimes more, and he never came empty-handed. He not only brought food supplies, he tried to bring useful items that would make their harsh living conditions at least a bit more tolerable.

As Rebecca walked out of the cave, the brisk wind whipped her long hair across her face, and she reached up to tuck it securely behind her ears. It was cold outside, yet the sunshine felt good, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the change. No matter how bright the daylight, the interior of the cave remained dim. Even with the stool placed just inside the mouth of the cave, there were only a few hours each day she could work without lighting a lamp; by midafter-noon there was not enough natural illumination for writing.

She tried to recall what day it was but couldn't. Sometime in early March—she'd have to ask Marcellus when he came. His visits were the only way she had of tracking time.

If I were home, I would be planning my wedding now,
she thought as she looked out over the sea in the direction of Ephesus. She and Galen had planned to be married in the spring—probably in April, although they hadn't had time to set the date.

Thinking about Galen hurt too much, and she tried to shut him out of her mind. As always, she couldn't. Whenever she closed her eyes, he was there. Sitting on their favorite bench in the garden, the one by the fountain. Running across the hills with her, laughing together and holding hands.

The memories squeezed her heart until her chest ached. All her dreams were gone now. They'd been as fleeting as a glimpse of fireflies at twilight.

Such simple little dreams, but they were hers. Naomi had always had big dreams—marrying a senator, being the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the most powerful woman in the world. Rebecca had simply wanted to marry, make a home, raise children.

Children.
That part of her dream was coming true, but it was more of a nightmare.

She ran a hand over her abdomen. She was pregnant, and it was finally beginning to show; her waistline had thickened slightly now that she was able to keep food down. For several weeks she had been so nauseated, she could barely think about eating.

Rebecca wanted to feel love for the child she was carrying, but it was difficult to disassociate the life inside her from the brutal manner in which that life had been conceived.

“I know the answer to the question, Naomi,” she said softly, recalling the day Naomi had teased Rebecca for being ignorant of the relationships between men and women, and had asked if what Galen felt for Rebecca was love or merely lust.

Rebecca understood the difference now. Galen's desire for her had been pure and sweet. He had wanted her as his wife, and his love would have protected her, cherished her, satisfied her. Damian had been driven by an animalistic urge. He had wanted to use Rebecca and then discard her, even destroy her.

And now she was carrying Damian's child. The child of his lust.