Devil's Island by John Hagee Page B

the sword slice the air. Abraham dodged, grabbed the man’s arm, and kicked him in the shins. Thrown off balance, the man swung his sword aimlessly toward Abraham. He ducked, avoiding it easily, then felt another soldier try to stab him from behind. Abraham jerked away so fast that the man’s dagger merely cut through his cloak and tunic but did not break the skin. With one arm he pried himself loose from the man’s grip on his shoulder, and with the other hand he stabbed blindly. His dagger struck the man in the forearm, and the soldier dropped his weapon as blood gushed from an artery in his wrist.
    The third man was coming toward him, as well as the first, back on his feet now. Abraham gauged their distance and as they neared, he lunged and rolled, knocking them into each other. The first man fell back on the ground but the other one managed to stay on his feet. The rolling tackle had winded Abraham, and he didn’t move fast enough this time. The legionnaire’s sword caught him at the ear and slashed along the jawline to his chin. A burning pain seared his face as he tried to roll away, and suddenly two men were on top of him.
    The soldier he had stabbed was bleeding profusely but wielding his dagger with a vengeance. Feeling what must have been a supernatural burst of strength, given his condition, Abraham caught the man’s arm and wrestled the weapon away from him, while landing a kick to the groin that doubled another soldier over in pain.
    The third soldier was still after him, however, and when Abraham looked up, he saw a sword poised over his midsection. He was about to die. He had survived the famine and the fires, only to lose his life just when he thought he had finally escaped.
    At that moment the horse whinnied loudly and reared, his slashing front feet landing a hair’s breadth away from the soldier standing over Abraham, distracting his attacker just long enough for Abraham to get to his feet. He was surprised the animal had not cantered off, but the warhorse had not been frightened away by the fighting.
    With one motion Abraham grabbed the reins and leaped onto the steed. As if knowing what was expected, the horse raced into the night, trampling one of the soldiers in the hasty departure.
    Abraham never looked back.
    Two days later he arrived in Caesarea. He was famished and weak, having eaten nothing but a handful of dried grass since his escape. He had found plenty of water, though. The horse had sniffed out a stream, and after watering his mount, Abraham had drunk his fill and then cleaned his wounds as best he could.
    He lay in the cool grass by the creek bank to dry off, basking in the warmth of the sunshine and the exhilarating freedom of fresh air.
    Freedom, Tobias. I made it out—and with your money, I’ll make it to freedom.
    He transferred a few of the gold coins from the money bags under his tunic to a leather wallet secured to his belt, and he silently thanked his cousin for the gift of his freedom as he resumed his journey.
    At the outskirts of Caesarea, Abraham spied the Roman garrison. He dismounted and affectionately patted the horse that had saved his life. “They’ll feed you well there, old friend,” he said, “and you’ll serve another soldier as honorably as you served poor Claudius.” Then he shooed the horse in the direction of the fort.
    When he reached the city, Abraham entered the first inn he came to, eager to consume his first real meal in months.
    â€œWhat happened to you, traveler?” the innkeeper asked, pointing to Abraham’s numerous scrapes and scratches.
    â€œI fell into a ravine,” Abraham replied in a voice that indicated he did not wish to be questioned further.
    The serving woman, probably the innkeeper’s wife, brought his food and then watched Abraham warily as he ate. I must be quite a sight, he thought, especially if I look as horrible as I feel. Abraham forced himself to eat slowly, aware