The holy city of Rome, seat of Catholicism for over a millennium, gorgeous architecture, astounding road system, and yet Bartolomeo rarely visited. He always told himself that it was because of how busy he was with his priestly duties, but deep down, he knew it was because of his shame. Most of the devout were quick to recognize a crusader hero, even to admire him, but whenever they knew his name, Bartolomeo could only think of his failure at Rhodes. His failure to protect his Order’s home from the Ottomans. Fortunately, today was not a day of shame, but of glory. Despite being almost sixty years of age, Bartolomeo was practically jittering with excitement. Not only was he to fight again against God’s enemies, but against creatures of myth.
Bartolomeo made his way to the monastery he had been summoned to, the door opening before he even touched the steps. Two younger monks stood inside, their awe of him written all over their faces.
“Good afternoon, Fra’ Bartolomeo,” said one of the monks.
The other one visibly blanched as he elbowed his companion and whispered, not so quietly, “It’s Don Bartolomeo now.”
“What?” replied the first in a poorly hushed voice. “He’s the Captain of the Post of Italy of the Knights Hospitaller, not some lowly priest.”
“He took vows after the siege. What do you think the priestly robes are for?”
Bartolomeo cleared his throat.
“Oh, right this way, Don, sorry, Don, the translator’s right up here, Don, we’ll leave you be.”
Translator? Bartolomeo thought. We’re fighting giants, not books.
As he entered the monastery study room he had been led to, he was greeted by a voice much harsher than he had expected, accented with… German?
“My captor finally arrives. Guten Morgen, Fra’ Bartolomeo.”
“I was told I was meeting the translator of the giant’s diary, not a prisoner.”
“Unfortunately, I am both.” The man held his hands up in the air, revealing a pair of manacles two sizes too large for his wrists, chained to nothing at all. “A gift from the cardinal. He thought a man who had agreed to the work should still look the part of a heretic. I have decided to wear them until someone in this building has the decency to be embarrassed.” He let them fall back to the desk with a clatter. “Apparently, talent for translating Hebrew is rare in Catholic circles; if I had to guess, it probably has to do with your dependence on the Latin Vulgate.”
“So my superiors, rather than trying to find or train someone willing, decided to capture a heretic and force him to do the work for us.”
“I believe it is you who is the papist heretic, but I doubt I can persuade you on the matter. Either way, your observation is correct. I was lured by claims of an early manuscript of Isaiah only to find this alien text instead. I am actually making quite good progress and would love to show you if you could just help me with—” The Protestant jangled his bindings.
“May I at least know your name?”
“Konrad Schreiber, unwillingly at your service.”
Initially hesitant to unshackle him, Bartolomeo took the manacles in hand and found they had never been locked at all. They came away in a single pull. Whoever had put them on the German had meant them to be felt, not to hold, and the German had plainly been delighted to wear them. Boyish limbs with muscles trained to write, not fight, gave Bartolomeo the confidence to leave them off and let the prisoner, if that was still the word, give his explanation.
“Much better. Let me lead you to the body, and I’ll explain along the way.”
As they walked down to the Tiber, Bartolomeo watched for signs that Konrad would try to slip away but found none.
“The giant’s name was Penuel. He came from the country of Saraïm, and was a devout follower of the god Morning Star, whom he believed to have been trapped here on Earth during a great flood. The popular belief there was that our world was still flooded, that the Morning Star guided their escape, and that passage back was pointless. Penuel decided to test this theory and evidently proved it wrong, though he died in the process.”
“Is this country filled with Goliath’s people? Their descendants?”
“They are possibly related, but unlikely. Fra’, how familiar are you with the Nephilim?”
“It’s Don now, I am but a priest.”
“Whatever you say, Fra’, just answer the question.”
Bartolomeo rolled his eyes. Of course this kid was not going to give him a break about the siege; why would he?
“They are the children of fallen angels and mortal women, right?”
“Correct, and do you know where in the Bible they are mentioned?”
“If I remember my seminary correctly, it was in Genesis right before…” Bartolomeo’s eyes lit up. “Right before the flood. So you’re saying that this Morning Star god fellow led the Nephilim to escape the flood?”
“Morning Star as in Lucifer, yes. So Satan guided some of the Nephilim to escape Noah’s flood.”
Konrad and Bartolomeo reached the quay where the wreckage of Penuel’s ship was kept, towed up the river from the coast and laid out along the stones.
“But how did they escape? On a boat? You can’t just escape a month-long flood unless you built an ark first.”
Konrad nodded. “That is the conundrum. Something to do with a sort of ‘crossing,’ but he writes it in the diary as though it is a well-known procedure.”
“Crossing, like to another world?”
“One can only assume.”