Chapter 1

Simon was sitting in a tavern. He was drunk. It was hot and biting flies were everywhere. He stank and his robe was filthy. His feet were blistered and cracked from the heat and his long journey northward.

He had no money, having been robbed, beaten and left for dead by a band of thieves on the road to Bologna. He was able to barter for a meal and some stale beer by offering to clean the stables behind the inn. He had done a mediocre job on the stables, throwing fresh straw over old. His poor performance made the warm beer even more stale in his mouth.

Although he appeared young, it had been many, many years since he'd had a purpose, a sense of pride – of self-worth, rather. 'Pride is one of the sins He taught us about... '

Sloth was another – a sin of which Simon was guilty more often than not, these days. It wasn't that he was afraid of work, or was unable in some manner – it was that, now, there was no longer a purpose; a purpose for his life, a purpose for ... anything.

He had begun his long journey to Lombardy to discover for himself how the holy words were being interpreted by Ambrose. The stories that had filtered down to his small group near the Red Sea were troubling. What he had seen in his journey northward was troubling. The Word was already being usurped and was being used by this Ambrose fellow to gain power and control over his fellows.

Suddenly, the earth leaped beneath Simon's feet! He was violently knocked to the floor and thunder roared in his ears! He staggered to his feet and looked around the tavern, confused. Other patrons were also climbing to their feet.

'Lightning on a clear, sunny day?' he thought to himself. 'It struck very close!'

Simon staggered outside. He could see smoke coming from behind a low, squat building. People were milling around, looking confused and chattering to each other. He began trotting toward where the lightning had struck, his rum-shot eyes squinting in the bright sunlight.

He ran around behind the building and stopped, stunned by what he saw. A young Aryan girl, completely naked, was lying in the middle of the yard. Her skin was obviously pale, although she appeared to be badly burnt. The burn marks from the lightning strike spread out from her, making a sign – a religious symbol from the days before He had come. 'The Star of David! She is an angel fallen from heaven, taking her human form as a member of the purest race.'

Simon had no doubt that the angel was sent specifically for him. He ran to the center of the blackened area and knelt down. The angel was unconscious and Simon's first observation had been correct – she was badly burned. The smell of her scorched hair was nauseating.

'Perhaps she was acting on her own, ' he thought, 'defying the Lord's wishes and was struck down for attempting to get a message to me.'

Simon was certain that he was in God's disfavor because of his, and others, failure to save Him from persecution and death. Nevertheless, he pulled off the top half of his robe, tearing it and laying it over the angel's body, covering what should not be viewed in public. He was tense and frightened, fearing that his Lord might strike him down with a second lightning bolt for helping the fallen angel.

He didn't care. Right now, he wasn't too fond of how his Lord had been handling things. There were too many evils in the world, and Simon's writings, as Peter, along with others of his group, seemed to be ineffectual in stemming the tide of evil that flowed outward from Rome.

Shoving his arms under the angel's shoulders and legs, he lifted her up, surprised at how light she seemed. Although she was taller than he, she seemed to weigh very little, perhaps the same as a half-grown child.

As he stood there in the center of the burnt-out yard holding the angel, he noticed, for the first time, a ring of townspeople gathered around them.

In his native tongue, he called out to them. "She is anathema! She is cast out of heaven to live in the filth of humanity for her sins! I will take her to the river to bathe her in the forgiveness of God."

The citizens of Pavia murmured to each other – those who understood what Simon had cried out to them explaining what he had said to the others. As Simon began walking toward the river, proudly carrying his burnt red, smoky, golden-haired burden, the crowd made way and allowed him to pass.

'Anathema' had many meanings; originally it referred to something so sacrosanct and pure that to merely touch it was to defile it. Now, Ambrose had given the word a new meaning: Cast out and unworthy; detested.

Excommunicated!

The good people of Pavia wanted nothing to do with someone who had been excommunicated by The Church! This filthy man was obviously a priest of some holy sect that practiced self-flagellation, probably sent here in a vision to collect this offal – this unworthy being who was cast out from heaven.