Devil's Island (40 page)

The unpleasant assignment that fell to Jacob—and the other dozen or so marines who managed to escape the illness—had been cleaning the ship after it docked. For two days Jacob had washed and scrubbed and mopped . . . and hung his head over the side to gulp in deep breaths of fresh air so he wouldn't heave from the stench.

But today he was working on the dock, in the sunshine, and it almost felt like being at home. Jacob had worked as a stevedore on his father's dock when he was learning the business. He'd hated the backbreaking work then, but he didn't mind it so much now. At least he wasn't in chains anymore, although someone was always around to keep an eye on him.

It was a clear day, still warm for the middle of September, and in the distance he could see the island of Capri. This was a popular resort area for the upper class, and many wealthy Romans spent part of the year in their villas around the beautiful Bay of Naples. Jacob recalled that the emperor Tiberius had died at his villa on Capri, with his successor, the evil Caligula, looking on. Over on the mainland, on the plain of Campania, was Mount Vesuvius, the volcano that had erupted and wiped out the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum seventeen years earlier. Jacob's grandfather, Rufus, had told stories about it when Jacob was a child.

Jacob had always wanted to visit southern Italy, and now he wished he could be a simple tourist, wished he had the freedom to go sightseeing. He longed for freedom, period. He'd lost his, and had no reason to believe he would ever get it back.

He had tried to be patient in suffering, and he knew God had given him favor. First, he'd been moved from Devil's Island to the
Jupiter
. Then he'd been elevated from a lower oarsman to the top bank of oars, and at just the right time. Jacob had spent the winter months at his original position in the hull; it was dark and close, but protected from the elements. In the spring he'd been moved to the upper deck, and rowing in the warm sunshine, or even the occasional summer shower, was a vast improvement.

Now he was walking around on dry ground, and Jacob thanked the Lord for it while he worked.

During the eleven months Jacob had been at sea, the
Jupiter
had made port a number of times. The first time, the captain had confined Jacob to the ship. The second time, he had let Jacob off the ship but had kept him cuffed. But that meant Jacob couldn't help with the loading of supplies, so eventually the captain had let him work unrestrained, although closely supervised.

Each time they'd been in harbor those first few months, Jacob had prayed for a chance to escape. But every time he considered making a run for it, something kept him back. He supposed a part of it was fear; if they caught him, which was likely, he would be killed. But part of it was spiritual. It was a matter of submitting to God's will, and for some reason Jacob had yet to determine, this was God's will for him.

He kept remembering what John had said when they arrived on Patmos, how he had talked about Joseph being sold into slavery in Egypt, and how Joseph couldn't see at the time that it was part of God's plan to save his family. Jacob fervently prayed that God would use his imprisonment to save his own family—and that it wouldn't take as many years as it had for Joseph.

An unusual amount of activity was taking place on the dock today, Jacob noted, even though few ships in the fleet were currently in the harbor. One of them was a transport, which the prefect—the official with oversight of the entire fleet—had ordered to be loaded right away; he had assigned all available personnel to the task, and they'd been working for several hours.

There weren't enough men, however, to get the job done as fast as the prefect wanted—Jacob gathered that the transport needed to leave immediately on some important mission—and the crew was taking shortcuts Jacob didn't like. They had already loaded the food supplies, and the last items to load were some barrels of wine—the local Campanian wine favored by the Roman aristocracy and military officials.

Jacob frowned when he looked up from the dock to see one man pushing a heavy barrel up the loading ramp, followed in close proximity by another man. His father would never have allowed more than one stevedore on the loading plank at once, not when they were loading 250-pound barrels. Safety required that a man rolling a large barrel up the ramp reach the top and hand off his load to the workers on the deck of the ship before another man started rolling his barrel upward.

The prefect of the fleet was standing close by, talking to another officer on the dock, and Jacob was debating whether to point out the safety hazard when he heard a startled cry from the ramp. He looked up to see that the top man had lost his grip as he was hauling the barrel over the railing, and it came crashing back down on the ramp and slammed into the other man's barrel. The impact knocked the second man off the plank and left both barrels careening toward the dock . . . and the two officers.

Without stopping to think, Jacob made a flying dive toward the men, knocking the prefect to the ground and pushing the officer into the water. Jacob continued to slide on his stomach for a few feet, the rough wooden pier ripping his tunic and filling his chest with splinters. As he came to a stop, Jacob heard the runaway barrels crash on the dock behind him. Both containers burst open, drenching him with sixty gallons of fine wine.

For a moment there was pandemonium on the dock around him, with workers scrambling and shouting. The prefect stood up as two men fished the other officer out of the water and pulled him back up on the pier.

Hurrying over to the dripping man, the prefect called out, “Admiral! Are you all right?”

Jacob closed his eyes in dismay. He'd just tackled the prefect of the fleet—the highest-ranking official at his home port—and nearly drowned an admiral to boot. What next?

“I hadn't intended on going for a swim today,” the admiral said. He shook water off his arms and then tried to wring out his tunic. “But I'm none the worse for it.”

The prefect proceeded to upbraid the marines responsible for the mishap. “The admiral is scheduled to leave on this transport as soon as it's loaded, and there had better not be any further delays.”

While the prefect issued dire threats to the crew, the admiral turned his attention to Jacob and the wreckage on the dock.

“Help that man up,” he instructed a nearby sailor.

Jacob took the hand extended to him, and stood to his feet.

“You saved my life—I would have been crushed,” the admiral said. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, sir.” Jacob stood rigidly at attention, even though his chest burned from the scrapes. He knew he must look ridiculous in the shredded tunic—the only one he owned—and he smelled like a distillery after the accidental wine bath.

“What's your name, young man?”

“Jacob of Ephesus, serving on the
Jupiter
.”

“Why aren't you in uniform?”

“I'm not a regular marine, sir.” Jacob hesitated a fraction of a second, then explained. “I was transferred to the
Jupiter
from the penal colony at Patmos.”

“I detest the practice of using criminals to fill the ranks of the navy,” the admiral burst out, a scowl darkening his face. He bent down to shake the water out of his hair and then straightened up, studying Jacob closely. “You're not the usual sort that winds up at Devil's Island. An upper-class bearing . . . you speak well . . .”

“I'm fluent in four languages, and I come from a well-to-do family in Asia.”

“What did you do that landed you on Devil's Island?”

“I seem to have made an enemy of the emperor, sir”—Jacob took a deep breath—“by refusing to make a mandatory sacrifice confessing Caesar as Lord.”

The admiral kept his expression blank, but his eyes opened wider. “I want to hear more about this,” he informed Jacob, “as soon as I dry off.”

Moments later Jacob was following the admiral and his staff on board the transport. One of them directed Jacob to a small office adjacent to the captain's quarters, and in a few minutes a marine brought a basin of water so Jacob could wash off, plus a uniform and a pair of sandals.

“You can put these on after the doctor takes a look at you,” the young sailor told Jacob.

“Doctor?”

“The admiral's personal physician always travels with him.”

Jacob sat silently in the one chair in the room while the doctor removed the splinters and treated his scrapes. When he left, Jacob put on the uniform. He'd never worn a uniform before, and the knee-length tunic felt strange. But with his own tunic ruined, he had nothing else to wear.

About the time Jacob finished dressing, the admiral walked in and Jacob scrambled to stand at attention.

The admiral motioned for Jacob to sit, then he perched on the edge of the desk. “Did you know who I was when you tackled me and saved my life?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“I'm the ranking admiral in the imperial navy,” he said. “My name is Flavius Juvenalis.”

Jacob's eyebrows rose at the name and his stomach knotted up suddenly. The admiral was a member of the Flavian family? The imperial family?

“Yes,” he replied in answer to Jacob's unspoken question, “a distant relation of Domitian. I despised him—”

The admiral started to say more, then apparently thought better of it. Jacob was stunned that he was sitting across from a man who was not only the highest-ranking official in the navy but a relative of the emperor. The emperor whose worship Jacob had preached against on the streets of Ephesus. The emperor who had sent his henchmen to persecute the followers of Christ. The emperor who had stripped Jacob of his freedom and devastated his family.

“I want to hear your story,” Juvenalis said. “You were telling me that you're a prisoner of conscience.”

“Yes, sir.” Jacob didn't know what or how much to tell Juvenalis, but instead of fear he began to feel optimistic about this chance meeting with the admiral. In fact, he began to think it wasn't a chance meeting at all; perhaps it had been ordained.

“My family is Christian,” Jacob began. He explained who his father was, then Jacob told the story of John preaching outside the Temple of Domitian, and how he had chased off a group of teenagers who were throwing stones at the Apostle. He told about the report of the incident that went from the local
concilium
to Rome. He told about Damian being sent by the emperor to enforce the mandatory sacrifice, and how Damian had killed Elizabeth and sent Jacob and his young sister to Devil's Island, along with other Christians from Ephesus. He told how Damian had beaten the elderly Apostle in the quarry and then he'd thrown the stone that hit Damian. Jacob told it all, and Juvenalis listened intently, stopping him now and then to ask a question.

“I'm traveling to Rome,” the admiral finally said, “and you're sailing with me. I'll notify the captain of the
Jupiter
that I'm transferring you into my custody.”

Jacob jumped to his feet, his heart leaping at the realization that God had given him favor again. He didn't know in what capacity Juvenalis would use him, but it had to be far better than being an oarsman on a warship.

“Whatever assignment you give me,” Jacob said, “I'll give it my best, sir.”

“Your assignment is to get your sister off that godforsaken island.” The admiral's voice was gruff, and he didn't speak for a moment.

Jacob's mind was whirling. He couldn't believe what the admiral was saying. Go to Devil's Island and take Rebecca? “But how?” he finally stuttered.

“I'll have to leave the how up to you, son. What I
can
do is get the emperor to issue an edict of liberation for you and your sister.”

“But Domitian is the one who sent us there . . .”

“I'm sorry. I didn't make that clear.” He shook his head wearily and waved Jacob back to the chair. “Sit down, and I'll explain.”

Juvenalis relayed the information that Domitian had been assassinated three days earlier. “That's why I'm going to Rome,” he said, “to meet with the new emperor and his military advisers.”

“And you think the new emperor will grant a pardon for us?”

“I think he'll be willing to do a personal favor for the ranking admiral in order to solidify the support of the imperial navy for his new regime.”

Jacob was overjoyed at the possibility, and bold enough to ask that John be included in the favor. The admiral agreed.

“Domitian was widely hated,” Juvenalis said, “and his memory will be vilified now that he's gone. Eventually, all the senators and nobles he exiled will be recalled, perhaps the prisoners of conscience as well. I intend to speed up the process in your case, to repay you for saving my life.”

A marine came in to report that the transport was ready to get under way.

“I need to get a message to the prefect first. And the captain of the
Jupiter
,” the admiral said on his way out the door.

When they left, Jacob dropped to his knees and put his head in his hands. Tears stung his eyes as he breathed a quiet prayer of thanksgiving and then petitioned heaven for favor with the new emperor, whoever he was.

Jacob was on his way to Rome, and—he dared to believe— freedom.

34

DOMITIAN WAS DEAD, Nerva was emperor, and Naomi was livid.

“You mean it was decided—just like that?” She snapped her fingers as she spoke, then resumed pacing in front of the dining table.

“I'm sure it was decided before he was killed,” Lucius said, “otherwise it wouldn't have happened all at once. As soon as he was dead, the praetors presented Nerva as their choice for successor, and the Senate ratified him immediately.”

“Nerva must have been behind it, then.”

“I doubt he played an active part in the conspiracy, although he may have known about it in advance.” Lucius looked up with a frown, his eyes following Naomi as she walked back and forth in front of him. “Sit down, Naomi. Your angry little parade is getting on my nerves.”