The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud

by Julia Navarro

  Josar went to the house of Samuel, a man who for a few coins would care for the horses and allow Josar and his companions to sleep. As soon as they were settled there, he would go out into the streets and try to find Jesus. He would go to the house of Mark, or Luke, for they would be able to tell him where to find him. It would be difficult to convince Jesus to travel to Edessa, but Josar would argue that the journey was short and that, once his king was cured, Jesus could return, should he decide not to remain.

  As he left the house of Samuel to find Mark, Josar bought two apples from a poor cripple, and he asked the man about the latest news of the city.

  “What would you know, stranger? Every day the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The Romans—you are not Roman, are you? No, you do not dress like a Roman or speak in their manner. The Romans have raised taxes, to the greater glory of the emperor, and Pilate the governor now fears a rebellion, so he is attempting to win over to his purposes the priests of the temple.”

  “What do you know of Jesus, the Nazarene?”

  “Ah! You want to know about him as well! You are not a spy, then, are you?”

  “No, good man, I am not a spy. I am simply a traveler who knows of the wonders that the Nazarene has worked.”

  “If you are sick, he can cure you. There are many who say they have been healed by the touch of the Nazarene’s fingers.”

  “And you do not believe that?”

  “I, sir, work from sun to sun, tending my orchard and selling my apples. I have a wife and two daughters to feed. I keep all the laws that a good Jew must keep, and I believe in God. Whether the Nazarene is the Messiah, as people say, I know not—I cannot say he is, and I cannot say he is not. But I will tell you, stranger, that the priests, and the Romans as well, are against him, for Jesus has no fear of their power and he defies them equally. A man cannot stand up against the Romans and the priests and expect any good to come of it. This Jesus will, I think, regret his pride.”

  Josar wandered through the city until he came to the house of Mark. There he was told that he could find Jesus beside the southern wall, preaching to a multitude.

  Josar soon found him. The Nazarene, dressed in a simple linen robe, was speaking to his followers in a voice that was firm yet wonderfully sweet.

  He felt Jesus’ eyes upon him. He had seen Josar, he smiled upon him, and he beckoned him to come closer.

  Jesus embraced him and bade him to sit there beside him. John, the youngest of the disciples, moved aside so that Josar might sit at the master’s left hand.

  There they all spent the morning, and when the sun had reached the highest point in the sky, Judas, one of the disciples, brought bread, figs, and water to the crowd. They ate in silence and in peace. Then Jesus stood to leave.

  “My lord,” Josar said softly, “I bring a letter for you from my king, Abgar of Edessa.”

  “And what does Abgar want of me, my good Josar?”

  “He is ill, my lord, and asks that you help him. I, too, ask it of you, my lord, because he is a good man, truly, and a good king, and his subjects know that he is fair and kind. Edessa is a small city, but Abgar will share it with you.”

  Jesus laid his hand on Josar’s arm as they walked. And Josar felt privileged to be near the man he truly believed to be the Son of God.

  “I will read the letter and answer your king.”

  That night Josar broke bread with Jesus and his disciples, who were uneasy at the news of the priests’ growing antagonism. A woman, Mary Magdalene, had heard in the market that the priests were urging the Romans to arrest Jesus, whom they accused of being the instigator of certain disturbances, some violent, against Rome’s power.

  Jesus listened in silence and ate calmly. It appeared that all the matters the others were talking about were already known to him. After they had eaten, he told them that they should forgive those who did them harm or spoke against them, that they should show compassion toward those who wished them ill. The disciples replied that it was not easy to forgive a man who does one harm, to remain passive without returning ill for ill.

  Jesus listened, but again he argued that forgiveness was a balm for the soul of the person aggrieved.

  At the end of the evening, he sought out Josar with his eyes and beckoned him to come closer. Josar saw that the Nazarene was holding a letter.

  “Josar, here is my reply to Abgar.”

  “Will you come with me, my lord?”

  “No, I will not go with you. I cannot, for I must do my Father’s work as I have been bidden. Instead, I will send one of my disciples. But mark me well, Josar—your king will see me in Edessa, and if he has faith he shall be healed.”

  “Whom will you send? And how is it possible, my lord, that you shall remain here yet Abgar shall see you in Edessa?”

  Jesus smiled and looked calmly but fixedly upon Josar.

  “Do you not follow me? Do you not listen to me? You shall go, Josar, and your king shall be healed, and he shall see me in Edessa even when I am no longer in this world.”

  Josar believed.

  The sun poured in through the small window in the room where Josar sat, composing a letter to Abgar. The innkeeper bustled about, preparing food for Josar’s companions.

  Josar to Abgar, king of Edessa,

  greetings—

  My lord, these men bring you the Nazarene’s reply. I beg you, sire, to have faith, for Jesus says that you shall be healed. I know that he will work that wonder, but do not ask me how he will do it or when.

  I ask license, my king, to remain in Jerusalem, near to Jesus. My heart tells me that I must remain here. I need to hear him, follow him as the most humble of his disciples. All that I have, you have given me, and so, my lord, do as you will with my possessions, my house, my slaves; give them as you see fit to the poor and needy. I shall remain here, and to follow Jesus I will have need of almost nothing. I sense, too, that something is to happen, for the priests of the temple despise Jesus for calling himself the Son of God and for living according to the laws of the Jews, which the priests themselves do not.

  I beg of you, my lord, your understanding and your permission to follow where destiny leads me.

  Abgar read Josar’s letter and was overcome with despair. The Jew would not come to Edessa, and Josar was staying in Jerusalem.

  The men who had accompanied Josar had traveled without rest to bring the king the two missives. He had read Josar’s first, and now he would read Jesus’, but from his heart had passed all hope—he cared little now what the Nazarene might write to him.

  The queen entered the chamber, her eyes filled with worry.

  “I have heard that word has come from Josar.”

  “Indeed. The Jew will not come. Josar asks my leave to remain in Jerusalem. He desires me to portion out his possessions among the poor. He has become a disciple of Jesus.”

  “Is that man so extraordinary, then, that Josar would abandon all to follow him? How I would like to know him!”

  “You will abandon me too?”

  “My lord, you know I will not, but I do believe that Jesus is a god. What does he say in his letter?”

  “I have not yet broken the seal; wait, I will read it to you.”

  Blessings upon you, Abgar, for as much as you have believed in me whom you have not seen.

  For of me it is written: Those who have seen me shall not believe in me, so that those who have not seen may believe, and be blessed, and live.

  As for the favor you ask of me, that I go to you to be by your side—I must bide here and carry out all those things for which I have been sent, so that after I have done I may return to Him who sent me.

  But after my ascension, when I have returned to Him, I will send one of my disciples, who will cure your disease and give life to you and all that are with you.

  “My king, the Jew will heal you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You must believe. We must believe and have faith and wait.”

  “
Wait? Do you not see how this disease is eating at me? Every day I feel weaker, and soon I will not be able to show myself even to you. I know that my subjects are whispering and that my enemies await, and that there are even those who whisper to Maanu, our son, that he shall soon be king.”

  “Your hour has not yet come, Abgar. I know it.”

  SITTING AT A DESK AT THE ART CRIMES OFFICE IN THE Turin carabinieri station, Sofia Galloni was on the line to Rome with the unit’s computer specialist.

  “Marco’s not here, Minerva. He got up early and went to the cathedral. He said he’d be spending most of the day over there.”

  “His cell phone’s off—all I get is his voice mail.”

  “He’s totally wrapped up in the case. You know he’s been saying for years that somebody wants to destroy the shroud. Sometimes I even think he’s right. With all the cathedrals and churches in Italy, the only one that anything ever seems to happen to is Turin’s—there are so many ‘accidents’ that it’d make anybody suspicious. And then these guys with their tongues cut out. I mean, it’s horrible, right?”

  “Giuseppe asked me to do some digging into religious sects, to see if there are any that are into that kind of thing. Marco called me about it too. Tell them I haven’t come up with anything yet. The only thing I’ve been able to find out so far is that the company hired to do the restoration has been operating in Turin for years—over forty—and they’ve always had plenty of work. Their biggest client is the Church. Recently they’ve redone the electrical system in most of the monasteries and convents and churches in the area, and they even remodeled the cardinal’s residence. It’s a corporation, but one of the stockholders is a pretty big fish—he owns aircraft companies, chemical companies…. This restoration business is peccato minuto for him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Umberto D’Alaqua. He’s always on the business pages. A real shark at finance who—get this—also owns a big chunk of that company that installs electrical cables and water pipes, big-bore plumbing stuff. But it doesn’t stop there; he’s also been a stockholder in other companies that have come and gone, that at one time or another had some relationship to the cathedral in Turin. Remember those other fires before ’97—September of ’83, for one, just before the House of Savoy signed the shroud over to the Vatican? That summer the Church had started cleaning the cathedral facade, and the tower was covered with scaffolding. Nobody knows how it happened, but a fire started. D’Alaqua was part owner of that cleaning company. And remember when the pipes broke in the cathedral plaza because of some repaving that was going on, and all the surrounding streets flooded? Well, D’Alaqua had a large percentage of stock in the paving company too.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Sofia said. “There’s nothing strange about a man having stock in several different companies that do work in Turin. There are probably a lot like him.”

  “I’m not jumping anywhere,” Minerva protested. “I’m just laying out the facts. Marco wants to know everything, and in that ‘everything,’ D’Alaqua’s name has turned up several times. This guy must be very well connected to the cardinal in Turin, which means also to the Vatican. And by the way, he’s single. Tell Marco I’ll e-mail him everything I’ve got so far. How long are you guys staying in Turin?”

  “No idea. Marco hasn’t said. He wants to talk to the cathedral workers and the staff in the episcopal offices himself, and he’s also decided to go see the guy from the robbery two years ago. I figure we’ll be here three or four more days, but we’ll call you.”

  Sofia decided to go over to the cathedral to talk to Marco. She wanted to have a look around for herself, to get more of a feel for what was on her boss’s mind. She would have asked Pietro, Giuseppe, or Antonino to come along, but they were all absorbed in their own assignments. They’d been working with Marco for years, and he trusted them implicitly.

  Pietro and Giuseppe were members of the Italian police force, the carabinieri, incorruptible and like bloodhounds on a case. They, along with Antonino and Sofia, who had doctorates in art, and Minerva, their computer genius, made up the core of Marco’s team. There were more, of course, but Marco trusted and relied on the five of them most. Their years together had made them all friends.

  Sofia was well aware that she spent more time at work than at home. She’d never married, and she told herself that she hadn’t had time—her first priority had been her career, the doctorate, her position with the Art Crimes Department, the travel that came with the job. She’d just turned forty, and she knew—she didn’t lie to herself—that her love life was a disaster.

  Over the years, perhaps just because of all the time they spent together, she and Pietro had drifted into something more than friendship, falling into a low-key routine of sharing a room when they traveled, spending time together some nights after work. He would go back home with her, they’d have a drink, have dinner, go to bed, and around two or three in the morning he’d quietly get up and leave. But although she and Pietro slept together once in a while, he was never going to leave his wife, nor was Sofia so sure that she wanted him to. It was okay the way it was.

  At the office they tried to keep the whole thing under wraps, but Antonino, Giuseppe, and Minerva knew, and Marco had finally taken them aside and brusquely told them that they were old enough to do what they wanted, but he hoped their personal lives wouldn’t interfere with their work or with the functioning of the team.

  Pietro and she had agreed that whatever happened between them, they had to keep it to themselves; it couldn’t be talked about to their colleagues—no airing of clean or dirty laundry. So far it had worked, although they’d never really put it to the test. They had very few arguments, and those were only minor, nothing they hadn’t been able to fix. They both knew the relationship wasn’t going anywhere, so neither of them had any particular expectations.

  Marco was deep in thought, sitting only a few yards from the display case that held the shroud. He looked up, startled, when Sofia gently touched his shoulder, then smiled and patted the pew beside him.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he said, as she sat down next to him.

  “Yes, it really is—fake, but impressive nonetheless.”

  “Fake? I wouldn’t be quite so unqualified in my judgment. There’s something mysterious in the shroud, something scientists haven’t ever been able to explain. NASA determined that the image is three-dimensional. There are scientists who are convinced it’s the result of some radiation unknown to science and others who will swear that the prints are blood.”

  “Marco, you know as well as I do that radiocarbon dating doesn’t lie. Doctor Tite and the laboratories that worked on the tests couldn’t possibly allow any errors. The cloth is from the thirteenth or fourteenth century, between 1260 and 1390, and three different labs have said so. The probability of error is something like five percent. And the Church has accepted the carbon-fourteen results.”

  “But no one can explain how the image on the cloth was made. And I remind you that the three-dimensional photographs have revealed some words—INNECE written around the face three times.”

  “Yeah, to death.”

  “And on the same side, from top to bottom, farther in, there are several letters: S N AZARE.”

  “Which could be read as NEAZARENUS,” Sofia recited. They had been down this road before.

  “Above, more letters: IBER…”

  “And some people think that the missing letters spell out TIBERIUS.”

  “And the coins, the leptons?”

  “Blowups of the image show circles over the eyes, and on the right eye especially some people think they see a coin, which was common at the time to keep the dead person’s eyes closed.”

  “…which can be read…” Marco prodded.

  “There are people who say that by putting the letters together they can read TIBEPIOY CAICAROC, Tiberius Caesar, which is the inscription that appears on the coins minted in the time of Pon
tius Pilate. They were bronze, and in the center was an image of the seer’s crook.”

  “You’re a good historian, dottoréssa, which means you take nothing on faith.”

  Sofia smiled, then turned serious again.

  “Marco, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “If you can’t, who can?”

  “Well, I know you’re Catholic—I mean, we all are, we’re Italians, for God’s sake, and after all those years of catechism and nuns, something has to stick—but do you believe? Really believe? Because truly having faith is more than just being ‘Catholic,’ and I think you have faith, I think you’re convinced that the man on the shroud is Christ, so you couldn’t care less what the scientists say—you believe.”

  “Well, it’s complicated. I’m not sure, really, what I believe in and what I don’t. It doesn’t have much to do with what the Church says, with what they call ‘faith,’ and there are some things I just can’t square logically. But that piece of linen has something special about it—magical, if you will. It’s not just a piece of cloth.”

  They fell silent, contemplating the piece of linen with its impressed image of a man who, if not Jesus, had suffered the same torments as Jesus. A man who, according to scholars and the anthropometric studies done by Giovanni Battista Judica-Cordiglia, must have weighed between 175 and 180 pounds, stood between five feet eight and five feet ten inches tall, and whose features corresponded to no particular ethnic group.

  In the wake of the fire, the cathedral was closed to the public. It would remain closed for a while, so once again the shroud was to be transferred to a vault in the Banco Nazionale. The decision had been made by Marco, and the cardinal had agreed. The shroud was the cathedral’s most precious treasure, one of Christianity’s most important relics, and given the circumstances it would be much better protected deep within the vaults of the bank.