Devil's Island by John Hagee Page A

of him. The warhorse was nudging his master’s body, waiting for a command.
    Abraham reached up and patted the horse’s muzzle, speaking softly to calm him as he felt for the bridle and reins. “Come on, boy. Let’s get out of here.”
    As the moon rose, Abraham was able to make out the shape of the Roman wall barricading the city to his left and the original stone wall to his right. He let the horse have free rein, knowing it would head toward the army camp to the north. That was the direction he needed to travel to reach the road that would take him to Caesarea, although he intended to steer clear of the camp itself. But first he had to find a way past the second wall, and as the horse ambled across the valley, Abraham searched for any sign of an opening.
    He could see the fires still raging in the city above him, could smell the pungent aroma of burning wood and human flesh, could hear faint cries of terror and pain. Hundreds of thousands must have lost their lives today, he thought. Many of them pilgrims, just like me. He gave silent thanks to God for preserving his life and prayed for protection on his journey ahead.
    Progress was slow. The horse was tired and Abraham didn’t quite know where he was. Although he wanted to hurry, he did not urge the horse to gallop, fearing he might encounter another group of soldiers.
    A half hour too late, it dawned on him he should have taken the dead tribune’s sword and helmet. Abraham knew he would never be mistaken for a soldier up close, but from a distance the helmet might have made him appear to be a Roman officer returning to camp. As for the sword—well, he had no scabbard, so carrying it would have proved difficult, but it might have come in handy for defense. If anyone, soldier or otherwise, suspected he was escaping Jerusalem with a fortune in gold tied around his waist, Abraham would be in grave danger. At least I have the dagger I took from Tobias’s house, he reminded himself.
    The pale sliver of a moon was straight overhead when he caught a faint gleam of metal ahead on his left. Shortly after that he felt a change in the airflow around him. It’s a gate, an open gate! Abraham was jubilant at the discovery, but his enthusiasm faded when he realized that a cart pulling a large catapult was blocking the opening. He dismounted and felt his way around the heavy equipment. It was leaning precariously to one side; one of the cart wheels had broken under the weight. Enough space was left between the wreck and the wall that he could easily pass through to the other side, and Abraham thought the horse could make it out as well, if he could persuade the animal to step over the splintered wheel. He’d have to be careful to avoid the projecting corner of the catapult; it could slide completely off the cart and crush them.
    Abraham walked through the gate, holding the horse’s reins behind him. He turned and cajoled the huge beast into the opening.
    â€œHo! Who’s that?”
    The shout startled Abraham, and he dropped the reins. The horse, halfway through the gate, reared on its hind legs and then hurtled over the broken wheel as three soldiers rushed toward Abraham, drawing their weapons as they ran. He hadn’t seen them as he had approached the catapult. Were they supposed to be guarding the open gate? Repairing the cart? Where did they come from? Why hadn’t he heard them?
    Abraham had a fraction of a second to decide whether to make a run for it or to stay and fight. On foot, in the pitch dark, he wouldn’t have a chance. He wasn’t sure what his chances were against three armed soldiers, but that was the decision he made, and instantly the dagger was in his right hand.
    Abraham had never been a brawler or a soldier, but he had always been athletic, and in spite of his fatigue and hunger, his reflexes were keen and as quick as a cat’s. He saw the first soldier’s movement a split second before he heard