Devil's Island

by John Hagee

  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.”

  That night Abraham slept on a straw mat spread on the dirt floor of the fisherman’s small house. The ground was hard, but the blankets were warm, and Abraham’s stomach was full. The man’s name was Donatus, Abraham had learned as they shared a meal of salted fish and bread and swapped stories about the sea. Abraham told the fisherman about his shipping business and a few details about his family, saying simply that he had been trying to reach Rome to take care of an urgent matter that concerned his son and daughter.

  The next morning Donatus clothed Abraham in an old tunic. It was threadbare, much too short, and it stretched much too tightly across his broad chest. But at least it covered his nakedness—if he could manage to walk without bursting the seams. Donatus also fashioned a pair of sandals for Abraham’s feet, which were much larger than his own, by attaching a few strands of hemp to two pieces of leather. They looked ridiculous, but it meant he would not have to walk the twelve miles to Syracuse on his bare feet.

  Abraham was touched by the old man’s kindness and tried to refuse when Donatus offered his cloak as well. “I can’t take that,” Abraham said. “You can’t get through the winter without a cloak.”

  “I’ve got blankets,” Donatus argued. “I’ll cut a hole in one and throw it over my head, if I need to.” He grinned and added, “You’ve probably noticed that I’m very handy at making do with what I have.”

  Abraham’s eyes moistened as he thanked the generous fisherman. “I may not look it now, but I’m a wealthy man. And I will see that you are repaid for all your efforts to help me.”

  The walk to Syracuse took all morning. Abraham was worn out by the time he arrived, but his mood was optimistic. He assumed he looked preposterous rather than prosperous, but he was in his element at the immense harbor and therefore naturally confident. There was little activity on the waterfront because commercial traffic had ceased, but he knew that some shippers would still have inventory in their warehouses to be moved by land.

  He walked up and down the docks for an hour, until he finally located the harbormaster’s office. The master, who introduced himself as Felix, recognized Abraham’s name immediately and recalled that his business was headquartered in Ephesus. But it took a great deal of talking on Abraham’s part to convince Felix that the man in an ill-fitting tunic and absurd homemade shoes was actually a shipping magnate.

  To counter the man’s disbelief, Abraham gave quite a bit of detail about his operations across the Empire, hoping Felix would recognize the authenticity of his knowledge. Abraham explained that he’d been traveling to Rome on very urgent business when they’d been hit by the hurricane and he’d been swept overboard.

  “What did you say the name of your ship was?” Felix suddenly asked.

  “The Mercury,” Abraham repeated. “I have a number of ships in my fleet, but we were traveling on my private vessel.”

  “That’s a one-of-a-kind ship,” the harbormaster said, a note of awe in his voice.

  Abraham looked surprised. “You know the Mercury?” He was quite sure he had never sailed his private ship into the port at Syracuse before.

  “My brother-in-law helped outfit that ship for the builder. He visited us afterward, and it was all he talked about.” For the next few minutes Felix quizzed Abraham about the Mercury—its construction, its equipment, its speed.

  Finally satisfied with the answers, he asked, “Now, how can I be of assistance?”

  Abraham sighed in relief. “The first thing you can do is help me get a message to my bank in Rome.”

  Within minutes a pigeon was on its way with the message that Abraham had been rescued at sea.

  I only wish I could get there as fast, Abraham thought, wondering yet again if Kaeso had managed to keep the Mercury afloat. And if he had, had he been able to reach Rome without the main sail? The storm had probably disabled the foresail as well.

  Abraham supposed he’d know in a few days. In addition to sending the message, Felix had agreed to hire a carriage to take Abraham to Rome and to arrange credit for him to purchase some better-fitting clothes for the journey.

  As he walked out of the harbormaster’s office beside Felix, Abraham looked down at his ludicrous outfit and smiled wryly, thinking how appalled Naomi would have been to see him dressed this way. She put such stock in appearances. The thought of his daughter— who more than ever seemed to be a total stranger, if not his enemy— sent a wave of sadness rushing over him. Was she still alive? he wondered. And if so, would the breach between them ever heal?

  Where did we go wrong with her, Elizabeth? he silently asked his departed wife. Where did we go wrong?

  28

  “I HAVE EXCELLENT TASTE IN WOMEN,” Lucius said, beaming down at her, “and their wardrobes.”

  “I agree—on both counts.” Naomi smiled and tucked her hand through his arm as they entered the palace. The senator had not only accompanied her to the dressmaker, he had quickly eliminated all but one of the gowns offered for approval: a low-cut, formfitting tunic of emerald green topped by an exquisitely sheer matching stola that shimmered with tiny gold threads. The draped stola gave the appearance of traditional modesty, w
hile its transparency revealed her figure, leaving little to the imagination. His choice was stunning, Naomi thought now as they strolled past one of the reflecting pools with its multicolored mosaic design.

  The Domus Flavia, the palace Domitian had built on the Palatine Hill, afforded grandeur on a scale Naomi had never seen. Even the smells were magnificent: the fountains in the courtyard were spiked with perfumes that released the aroma of roses year-round. As they made their way to the great dining hall, Lucius pointed out many of the palace’s distinguishing features. The main structure, situated at the top of the hill, contained the rooms used for official purposes—receptions, ceremonies, and banquets—as well as the throne room. An illuminated stairway cascaded down the hill, leading to the private residence of the imperial family.

  Lucius’s earlier prediction about turning heads was on target. The couple created a stir when they entered the dining hall, and Naomi reveled in the admiring glances and the subtle pointing and whispering as they mingled with the other guests. Before she ever had a sip of wine, Naomi was giddy from the intoxicating atmosphere of power and affluence. Everyone Lucius introduced her to was a senator or high-ranking official.

  After they exchanged a brief greeting with the emperor, Lucius asked, “What did you think of Domitian?”

  “I think he has a lot less hair than his statues would lead you to believe,” she whispered.

  The comment caused Lucius’s shoulders to shake with laughter. “I suppose the royal sculptors value their careers more than artistic devotion to realism.”

  “And what is that thing he does with his eyes?”

  “It’s a nervous tic. He gets very jumpy at times, and it pays not to upset him.” Lucius spoke in an even tone, but Naomi imagined he’d had some touchy dealings with the edgy emperor.

  Naomi found Lucius to be an excellent dinner companion, and throughout the evening he entertained her with amusing stories about the royal family. He pointed out Domitia Longina, the emperor’s wife, and related how Domitian had divorced her years earlier, then later reinstated her. “But he’s kept her image off the coins this time,” Lucius remarked with a wry smile.

  Naomi took a bite of something tasty before continuing the conversation. The imperial chefs’ spectacular offerings were wasted on her this evening; she was too excited to do more than nibble. “I hear that Caesar is very fond of the games,” she said.

  “He sponsors them frequently—at great expense, which he passes along to the taxpayers, of course.” Lucius leaned closer and whispered intimately. “But Domitian’s favorite sport is what he calls bed-wrestling.”

  “Bed-wrestling? . . .” Naomi paused and then giggled. “Oh. You’re not talking about sporting events in the arena.”

  “No, these are private matches. Most of them, anyway.” He raised an eyebrow in a look that had Naomi chuckling again.

  The senator was delightful as well as powerful, she decided, and she intended to cultivate his friendship, and perhaps more. She reached over and brushed his hand with her fingertips, letting his gaze lock onto hers. “What about you, Lucius? Do you like to wrestle?”

  His eyes darkened in what she recognized as a spark of desire. “When the woman is beautiful . . . and willing.”

  Naomi smiled and slowly stroked his hand for a moment. Then she took a sip of wine and demanded, “Tell me more about the palace intrigues.”

  Lucius cleared his throat. “Do you know about his niece, Flavia Julia?” When she shook her head no, he continued. “She was the daughter of his brother, the emperor Titus. Years ago Domitian seduced Julia and moved her into the palace with him—after conveniently executing her husband. Julia died four years ago. From an abortion he compelled her to get, it was rumored.”

  Hearing about Flavia Julia reminded Naomi of her friend Julia back in Ephesus. I wish she could see me now, Naomi thought. Dining at the palace.

  In the days following the banquet, Naomi saw the senator often. He took her sightseeing and shopping for more clothes, and he escorted her to dinner parties at the homes of prominent friends. Then one night, about a week after they’d met, he brought Naomi to his home—which was a palace in its own right—and there he made a proposition after dinner.

  The meal had been sumptuous, the wine exquisite, and the conversation light and amusing. After the servants removed the remains of the meal, a steward extinguished the flames of the wall lamps and the standing torchères, leaving the room illuminated by a single candelabrum on the square rosewood dining table in front of them. Naomi and Lucius remained lounging on the triclinium, a respectable distance apart.

  “I’m giving a large dinner party in a few weeks,” he said, handing her the wineglass he had just refilled, “for the Saturnalia. I’d like you to serve as my hostess, if that’s agreeable with you.”

  “I’d love to,” Naomi replied, thrilled both that he’d asked and that she would get to celebrate the festival for the first time; her father had never allowed it. December 17 was the happiest holiday of the Roman calendar, a day for feasting and exchanging gifts with family and friends. A Lord of Misrule was elected to preside over the Saturnalia, and public gambling was even allowed on the holiday.

  “In fact, I’d like you to help me entertain guests here on a regular basis.” His slate-gray eyes glowed with hope. “Your beauty and charm would be a tremendous asset, and I so enjoy spending time with you.”

  Naomi took a sip of the wine, then set the glass on the table and reached for his hand. “I enjoy your company as well, Lucius.” His silver hair sparkled in the candlelight, and she thought how remarkably young and virile he looked for a man in his sixties. And how quickly he had fallen under her spell.

  “What would you think about moving in here? Your father’s villa is rather far away, and I’d like to be able to see you more often. Every day, even.”

  “I’d like to see you more too, but—”

  “Or if you prefer,” he said quickly, “I could arrange for you to have a place of your own nearby. I would pay all your expenses, of course, and I’d take good care of you.” He brought her hand up and kissed her fingertips, then the inside of her wrist. “Very good care,” he murmured.

  “Lucius, are you asking me to be your mistress?”

  “I am indeed.” He pulled her closer to him on the sofa. “The idea has a lot of merit, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a tempting offer, and I’m very flattered, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But I won’t share your home—or your bed—unless I share your name.”

  A frown tugged at the corners of his elegant mouth, and he drew back slightly. “I thought you said you had abandoned the rigid moral principles of your family.”

  “Oh, I have. My refusal is not a matter of scruples. It’s a matter of self-preservation.”

  Actually, she had no qualms about becoming his mistress; Naomi simply thought it was in her best interest to hold out for marriage. While she had planned on jumping into the whirlwind of Roman society and having a number of suitors to choose from, it appeared that she’d met the most eligible bachelor in the city as soon as she had arrived. Now, he was enthralled with her beauty and youth, and she was drawn like a magnet to his prestige and power; it was a good match, and it seemed pointless to drag things out.

  “I came to Rome to find a husband,” she explained. “I want to do more than host dinner parties in a magnificent home. I want security. I want status and influence.”

  “The mistress of a powerful man can wield a tremendous influence herself.”

  “Mistresses come and go. Wives are a little harder to get rid of.” Naomi shrugged. “You see, I’m just being practical.” She laughed lightly and reached out to trace his lower lip teasingly with her index finger. “But I do think we’re well-suited for each other.”

  “And why is that?” he asked, a hint of amusement crinkling his eyes.

  “For one thing, we’re a lot alike. We both know what we want and we go after it—r
uthlessly.”

  “True.” He smiled and playfully nipped at her finger. “I’m not easily sidetracked.”

  “Neither am I,” she said. “And we both want the same thing right now.”

  “What?”

  “My father’s wealth.”

  Lucius raised up on one elbow and with the other arm gestured toward the rest of the immense mansion he’d shown her before dinner. “Do you call this living in poverty?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not interested in the fact that I’m an heiress to one of the largest fortunes in the Empire,” Naomi said. “I know you’re wealthy and live lavishly. But I also know that being a senator is an expensive proposition, requiring huge cash outlays that can deplete your wealth. My father understood that, and he’s helped a number of senators stay in power by making hefty contributions to their causes, so they could keep their own assets intact.”

  “An astute man. And an equally astute daughter.” He lay back on the sofa and looked at Naomi intently, a new appreciation animating his face. “I’m listening.”

  “You already know something of my problems in accessing my father’s money. I could use your help—and I don’t mean intervening with Cassius, although I appreciate that greatly. I need legal help, or political clout, or both, to secure my inheritance.”

  Naomi began to fill him in on the background. “I’m the oldest,” she said, “but I also have two brothers and a sister. She’s been sent into exile, along with one of my brothers, so they can’t inherit—as long as they remain banished. My father was coming to Rome to try to get Jacob and Rebecca released.”

  “Which would have cut your share of his future estate in half.”