Devil's Island

by John Hagee

  The one thing Abraham did not pray for was his release. He had a firm conviction that it was his time to die, and that thought did not disturb him. The calm resignation he had felt when he’d been arrested at the Curia had turned into joyful acceptance of his lot.

  Weeks ago, when the soldiers of the Praetorian Guard had escorted Abraham to prison, they had passed through the Arch of Titus, a masterpiece of Roman architecture Domitian had erected to commemorate the victory his brother, the late emperor, had won in Jerusalem. A bas-relief on the stone monument depicted the sacred vessels of the Jewish temple being carried as spoils of war in a triumphal procession. Abraham had thought of Tobias then, and how his cousin had known, and accepted, that he would not survive the final battle for Jerusalem.

  Now Abraham knew with a certainty that he would not survive Domitian’s persecution, and it was strange to think that in some way it had all started back then, in Jerusalem. Events had been set in motion twenty-five—no, twenty-six—years ago that had culminated in his sitting in this depressingly dark, oppressively hot prison cell, waiting to be executed.

  Seemingly unrelated events had merged, lives had been irrevocably intertwined, and while Abraham didn’t fully understand it, he knew that somehow it had all happened as part of a divine plan. Inadvertently witnessing a murder in a faraway place. Traveling to Ephesus and marrying Elizabeth. Damian resurfacing after all those years. Who could have foreseen that it would all come together and end like this?

  Finally, early one morning while Abraham was singing a psalm, the guards came for him.

  “Today’s your big day,” one of them said.

  They unfastened his shackles from the large hooks in the wall, and Abraham stood. He kicked one leg and then the other to untangle the chains still linking his ankles, then shuffled out of the cell, surrounded by four heavily armed guards.

  Abraham hadn’t seen daylight in weeks, and when they reached the street, he stumbled as his eyes readjusted to the outside world. When he could finally focus, he looked up and saw his destiny looming in front of him.

  The Colosseum.

  Now Abraham understood why Domitian had not already killed him: the emperor was staging his execution for the public’s entertainment.

  The official name of the place where he would die was the Flavian Amphitheater, but most people referred to the impressive elliptical structure as the Colosseum, after the colossal statue of Nero that had once dominated the site. Abraham had been inside the Colosseum once, not to watch the games but to try to make contact with senators who could help with his appeal.

  Now he looked up at the beautiful columns representing the orders of Greek architecture—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—and the soaring arches of travertine stone, and he remembered how impressed he’d been at the ease with which fifty thousand spectators could find their assigned seats. Each of the eighty arches that opened into the stands was numbered, and the tickets for an event designated the entrance, row, and seat number for the holder.

  Today, however, Abraham did not enter the Colosseum through one of the public entrances. The guards took him into a separate building, then down a flight of stairs and through a tunnel to the hypogeum, the underground complex of rooms and passages below the arena. The hypogeum contained storage rooms for props and scenery, dressing rooms for the gladiators, and cages for the wild animals.

  As he waited in a holding area for condemned prisoners, Abraham heard the crowds begin to arrive. He listened to the sounds of stamping feet overhead and felt the walls around him vibrate as the throng of spectators climbed to their seats. He heard the gladiators arrive in the hypogeum, heard their managers shouting instructions.

  Abraham’s only moment of near-panic came when he distinguished a different kind of sound echoing from the rooms nearby. These were not human sounds but the sounds of animals.

  Animals that paced and roared.

  Hungry animals. Abraham knew that the beasts would not have been fed for several days, ensuring that they would viciously attack and devour their human prey.

  Hurting animals. He also knew that before releasing them into the arena, the handlers would agitate the huge cats with hot irons, stirring them to savagery.

  Abraham closed his eyes and tried to pray but couldn’t concentrate because of the noise. It didn’t matter; in the weeks of his imprisonment, he had reached a point where he could pray without words. Every breath he took was a prayer.

  Finally, he managed to form a coherent thought, asking simply that he would be courageous and meet his death with dignity. That he would acquit himself as a man. And above all, that he would die as a Christian worthy of being called by the name of Christ.

  For several hours, Abraham listened to the games proceed above him. He heard the trumpets announce the opening procession and listened as the gladiators marched around the arena to the deafening roar of the crowd. Then he waited through a series of matches, wondering how far into the program his execution would occur. Sometimes the fighting was directly overhead, and the ceiling—actually the wooden floor of the arena—thundered above him; then the gladiators would move to a different part of the arena, and he would strain to hear the distant clanging of swords. The arena floor was huge, almost three hundred feet long, so there were times he could only guess what was happening by the reaction of the audience.

  By the time the guards returned to escort him to the arena, Abraham had counted himself as dead. He was calm when they unlocked his chains and removed his tunic. He did not resist as they tied his hands with ropes. And he did not cry out as a guard lashed his bare back with the whip, so the animals could catch the scent of his blood.

  With his hands bound in front of him and a rope looped around his neck, Abraham was led out of the hypogeum by a contingent of ten guards. A man carrying a tablet announcing the nature of Abraham’s crime preceded the group onto the sand-covered floor of the arena. As he circled the amphitheater, displaying the tablet for the crowd, the guards led Abraham to the center of the arena and tied him securely to a tall, sturdy stake.

  Abraham looked up at the mammoth stretch of canvas that shaded the spectators from the bright afternoon sun. Domitian had permanently stationed a detachment of marines at the Colosseum just to operate the complicated rigging that rolled and unrolled the awnings. The emperor had spared no expense in providing for the comfort of the spectators who thrilled to the blood and gore of the games. He not only shielded them from the sun, he had installed spouts that sprayed cool, scented water into the air.

  The stake where Abraham was tied was directly across from the emperor’s box; he recognized it from the twin columns topped by gold eagles and the crimson banner hanging behind the ornate gold throne. Even from a hundred feet away, Abraham could plainly see that Domitian was enjoying the afternoon’s entertainment. Abraham also recognized the couple seated beside the emperor—Naomi and Senator Mallus.

  His daughter had betrayed him, Abraham knew. She had to have been the one who told Mallus about Abraham’s tearful confession to the church the day before they’d left Ephesus.

  While Naomi had betrayed him, she was no ordinary Judas; she would never have settled for a mere thirty pieces of silver. Abraham knew she was after a much greater fortune—his estate—but he had no time to wonder how she might try to acquire it.

  Just then the loud clang of a metal grate alerted him that one of the animal cages had been opened. Abraham looked toward the sound and saw three lions charging into the arena. Head to head, they sprinted toward him, their powerful paws ripping into the sand, their tongues hanging out.

  Blood from Abraham’s back had drained down his legs and dripped on the sand, and the scent of it propelled the huge animals in his direction. Abraham’s feet were about twelve inches off the ground, his belly about three feet; the guards had positioned him to make it possible for the lions to disembowel him with one pass.

  The audience bellowed its approval as the huge cats raced forward. Abraham waited for the beasts
to rip him to shreds, rejoicing that he would soon be in the presence of Christ.

  And then, less than ten yards away from him, the lions suddenly thrust their paws into the sand as if they had reached the edge of a steep cliff.

  The lions slid to a stop and looked up at Abraham.

  Naomi stared in disbelief as the lions suddenly stopped, then backed up and sat down.

  When the crowd fell silent, Domitian turned to the editor of the games and ordered, “Do something!”

  “Shall I release more lions?” the distraught editor asked. “P-perhaps the leopards?”

  “Why? So they can lie there and lick their paws like house cats?” His eye twitching madly, the emperor glowered at the man responsible for managing the games.

  While Domitian was clearly displeased, Naomi thought she saw her father smiling. She was infuriated that he appeared to be cheating death yet again.

  “This is boring,” one of the senators sitting behind them commented. Higher up in the stands, in the section reserved for the poorer classes, a man shouted, “Great is the God of the Christians!” Some of the crowd picked up the chant, and others began to cry out for missio, the optional release of a defeated gladiator.

  The dignitaries sitting to the right of the imperial box remained silent, waiting to see what their ruler would do. So did the Vestal Virgins, the priestesses of Rome, from their reserved seats at the left of the imperial box.

  As the demands from the audience escalated, Domitian jumped from his seat and screamed at the editor, who then turned to his assistant, evidently relaying the emperor’s instructions. The assistant left the podium and disappeared down the ramp leading underground.

  Naomi couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. She looked at Lucius for an explanation, but he shrugged to indicate he didn’t know, either.

  When Domitian returned to his throne, Naomi boldly leaned over and addressed him. “Lord Caesar, the missio applies only to gladiatorial contests, not executions, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, although the crowd seems to think otherwise.” Domitian narrowed his eyes and appraised her. “I suppose I could always make an exception, especially for a woman of such striking beauty. I impose sentences and I can undo them; it’s one of the benefits of being emperor.”

  His sly smile raised goose bumps on Naomi’s arms. She was flattered by his attention, but the last thing she wanted was for him to make an exception in this case.

  “Is missio what you want, Naomi? I’ve ordered the editor to remove the lions and prepare to send in the gladiators to finish the job, but there’s still time to reverse my decision.” He extended his hand, palm upward, toward her. “The editor is waiting for my signal. I defer to you.”

  With the crowd still shouting for her father’s release, Naomi looked at the emperor. She slowly extended her arm and rotated her wrist until her thumb pointed straight down.

  “Kill him,” she said.

  Domitian laughed, and with a look of stark admiration he mimicked her gesture, giving the thumbs-down signal to the editor. The white-robed Vestal Virgins followed suit.

  Moments later, six animal handlers entered the arena wearing protective gear. The lions snarled as the men approached with their whips cracking. Working in pairs, the handlers returned the three lions to the cage.

  From the other end of the arena, a dozen gladiators entered and marched in lockstep toward Abraham, swords at their sides, their faces invisible behind their visored helmets. The attitude of the audience changed with the appearance of the gladiators. Anticipating a spectacular kill, they began to yell their excitement.

  At a signal shouted from the hypogeum, the gladiators simultaneously raised their weapons and attacked the condemned man. Abraham’s body became a fountain, spouting blood onto the arena floor. The executioners slit his throat, hacked at his heart, and sliced open his stomach. They stabbed and carved and cut, and then stood back, satisfied with a job well done.

  The spectators went wild. Domitian beamed at the sycophants surrounding him, then motioned for the editor to proceed with the next event.

  Finally—finally—it was over. Naomi had scarcely breathed during the gruesome spectacle.

  When the red-spattered gladiators departed, two workers carrying large hooks came to remove the victim. They untied the ropes that bound Abraham to the stake, then let his body slump to the ground.

  As they dragged Abraham’s lifeless form across the sand, Lucius laced his fingers through his wife’s and gave her hand a squeeze. Naomi looked up at him and said something, but with the crowd already screaming for the next entertainment, Lucius could not hear. He leaned closer so she could repeat her question.

  “What will happen to his body?”

  “It will be dumped in the Tiber.”

  Naomi nodded. The water. That was fitting. It’s where he should have died in the first place.

  33

  TERRA FIRMA. Solid ground felt good beneath his feet, and Jacob had enjoyed three days of it, even though it had involved the nastiest assignment of his involuntary naval career.

  The Jupiter had made an unscheduled return to its home port of Misenum, which was also the headquarters of the imperial navy. The vast waterways of the Empire were organized into nine different regions, each with a fleet of warships that patrolled a designated area from the home port. The fleet based in Misenum, of which the Jupiter was a part, patrolled the Mediterranean Sea from the western coast of Italy to the eastern coast of Spain.

  Jacob’s ship had returned to the base because most of the crew had come down with dysentery. Jacob had been one of the fortunate few who had not suffered from the awful bouts of diarrhea and vomiting that had swept through the ranks of the oarsmen. They’d been far out to sea when the first men got sick; within two days half the crew was groaning with severe abdominal cramps and unable to row, and the Jupiter was sailing on wind power alone. With a serious outbreak of illness crippling his ship, the captain reversed course, but by the time the floating sick ward made it back to Misenum, nine out of ten oarsmen were out of commission—and they’d buried seven men at sea.

  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.