The Street Thief's Apprentice

Prologue: 1503 Somewhere in the Countryside of Italy

Rain fell hard in the fields outside the little parish; thrashing relentlessly against the wooden shudders of the tiny church as if it was begging to be allowed in. Yet, on this night, nothing human or otherwise would have wanted to gain entrance into the forsaken old building. The small sanctuary and halls reverberated with the coughing and moans of the thirty or so inhabitants, only four of which had escaped the wretched plagues cold grasp.

In the front hall a young monk filled a cracked cup with water, and hurried back to the sanctuary. Lightening illuminated the faces of the ill that the feeble candle light had otherwise mercifully kept hidden. To the young monk the faces appeared ghostly, wraith like, shadows of what was to come; their cries and moans echoed in his ears as he stepped precariously between them. Once or twice a poor victim who no longer held his mind, and had mistook the passing monk for an angel or forgone saint would reach out grabbing his legs with a plea for mercy. It was a terrifying encounter for the man who was too young to have been thrown into this den of suffering.

At last, he made it through the labyrinth of disease, and ascended the two steps to the altar, careful not to spill any of the precious contents of the cup. He knelt holding the cup to the lips of a man scarcely older than himself who's face glistened with sweat, and who's body convulsed so violently with fever it was hard for the water to find its way to his lips. After three feeble sips he spoke;

Timothy, the name wheezed from his throat, Timothy..Timothy, his eyes stared ahead, unaware that his protg was so close.

Yes, Father, I am here, Timothy whispered.

Timothy, the eyes began to focus on the monk. You must not..you must not., his words were racked by another coughing fit, but he kept his senses, and weakly he continued, You must not allow them..to find it. The secret would die with me tonight..if.if I did not think.they would come.

Who, who will come Father?

Years.years it has been safe, but no longer, coughing interrupted him again. He gulped for more air.

What has been safe?

The man's head collapsed softly against the stone floor, time was short. There, he gasped pointing with trembling fingers toward the altar.

A small impression in the otherwise flawless wood revealed a compartment of some kind.

The man reached, up with sweaty palms and grasped Timothy's cloak pulling him close,

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