by John Hagee
Power surged through Jacob. He felt it in every fiber of his body as he spoke. “That’s what you couldn’t understand about all the Christians who refused to sacrifice to Caesar. You couldn’t scare them into it because they knew you couldn’t kill them—not forever. They loved God more than they loved their lives. You made their lives a living hell on Devil’s Island, and some of them died there. Yet they’re alive today, Damian. Alive!
“You killed my mother, yet she lives. Your father sent mine to his death, yet my father lives. Their spirits are alive by the power of Jesus Christ. He has won the victory over death!”
Jacob’s entire body trembled from the force that propelled his words. “You have tormented and persecuted the body of Christ, but you cannot defeat the church triumphant. The gates of hell will not prevail against it. No matter what you’ve gotten away with in this world, Lucius Mallus Damianus, you will pay for your sins in the next. You will burn eternally in a lake of fire.”
Damian released the arrow, and this one struck Jacob in the side. He felt a sharp pain as the shot ripped through his clothing and opened the skin. But the thickness of his long coat kept the arrow from completely embedding itself in his flesh. Jacob gritted his teeth and pulled the arrow out, then he held it up in front of him and snapped it in two.
Damian shook his fist and let loose a stream of vile curses. “I’ll destroy you,” he screamed. “And my son will destroy your sons. My seed will always be against yours.”
He had stepped closer to the edge of the roof while continuing his tirade, and as Damian delivered his prophecy of destruction, he lost his footing and plummeted to the ground below. He landed in the weeds with a thud.
Jacob raced the remaining few yards across the street and through the yard of the vacant house toward Damian, feeling his side as he ran. Jacob was bleeding, but not profusely.
Falling ten feet hadn’t killed Damian. He pulled up to his hands and knees, then struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the front door of the house. Jacob caught up with Damian and lunged for him, knocking him off balance. Both men went down.
Jacob grabbed Damian by the ankle but didn’t have a firm enough hold to keep him down. In the process of getting up, Damian dragged Jacob a few feet before Jacob let go. His ribs were still bruised from his earlier falls, and the pain exploded in his side where he’d been shot.
He took a couple of deep breaths and got up, making it inside the house not far behind Damian, who ran toward the back, arriving in the kitchen only a few paces ahead of his pursuer.
Suddenly weak, Jacob leaned against the doorjamb for support. The fading light made the room dim, and he blinked to bring it in focus. Tarquinius and Sergius had made it through the back entrance, but Tarquinius was wounded. He was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, with a broken arrow sticking up from his thigh. He was conscious, though, and he grinned at Jacob briefly. Sergius had knocked the accomplice out and was tying him with a rope.
Damian stood by the kitchen table. Several torches had been laid out there, and a small clay lamp had been lit. They had definitely been preparing to commit arson after dark.
He picked up one of the torches. “If I’m to burn in a lake of fire,” Damian said, “you’ll all burn with me.”
With his other hand Damian reached for a jar on the table.
Oil! Jacob thought. It’s a jar of oil. Damian was going to torch the place with all of them inside. With his last bit of strength, Jacob pushed away from the doorjamb and charged.
He fell into Damian, pushing him back against the table. When Damian raised up, he knocked Jacob to the floor. Jacob blacked out for a moment, then looked up and saw Damian tip the container of oil and pour it over the torch.
Jacob tried to get up but couldn’t, then suddenly he was moving backwards and realized that Sergius was dragging him away. As Damian reached for the lamp to light the torch, an object sailed through the air toward him.
The hatchet, Jacob realized. That’s what Tarquinius had been holding by his side when Jacob got there.
For an almost interminable moment, the hatchet flew end over end. Finally it reached its target, striking Damian in the side of his head with a sickening thwack that severed his ear and split open his jaw. Simultaneously with the impact, an arrow pierced Damian’s chest. He fell back, hitting the table hard, then slumped to the ground, blood spurting from the gruesome wound to his head and more seeping from his chest.
The table tipped over when Damian landed. Both the lamp and the jar of oil fell on top of him.
Jacob never saw the blaze ignite. He was lying in the yard when he came to and saw that the vacant house had become an inferno.
“We’re safe,” Antony assured Jacob as he tried to sit up. “Everybody got out—everybody except Damian.”
“I got shot,” Jacob said thickly. His head was spinning and he felt queasy.
“I know. We need to get you over to Polycarp’s.”
“Don’t know if I can walk.” Jacob’s ankle throbbed and his ribs were so bruised, it hurt to breathe. But his other injuries paled in comparison to the pain from the hole in his side.
“When Verus and Sergius get back,” Antony said, “we’ll carry you across the street. They helped Tarquinius over. He insisted on walking, but it took both of them to steady him.”
“How is he?”
“It will probably take a surgeon to get the arrow out of his leg, but I think he’ll be all right.”
Antony sat down on the ground beside Jacob, who watched the chaotic scene around him with a certain detachment. Neighbors had poured out of the surrounding houses and were beating the edges of the fire with blankets, trying to keep the flames from spreading.
“Where were they when all this was going on?” Jacob asked.
“Holed up in their houses, afraid. Or unwilling to help their Christian neighbors.”
Willing to save their property, though, Jacob thought grudgingly. He watched them battle the blaze a minute, then asked, “What took Verus so long to get here, anyway?”
“He couldn’t find the constable for a long time, and with all the harassment of Christians that’s gone on here, none of the officers would agree to come to our help until they’d cleared it with the constable himself. Verus finally gave up and went to his house to get his bow and arrow, then decided to go back to the constabulary. The second time he persuaded someone to come with him. They had almost made it back here when I met up with them.”
“It was Verus who shot Damian?”
“Yes,” Antony said. “Verus took aim about the same time Tarquinius launched the hatchet.”
Antony told Jacob how the fire had started, and how they had pulled him and Tarquinius out before the house was engulfed. “The officer who came with Verus even managed to drag Damian’s accomplice out. Sergius hadn’t injured him seriously, just knocked him out cold with the blunt end of the ax.
“Did a fine job of tying him up, too. We tossed the man over your horse, and the officer led him off to jail.”
“You let him take my horse?” Jacob asked in amazement. “I worked for months to pay off that chestnut.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go get him tomorrow.”
“Her. It’s a her.”
“All right, I’ll go get her from the constabulary tomorrow.”
Verus and Sergius returned, and they started to pick Jacob up. “I think I can walk now,” he said. His head was clearing and he was beginning to feel a bit stronger.
“Tarquinius thought that too,” Sergius said, “and he collapsed halfway across the street. He was so heavy it took four of us to carry him after that.”
“I’m not that heavy, and I can walk,” Jacob insisted stubbornly. “Just help me stand up.”
They carefully pulled Jacob to his feet, and he surprised them by staying upright and steady.
Before they turned to leave, Jacob took a last long look at the fire. He thought of what John had said a few days earlier: “The Lord will avenge
the blood of His servants in due time.”
Damian was dead. He would torment the church no more.
Other persecutions would doubtless arise. But for now, for this place and for this time, the Avenger of Blood had wrought justice.
38
November, A.D. 97
IT RAINED ON REBECCA’S WEDDING DAY, but no amount of precipitation could dampen her spirits as she and Antony stood before Theodorus and exchanged vows. In spite of the inclement weather, the lofty two-story atrium of the new home was packed with people. Rebecca had chosen to get married here rather than at the villa; it seemed appropriate to start her new life with Antony in their new house from the moment they became husband and wife.
Peter must have hired every delivery wagon in Ephesus to accomplish the move. With another shipping season just ending, he had put all the stevedores to work loading furniture at the villa and at Antony’s house and transferring it here. In a few days Helena and Priscilla would move in; until then, Rebecca and Antony would have the place to themselves.
The month since Antony had first returned from Smyrna had flown by. He’d come back with Jacob, who had been injured. Looking haggard and harried himself, Antony had broken down and wept when he apologized to Rebecca for worrying her. He’d gone back to Smyrna briefly for the trial, which resulted in an acquittal for the accused church member, and then he had returned home for good.
Now Antony gave her hand a squeeze and said, “Excuse me while I speak to our guests from Smyrna.”
She remembered Verus and Sergius from the time they’d helped rescue Victor. Sergius had told her earlier that his brother, Plautius, was expected to make a full recovery from his chest wound, but was not able to travel yet or he would have been there as well. The inn-keeper,
Tarquinius, had also come. He walked with a pronounced limp, but it didn’t seem to slow him down much.
Rebecca looked over at her brother and caught his eye. Jacob lifted his goblet in a salute and grinned broadly. He mouthed something, but Rebecca couldn’t make out his words over the noise of the celebration. She looked around for her other brother and found Peter sitting with Aurora in his lap. Quintus stood nearby, cradling Dorinda in his arms. The new baby was thriving, and as he’d promised, Quintus still searched the dump daily for other abandoned children.
Quintus was retiring from the shipping business, and Jacob would be taking his place. Rebecca was thrilled that her two brothers would finally be working together; how proud her father would have been.
Helena stopped long enough to kiss Rebecca on the cheek again. “You look lovely, dear. Such a beautiful bride,” Helena said, then she was off. Rebecca’s mother-in-law seemed to be in a footrace with Agatha to see who could flit around the atrium the fastest, each woman determined to make sure every guest was well fed and having a good time.
Priscilla was wagging Victor around; the baby’s mouth was smeared with something sticky, and he was squealing with pleasure. Rebecca laughed at the sight.
Marcellus beamed with pride as he stood next to Livia. Rebecca knew the first few weeks in Ephesus had been rocky for her new sister-in-law, but Livia was adapting marvelously to her new home and her newfound father. She had even started referring to Marcellus that way. “I was blessed with a papa,” she had told Rebecca, “and now I’m blessed with a father.”
Rebecca was very grateful for John’s presence. It would have been a far less joyous celebration if the Apostle had not been able to attend. John seldom left his house anymore; unable to walk more than a few steps, someone had to carry him wherever he went.
The booming, raspy voice was now feeble and tremulous. He no longer preached, and when he did address the church, his words were few but powerful. Two Sundays ago the deacons had carried John to the front of the congregation. The Apostle had looked at the people for a long time, then finally said, “Little children, love one another.” That was all, but the simple words had been spoken with such pleading that people had begun to weep.
Rebecca saw that Theodorus and Polycarp were having a lively discussion. They were probably analyzing the finer points of theology; both men loved to dissect Scripture and glean every kernel of truth from it. When someone approached and asked Theodorus a question, Rebecca took the opportunity to go over and speak to Polycarp.
“We’re so honored you came,” Rebecca told him.
“Thank you for inviting me,” the bishop said. “I’m deeply indebted to Antony for his service to our congregation. Attending your wedding seemed the least I could do to thank him.”
“He’s talked a lot about the students you disciple . . .” Rebecca instinctively looked around for Victor, then continued when she saw that Priscilla was still carting him around. “You know the prophecy John gave about my son before he was born.”
Polycarp nodded. “I certainly do. When John was in Smyrna a year ago, he talked to me at length about you and Victor.”
“I don’t know exactly what the prophecy signifies,” she said, “but I was wondering if you would train Victor. Someday, I mean.”
“When you think he’s ready,” Polycarp said, “send him to me. I’ll impart to your son all that I learned from John.”
Relieved, Rebecca thanked the bishop. For some reason, Victor’s future had been weighing on her mind lately.
“I should tell the Apostle good-bye,” she told Polycarp. “I’m sure he’ll be going home soon.”
“I’m surprised he’s stayed this long,” the bishop said, “but he has always loved being around God’s people. I’ll say my good-byes too.”
Later, Rebecca would think how significant that exchange had been. When she and Polycarp went to say farewell to John, she found
Marcellus and Gregory kneeling at the spot where John had been sitting.
A sudden knot in Rebecca’s stomach told her that something was wrong, terribly wrong. She ran toward them and found John crumpled in a heap on the floor.
“He suddenly collapsed,” Gregory told her.
At first Rebecca thought John was dead, then the old man opened his eyes. The left side of his face sagged, distorting his features.
“He’s had a stroke,” Marcellus said. “A major one this time.”
John had had a series of small strokes over the last few months. There had been residual damage from each one, but it had been minimal. Marcellus had warned Rebecca that eventually John would have a massive stroke, and that one would kill him.
She knelt down beside John and touched his face. He looked up at her and blinked, and the right corner of his mouth twitched. She knew he was trying to call forth a smile, but the paralyzed muscles of his face would not let the smile break to the surface.
Fighting back tears, Rebecca said, “I love you, Apostle.”
John blinked again and said something. It was only one word, and Rebecca didn’t understand it at first. Then she choked out a small sound that was a cross between a laugh and a sob. He’d called her Scribe.
“We need to get him home,” Marcellus said. “I’ve got some medicine there that will help relax him.” He stood and waved Jacob over. “We’ll make him as comfortable as we can,” the doctor told Rebecca.
Antony was at her side now, and he helped Rebecca to her feet. As she watched Jacob lift John and carry him out, she let the tears fall, but they were tears of joy and gratitude as well as sorrow. God had allowed Rebecca to have John with her at every major event in her life. He’d been there for her birth and the birth of her child. He’d baptized Rebecca, had outlived both her parents, had lived to see Jacob’s return, and now her wedding.
For a long time Rebecca had known this day was coming, but she’d been unable to accept it. Now, on her wedding day, she found the strength she needed.
“I can’t keep John forever,” she told Antony. “I have to let him go home. He’ll be with Jesus soon.”
John lingered for almost three months. Even as his strength ebbed, he stubbornly clung to life with the ingrained tenacity that had seen h
im through decades of adversity.
As news of the Apostle’s failing health spread throughout Asia, a steady stream of pilgrims flowed into Ephesus to pay their respects. With the final stroke, John had lost much of his capacity for speech, but his eyes lit up whenever he had a visitor.
Along with the pilgrims, other news reached Ephesus. In January, Rome crowned a new emperor when the elderly Nerva died, and his adopted son, Trajan, was elevated to the throne. Jacob prayed that the Empire would remain as stable under the son’s leadership as it had the father’s.
Toward the end of February, Jacob visited the elderly apostle, as he did most days. It was a cold but clear morning, and John indicated that he wanted to sit outside in the sunshine “one last time.”
Jacob started to argue that it was too cold. But he’d never won an argument with the old man yet—and would probably lose this one, even though John could only say a few halting words at a time.
Giving in without a fight, Jacob took the old camp stool outside and placed it against the wall of the house; that way John would have some support to his back. Then Jacob went back inside to fetch the Apostle and carry “these old bones,” as John had so often referred to his body, outside. It was not difficult; the old man weighed next to nothing.
When Jacob propped him up on the stool and bundled a blanket around him, John grinned his appreciation. For a while the dying man looked around at the bleak landscape; the trees, still bare from winter frosts, nevertheless held the promise of spring. Then John leaned his head back against the house, closed his eyes, and basked in the sunshine.
Jacob couldn’t help smiling at the sight. He was glad he had honored the request. What harm could it do? John had precious little time left; he might as well enjoy it.
It was almost impossible for John to sit up unassisted; he tended to fall to the left. So Jacob stood at John’s side, letting the Apostle lean against him. Within minutes John dozed off.
The familiar sight of John napping outdoors brought back memories for Jacob, and he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. I’ll let him sleep a few minutes, Jacob thought, then I’ll carry him back inside.