by John Hagee
“What about Rebecca?” John’s dismay at Jacob’s fate was suddenly outweighed by a gnawing concern for her safety. Without Jacob, she would have been all alone in their cave last night.
“I saw her late yesterday,” Marcellus said. “Right here. You were still unconscious. She was attempting to see her brother before he sailed. I tried to discourage her, but she was determined. I don’t know if she managed to get permission to see him, though. It’s not likely.”
Both of them were silent for a moment. John thought of Rebecca working in the quarry without Jacob, who had lifted her basket each time, just as he had done for John. How would she manage? He thought of her walking up the mountain after work—alone, unprotected. Rebecca had probably never been alone in her life; she was used to being surrounded by family and friends who doted on her.
“I have to find her,” he told Marcellus suddenly. John braced both hands on the wooden bar of the cot and slowly stood to his feet. “Where’s my tunic?”
“You can’t leave—”
“Not dressed only in this undergarment, I can’t.” John felt stronger as he stood and took a few steps around the room. “What happened to my clothes?”
“I sent them to be washed—but that’s beside the point. You’re not well enough to go looking for anybody.”
“And that’s beside the point. Somebody has to find her. She can’t be left all by herself in this place!” John’s voice rose tremulously.
Marcellus was looking at John as if he were crazy. And maybe I am, the old Apostle thought. But he suddenly knew that Rebecca was not only frightened, she was facing grave danger.
“I’ll try to find her,” Marcellus finally said. “Maybe she’s still in the mess hall,” he said doubtfully, looking out the window at the fading light. He turned around and motioned for John to get back on his cot. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
John sat down on the side of the cot and held his head in his hands. He prayed earnestly while Marcellus was gone, but the overwhelming sense of dread did not dissipate.
A few minutes later, Marcellus returned, a solemn expression on his face. John looked up at him questioningly.
“The mess hall was empty except for a few workers. All the inmates had left.” Marcellus leaned back against the table, scooting the bowl-shaped lamp to the far edge. “No one remembered seeing the new woman prisoner.”
John shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid something’s happened to her.” He shivered, but he didn’t know whether it was from fear or the fact that he’d been sitting close to an open window in a state of undress.
“You’ll catch cold in this night air,” Marcellus said gently. He helped John back to bed and then shuttered the window. “I’m worried about her too,” he admitted. “But it’s too dark now to go looking for her. I’ll check the dining room in the morning, and if Rebecca doesn’t report for work, I’ll see what I can find out.”
Marcellus went to a cabinet and brought back an extra blanket for John. “Maybe she’s with some of the other prisoners who came from Ephesus,” he suggested. “Didn’t she know some of them?”
“Yes.” John brightened at the thought. “She knew the other Christians arrested with us—a number of them were household servants for her family.”
But as Marcellus left and John tried to fall asleep, his darkest fears returned. He was not ordinarily a worrier, so the apprehension he felt now must be for a good reason. He believed Rebecca was alone and needed help—and he was powerless to do anything for her at the moment.
“Heavenly Father, I place her in Your loving care,” he prayed. “Keep Your hand upon Rebecca, wherever she is.”
22
ROME. EXCITEMENT. ADVENTURE. Naomi tilted her head back and let the sea mist spray her face. The wind blew her long auburn hair behind her back as the Mercury skimmed over the water. They had sailed at sunrise, so she had not taken the time to pin her abundant tresses in the elaborate style she usually wore. For the moment she didn’t care about her appearance; there was no one to impress except her father and the crew, and they weren’t worth the effort.
She opened her mouth in an exhilarated laugh. The gay sound was muffled by the roar of the sea and the wind. Nothing else mattered to Naomi now that she was headed to the destiny that awaited her in Rome.
Her only regret was that they hadn’t departed two days ago, as she had planned. She had been to see Kaeso on Friday, and the obstinate old sea captain had insisted on getting her father’s approval before making any arrangements to sail. That evening, when her father had confronted her, Naomi had been prepared with her arguments. Most of them, it turned out, were unnecessary. He had already decided to make an appeal to Caesar, as she had guessed, and even though her father seemed none too happy at the prospect of having her along, he had agreed she could travel to Rome with him.
“And you can marry a senator, if that’s what will make you happy,” he had said with a frown.
“Oh, it will!” Naomi glowed with anticipation.
“I still have a few acquaintances within the senatorial ranks, and I’ll make some contacts for you while I’m there.”
“Thank you, Father,” Naomi had said rather demurely. But that won’t be necessary, she thought. She didn’t trust her father to find a suitable husband, and she especially did not want the taint of her family’s religious convictions to hurt her chances for marriage. Naomi was confident she could take Rome by storm and meet a wealthy, marriage-minded senator within days of her arrival; then it was only a matter of using her considerable charm to get him to put a ring on her finger.
“I know you’ll be busy with the appeal,” she told her father. “I wouldn’t want to take your attention away from that.”
Abraham had looked at her in disbelief, as if he had read her mind. She didn’t care what he thought, as long as he allowed her to go to Rome.
The appeal made sense, she supposed. While she was not in the least motivated to win the release of her fanatical brother and sister from Devil’s Island, her father certainly was; it seemed to be his only reason for living at the moment. Caesar had the power to rescind their sentence, so it was natural that a man of her father’s status would seek a personal audience with the emperor.
Once she was married again, Naomi decided, she would have little contact with her family. She would try to maintain a cordial relationship with her father, but from a distance. Naomi didn’t want to alienate him completely; she was the oldest child and stood to receive a vast inheritance. She guessed that her father would not leave the shipping empire to her, but with Jacob out of the picture, and with Peter incapable of running the business, Naomi was the logical choice to succeed her father—and she was determined to make that happen as well.
After her father had announced his intention to go to Rome, Naomi spent the next two days packing and planning for the trip. On Saturday, while Abraham paid a visit to his banker and Kaeso bought provisions, Naomi had gone to a slave auction. With Julia’s help she had bought a pair of slaves, a brother and sister originally from Egypt. The two were young, attractive, healthy, strong—and strong-willed, evidently. Lepidus and Fulvia had lived in Rome most of their lives. When their owner decided to sell them, they had run away rather than be separated. Eventually captured, they had been bought and sold twice before winding up in Ephesus. Naomi had paid a premium for the pair, but she was drawn to their sullen good looks and thought their having grown up in Rome might be an advantage to her.
On Sunday morning, Naomi had been annoyed to encounter church members arriving at the villa. She pulled her father to one side. “I thought we were leaving today. What are these people doing here?” she asked, obviously provoked.
“We’ll sail in the morning,” Abraham had replied. “This is the Lord’s Day, and we’re going to have church.” He calmly removed her hand from his forearm and went to greet their guests.
Naomi was not only irritated at the delay, she was perplexed. So in a few minutes, she followed the group
out to the peristyle. She leaned against an archway, remaining at a distance from the worshipers seated in the garden. About fifteen people had shown up— a much smaller crowd than normal. But that was understandable, seeing that quite a few of the regular attendees had been shipped to Devil’s Island. She noted that Galen was there, looking disconsolate without Rebecca by his side.
Her father stood to address the assembly. “Yesterday,” he said, “I asked Quintus to gather what was left of the church here today, as usual—although the circumstances are far from usual right now.” He paused to clear his throat. “I want to thank you for coming.”
“I wasn’t sure we should,” someone said, “after what happened. We didn’t know what to think, but Quintus said you’d had a change of heart.”
Abraham nodded. “I have.”
A few people murmured their approval, but one older man stood and confronted Abraham. “Because of your bad example,” he said harshly, “some of the weaker brothers also made the sacrifice to Caesar—and they’ll burn in hell for it! What good is your change of heart now?”
Quintus rose and put his hand on the man’s shoulder, quietly urging him to sit back down.
Naomi watched as her father bowed his head, clearly in turmoil. “I deeply regret,” he said after a moment, “that my sin caused others to go astray. I will carry that shame to my grave.” Raising his head, he looked out at the congregation and spoke earnestly. “I wanted to confess my sin to you today and tell you that I have repented. I have asked God’s forgiveness, and I want to ask yours, as well.”
Tears rolled down Abraham’s face as he continued. “I also want to ask for your prayers as I go to Rome on behalf of my children, Jacob and Rebecca, and our beloved Apostle. We should pray for all the believers who have been sent to Patmos. I’ve heard that the same thing is happening in other cities nearby, and that more Christians have been sentenced for refusing to make the mandatory sacrifice.”
Naomi was disgusted at her father’s show of emotion—a grown man standing there, crying like a schoolboy. She was also disturbed at his change of heart, and worried that he would get the family in trouble with the authorities if it became known that he had recanted his loyalty to Caesar. As soon as her father sat down, Naomi slipped out of the service and returned to her room. She did not want to be around when they started singing hymns; it always set her teeth on edge.
Now, standing on the deck of the Mercury, laughing into the wind, Naomi remembered the previous day’s church service and her father’s public confession. She filed that knowledge away, thinking it might come in handy someday. I’ll use it against him, if need be, she thought. If she could find a way to tell the emperor that her father had recanted, there would not only be no release forthcoming for Jacob and Rebecca, her father would likely be imprisoned himself.
Naomi ran her hand over the smooth, highly polished railing of her father’s private ship, bitterness rising like a bad taste in her mouth. He didn’t want her to have the “indulgence” of riding in a litter, but he had splurged on this floating palace of luxury. It was necessary for his business, he’d always claimed.
But if he were in prison, Naomi thought, the business would be mine to run—and so would this ship.
When John woke up the next morning, Marcellus was standing over him. “I brought you some food from the officers’ quarters,” the army doctor said as he placed a bowl of stew—with chunks of meat in it, John saw—and a small round loaf of bread on the supply table.
John smiled at the sight of the metal spoon resting in the wooden bowl of stew. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to poke your eye out with that weapon?”
Marcellus grinned when he realized John was pointing at the spoon. “I think I can overpower you, if need be.” He went across the room and brought a stool back to the supply table so John could eat there. “While you eat your meal,” he said, “I’ll go to the mess hall and see if I can find Rebecca.”
“Thank you,” John said, grateful both for the food and Marcellus’s concern. The medical officer had been the one ray of hope in this aptly named place; it was the devil’s own island, indeed. Although Marcellus was not a believer—at least not yet—John knew God had placed the military doctor there to be available in John’s hour of need.
The stew was not a great culinary accomplishment, but it was a considerable improvement over the prisoners’ fare, and John felt strengthened by the first substantial food he had had in days. Marcellus had not returned by the time he finished his meal, so John stood and stretched his legs, then walked around a bit.
The hospital ward was a long, rectangular room with two large windows on either side of the main door, which was squarely in the middle of one of the long walls. Twenty cots were evenly spaced across the length of the room, ten on either side of the entrance. The building was probably a standard army design, John reckoned as he paced the length of the room. Erected near a battlefield, such a hospital would need several of these wards to treat the wounded. Here, however, the beds were empty, although John vaguely remembered Marcellus treating another prisoner while he was dozing off and on the day before. The man’s hand had been crushed when a heap of rocks fell on him. Marcellus must have released the prisoner after patching him up, because he had not spent the night there.
Walking seemed to strengthen John further, and he thanked God for sparing his life and asked his heavenly Father yet again to reveal the purpose for which he had been sent to Patmos. Perhaps it was merely to witness to Marcellus, and for John, that would be enough. Yet he felt there was another, even deeper purpose. Be patient, the Apostle reminded himself. That will come in time.
John also prayed for Rebecca, and for Marcellus’s success in finding her. He had been gone longer than John had thought would be necessary, and that was troublesome.
When Marcellus finally returned, John could tell at a glance that the news was not good.
“She wasn’t there,” Marcellus confirmed. “I stood just outside the mess hall and watched all the prisoners leave for the quarry; Rebecca wasn’t among them.” The medical officer sat down on the stool while John returned to his cot. “Evidently my presence aroused suspicion,” he continued, “because one of Brutus’s chief aides-decamp approached me and asked what I was doing. I did some quick thinking and told him I had been curious about a prisoner I’d seen in the hospital on Saturday. ‘The prisoner was injured,’ I said, ‘but didn’t return for treatment. I just wondered what happened.’ Then I shrugged as if it really didn’t matter.
“It wasn’t a complete lie, you know,” Marcellus said sheepishly. “Rebecca did come to see me on Saturday, and she was injured— well, her hands and feet were bleeding and I doctored them. I could tell that her heart, more than her body, was battered and broken . . .”
Marcellus was leaning forward on the stool, his forearms resting on his knees, as he talked to John. He dropped his head and fell silent for a moment. John wanted to prompt him to continue but felt checked; Marcellus was either remembering something or thinking things through, and John felt he should give him some time.
“Anyway, the aide wasn’t convinced that my interest was merely casual. He demanded to know the prisoner’s name, and I reluctantly told him. We walked over to the roll-call station and checked the records.” He raised his head and looked at John again. “Rebecca didn’t report for work yesterday or today.”
John felt sick at heart. The apprehension he’d felt the previous night swept over him anew. Something is terribly wrong.
Marcellus stood and fiddled with the supplies on the table, glancing out the window. In a moment he turned back to John. “The aide was furious that Rebecca had been absent for two days. ‘I know who she is,’ he told me. ‘Her brother is that troublemaker Brutus got rid of yesterday. These Christians are going to be nothing but problems,’ he yelled.” Marcellus shot John an apologetic look to signal his disagreement with the aide’s assessment.
“The aide said they would send out a search party i
mmediately. ‘We’ll find her,’ he told me emphatically.” Marcellus hesitated, looking out the window again. “And when they do . . .”
“What will they do to her?” John coaxed Marcellus to continue, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“He said that if she’s dead, they’ll bury her. And if she’s alive, they’ll punish her.” Marcellus closed his eyes momentarily, as if pained by the thought. “A severe flogging—up to thirty-nine stripes—is the usual punishment. They have to set an example for the other prisoners.”
“We have to find her first,” John said, rising from his cot. “No,” he corrected himself. “I have to find her. I can’t prevail upon your kindness any further. You could get in serious trouble for helping me.”
Marcellus nodded. “Yes, I could. But I can’t let you go off looking for her on your own. You’ve improved remarkably fast for a man your age, but you’re not recovered, by any means.”
“God will give me the strength to do what I need to do,” John replied firmly. “You could help me, though, by finding me some clothes to put on.”
Marcellus walked through the door opposite the main entrance into another room. That must be his office or private quarters, John surmised. The medical officer returned in a moment, carrying the tunic John had been wearing when he arrived. It was clean and neatly folded.
“About the only luxury that’s part of this assignment,” Marcellus said, “is having someone to do my laundry. Most of the prisoners here die on the job, but occasionally some grow too old and feeble to work in the quarries. Then they’re reassigned to menial jobs around the camp,” he explained. “I sent your tunic to be cleaned with some of my uniforms.”
Marcellus quickly examined John’s back before he donned the tunic. “Very nice,” he muttered. “The wounds are already beginning to close.”
