In an elegantly appointed room, two men sat hunched over a small tea table, their heads nearly touching as they grappled with a shared conundrum. Between them, cups of expensive coffee grew cold, forgotten in the face of a problem so profound it demanded their absolute, agonizing concentration.

Manasseh ben Israel stole a glance at the man opposite him. Gershom ben Eliezer Edels was staring back with that same manic, slightly unhinged glint in his eyes that had defined their first meeting.

“Manasseh,” Gershom said, his voice a conspiratorial rasp, “let me summarize our situation.”

“Very well,” Manasseh sighed.

“So, he isn’t the Messiah.”

“Correct.”

“But he is an angel?”

“So he claims.”

“Yet he insists he is a Christian.”

“That,” Manasseh murmured, “is the crux of the problem.”

Whether it was Manasseh ben Israel, who had spent twenty years as an orthodox Jewish theologian, or Gershom ben Eliezer Edels, a popular writer who lived for the thrill of fame and fortune, they shared a fundamental bond. Both, like ‘Him,’ were circumcised. Both had been Jewish from the moment of their birth.

And yet, the most prestigious rabbis from across Europe had suddenly, collectively, lost their wits and begun hailing the Crown Prince (and Emperor) of the Americas as their Messiah. To make matters more absurd, the ‘Messiah’ himself adamantly denied the title, claiming he wasn’t even Jewish. Instead, he offered a far more incredible alternative: he was an angel—specifically, a Christian angel who recognized only Jesus Christ as the Savior.

To Manasseh, taking those words at face value led to a singular, devastating conclusion. Does this mean we’re all doomed?

If Christianity were right, then Judaism was wrong. It meant that a ‘cult leader’ who had appeared sixteen centuries ago was indeed the King of the Jews and God Himself, and every Jew since then was destined for the fires of hell. It meant that for over a thousand years, his people had been fools, and their steadfast hope had been nothing but vanity.

“But doesn’t that seem strange to you?” Gershom interjected, breaking the silence. “Why would a Christian angel be running himself ragged trying to save the Jews?”

Manasseh remained silent. That was the point of friction. Despite a lifetime spent studying the Torah and the Law, he could find no retort to the mad writer’s observation.

Suppose Christianity was the answer. Suppose, as the Prince claimed, Jesus was the Lord, he was an angel sent by Him, and Jesus was indeed ‘the way, the truth, and the life.’ If that were so, why would an angel following such a path exert so much effort to save a people who had rejected that ‘truth’ and ‘life’?

Out of pity?

Absurd. Even a celestial messenger operating on Earth would be bound by the finitude of time and resources. Surely, it would be more logical to spend those efforts on Christians who were already eligible for salvation.

“And besides,” Gershom continued, his voice lowering, “there is the matter of… well, ‘that’ part of him.”

“…”

“It was… quite meticulously done. Very rounded, as if by a master’s hand—”

“Do not describe it in such detail!” Manasseh snapped.

“I’m only recounting what I heard. Weren’t you the one who actually saw it first?”

Manasseh winced. He had indeed seen the mark of the Covenant with his own eyes. If Judaism were false and Christianity true, why would… No, I must stop thinking about that moment.

The Prince’s life was a tapestry of contradictions. There were too many anomalies to allow for total despair, yet too many uncertainties to permit unbridled hope. Most of the rabbis who had witnessed the ‘miracle’ that day were content to rejoice in the arrival of their Messiah, but Manasseh couldn’t join them. There were still too many questions left unanswered.

Knock, knock.

The sound startled Manasseh from his reverie. He looked at Gershom, who was seated closer to the door, but the writer was busy pulling something out of his bag and stuffing it into the folds of his coat. With a weary sigh, Manasseh stood and opened the door himself.

The Prince was waiting for them.

“Ah! You are both here,” Nemo said, offering a bright smile. “The Coven is gathering shortly. Shall we head out together?”

“Your… Your Highness,” Manasseh stammered. Since he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘Messiah’ or ‘Angel,’ he stuck to the secular title.

The ‘Crown Prince’ seemed to find the ambiguity amusing, his smile widening. “You are my teacher, Manasseh, and Gershom over there is the man who tried to split my skull with an axe. Whether for the sake of etiquette or the safety of others, it seemed only right that I come to fetch you personally.”

“Ha… ha ha…” Manasseh chuckled nervously.

“I’m not joking,” Nemo added.

A brief, heavy silence followed.

“Greetings, Your Highness!” Gershom chirped, stepping forward with an audacity that suggested he hadn’t just been labeled a high-risk individual. “You seem to be wearing quite a lot of layers today.”

“Yes… well,” Nemo replied, his smile turning awkward as he instinctively took a small step back.

Following the Prince’s lead, the two men made their final preparations and stepped out into the hallway. Having lived in the estate for several months, they had grown accustomed to its vastness. Though their movements were restricted to maintain secrecy, the manor was large enough that it never felt like a prison. As they walked toward the main entrance, Nemo chatted amiably with Manasseh.

Gershom, however, was lagging behind. He was constantly fidgeting with something in his coat, failing to contribute to the conversation and repeating odd, distracted phrases. Manasseh chalked it up to the man’s general insanity. The man tried to axe a ‘Messiah’ the moment they met; nothing he does will ever be normal.

Suddenly, the sound of Gershom’s footsteps ceased. Manasseh turned back, intending to snap at him for dawdling, when his heart nearly stopped.

“Wait…”

Why was Gershom holding that?

Before the thought could even form, a sharp crack of a pistol shot echoed through the hallway. Despite knowing it was futile, Manasseh screamed, “Watch out!”

“Finally,” Gershom cried, his voice high and frantic, “I shall confirm his true nature—!”

Manasseh lunged, his foot connecting with Gershom’s ribs with enough force to send the writer sprawling, but it was too late. The Prince was already collapsing, struck by the ball.

“You absolute madman!” Manasseh shrieked, raining kicks down on the fallen writer. “How! Again! Why would you do this!”

“Stop! Stop kicking me!” Gershom wheezed, his pistol skittering across the floor.

“Not until you’re dead!”

Manasseh pinned him down, gasping for breath, before fearfully turning his head toward the Prince. Nemo was… standing up?

Clang. Tatter-tang.

A series of clear, glass-like sheets fell from beneath the Prince’s coat, clattering onto the stone floor. Nemo let out a long, weary sigh and kicked one of the shards toward the two Jewish men.

“I knew this was coming, so I prepared,” Nemo said. His voice was calm, though he winced slightly. “Still, a gunshot carries quite a shock. It hurts.”

Manasseh and the gasping Gershom stared at the transparent material.

“It’s called Lexan,” Nemo explained. “It’s strong enough to deflect a bullet.”

“Is it… is it a celestial substance?” Gershom whispered, his awe overriding his pain. “Truly, an angel…”

“Shut up!” Manasseh barked.

“Please… no more… kicking…”

Manasseh ignored him. Guards, drawn by the shot, arrived and added their own boots to Gershom’s punishment. Manasseh stepped back, watching the Prince. Nemo was poking at a hole in his fine silk coat, muttering, “How am I going to get this repaired…?”

“Sire… are you truly unharmed?” Manasseh asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m used to this sort of thing by now. I’m glad I hid the Lexan pads in my lining. I really don’t enjoy being in pain.”

Nemo looked up as Oitotan came rushing down the hall. “One gets used to many things when living with a man who has lost his mind,” Nemo added dryly.

“Are you alright, Sire?” Oitotan gasped. He stopped, noticing the way everyone was staring at him. “Why… why is everyone looking at me like that?”

Manasseh felt a wave of crushing exhaustion wash over him. He leaned his back against the wall, realizing that Oitotan was the ‘madman’ the Prince had been referring to. Gershom was still being pummeled, while Nemo and Oitotan began discussing the meeting as if the attempted assassination were a minor social faux pas.

Manasseh closed his eyes. He felt like the only sane person in a world that had gone completely off the rails.

“Urk… gah… that’s enough!” Gershom groaned one last time before his head hit the floor.

Thud.

Manasseh looked at the unconscious writer. He had so many questions for him.

***

“Ugh… gah… stop… huh?”

Gershom blinked his eyes open. The sun was high in the sky, streaming through the windows of the infirmary established within the Prince’s manor. He tried to move, but his body was a map of stinging, throbbing pain. He saw Manasseh sitting in a chair beside his bed.

“How was the meeting?” Gershom asked, his voice remarkably calm and polite.

Manasseh felt a chill run down his spine. How can this man be so consistently insane? First an axe, then a pistol—and now he was asking about a business meeting as if he hadn’t just shot their leader.

“Why?” Manasseh asked, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Why on earth did you do that?”

Gershom’s answer was infuriatingly simple. “Well… I hadn’t actually seen him die and come back yet, had I?”

It was a clear answer, but it provided no understanding. Manasseh realized that when faced with true absurdity, one simply runs out of words. After a long, heavy silence, he finally exploded.

“That isn’t the point! You swung an axe, and now you’ve fired a gun! Do you have even a shred of sanity left? What if he had actually died?”

“Then it couldn’t be helped,” Gershom shrugged. “I told you—if he’s a fraud, his death is of no consequence. If he’s real, he won’t die anyway, so what does it matter?”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”

“If he dies,” Gershom continued, “well, what then?”

“What then? Everything ends!” Manasseh yelled. He couldn’t wrap his head around the man’s logic. The person Gershom was trying to kill was a self-proclaimed angel who had organized a secret society specifically to save the Jews. Even now, across the Empire, the Prince’s agents were preventing the slaughter of their kinsmen.

“More importantly,” Manasseh hissed, “he is the Crown Prince and Emperor of a vast empire across the sea!”

The Continental Covenant was a powerhouse that rivaled Spain. Nemo was a blood ally to the British and French thrones and the patron of the European Protestants.

“Does it even matter if he’s immortal?” Manasseh demanded. “He is the ruler of a great nation! If the world finds out a Jew killed him, do you have any idea what would happen to our people?”

Gershom let out a sharp, cynical bark of laughter. “Life would get a bit harder for a while, I suppose.”

“It would be a massacre!” Manasseh roared. In his mind’s eye, he could see his kinsmen being slaughtered and exiled, their screams echoing across the continent. “Who cares if he isn’t the Messiah? Even he denies it! Who cares if he isn’t immortal? That is a matter of the Lord’s providence, not ours!”

“Hmm.”

“Did you hear the news?” Manasseh continued, leaning over the bed. “In France, for the first time in centuries, Jews can breathe and live under the protection of the King. That is his doing! And you tried to kill him!”

“I heard that as well,” Gershom said indifferently.

“Then you cannot try to kill such a man!”

Manasseh was huffing with rage, his finger pointed at Gershom’s chest. Gershom simply smiled back, a serene, mocking grin that only served to stoke Manasseh’s fury.

“You must behave yourself,” Manasseh warned, trying to steady his breathing. “If you slip up again, the persecution of the Jews will become even more severe.”

Gershom didn’t seem to hear him. He turned his head toward the window, looking out at the gardens with an expression that was terrifyingly vacant. Just as Manasseh was about to start another lecture, Gershom spoke.

“Severe persecution…?”

“Yes!”

“More than now?”

“Of course!”

“How?”

Manasseh blinked. “What?”

“How could it possibly be more severe than it is now?” Gershom asked. He began to chuckle softly, turning his gaze back to Manasseh. His face was calm, almost peaceful. “Tell me, how could our lives be any worse?”

Manasseh opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. He realized he had no answer.

“Tell me, my learned friend,” Gershom said, his voice light and mocking. “In your home in the Netherlands, are there any Jews who hold public office?”

“…”

“None, of course. We are a people accustomed to misery. If a common street thug grabs me by my beard and drags me through the mud like a dog, or spits in my face, I must smile. That is the life of a Jew.”

Gershom spoke as if he were recounting an interesting anecdote he’d found in a book.

“I am treated as a stranger in the very city where I have lived my entire life. If someone accuses me of ritual murder or devil worship, no matter how flimsy the evidence, I must die. Because I am a Jew.”

He giggled.

“No matter how fine the cloth I wrap myself in, I cannot escape the fate etched into my circumcised flesh. Do you know why? Do you know why we live like this?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. For a thousand years, the lives of millions have been ground into the dirt, and no one can tell us why. Look at the sheer, beautiful absurdity of it.”

Gershom spread his arms wide with dramatic flair, his voice rising with theatrical passion. Manasseh couldn’t find the strength to laugh.

“The children of Abraham live in the muck, and the Lord is silent,” Gershom said, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp humor. “Perhaps the Christians were right after all? If they weren’t, there is no explanation for the catastrophe that has been visited upon the devout. Ha… ha ha ha!”

Gershom collapsed back into his pillows, laughing until he clapped his hands. Manasseh watched him in stony silence. It took a long time for the writer to stop, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

“As I said… if the Prince dies, it changes nothing for us. We can do nothing. We would simply be revealed as the servants of a dead fraud. What more could they do to us?”

“…”

“And you say you cannot understand my actions? What about yours?” Gershom asked. “Weren’t you the one who dared to strip the ‘Messiah’ in front of his peers? If I’m mad, then you and I are brothers in insanity.”

“…”

“Why did you do it, Manasseh?”

Why? Manasseh thought.

Because he had to prove the man was a fraud.

And why did he have to prove that?

Because it had infuriated him. Seeing respected rabbis flush with excitement and hail a foreign charlatan as their Savior had been more than he could bear.

But why did it make him so angry?

Why? Manasseh stared at his hands. Why does a fraud matter so much?

“Because,” Manasseh whispered, “if someone gives false hope to our poor, suffering people, they deserve…”

“They deserve to die,” Gershom finished for him. “Isn’t that the truth of it?”

Manasseh bowed his head.

“We are Jews,” Gershom said. “Our lives are worth as much as a fly’s. If we are to be tossed away into the void, we might as well die after judging the fraud who toys with our hearts. Don’t you agree?”

“…”

“If he’s a fake, he dies. A man who leads our people into further death and despair must be stopped.”

“But… but what if he is the Messiah?” Manasseh asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Or even if he isn’t, what if he truly is an angel?”

“Then…” Gershom grinned. “Then only I shall go to hell for the sin of insulting the heavens. A small price to pay.”

Manasseh felt his blood run cold. While he sat in silence, Gershom reached for a bottle sitting on the nightstand.

“Is this Bourbon?” Gershom asked, his eyes widening. “I’ve heard the rumors. They say in France, only the royal family drinks this at their banquets.”

“The Prince left it when he visited you after the meeting,” Manasseh said quietly. “He told me to give you a glass to wake up your spirit.”

“Ah… how fortunate.”

Manasseh couldn’t tell what the man was referring to. “Fortunate?”

“The Prince gave me this precious spirit,” Gershom said, his eyes gleaming. “He let me rest in his house. He will not cast me aside.”

“…”

“I am glad,” Gershom added. “Whether he is the Messiah or not, it seems I won’t be going to hell. All that remains is to do great things by his side. We are going to stop this war, Manasseh. We are going to save millions of our brothers.”

He was truly insane. Manasseh looked at him and knew he would never understand the man. He sighed, accepting a glass of whiskey from Gershom. He was not a strong drinker, and the spirit hit him hard. In his drunken haze, he listened to Gershom’s voice.

“I won’t do it again, though. I swear it before the Lord in heaven. No matter how far I lose my wits, I won’t go that far again. If I do, may my soul be cast into the abyss.”

Manasseh muttered something in response, a drunken, incoherent mumble he wouldn’t remember the next day. It wasn’t important. What mattered was that in his intoxication, he felt he finally understood Gershom, just a little.

Such was the life of a Jew.