“Then speaking as your cousin, I must candidly say that I would feel uncomfortable. Just as I would feel uncomfortable if the Elector Frederick asked what I was bringing to you. Professional standards. You know.”
“Really, Dismas. You are being very Swiss today.”
Dismas smiled thinly.
“I see my cousin employs Landsknechte?”
“Ah, of course. You were a Reiselaufer. One forgets about these blood feuds among mercenaries. Are Landsknechte so awful as that? They are pretty, you must admit. How they preen. Drogobard tells me they spend their entire wages on attire and frippery. Like the Swiss Guard in Rome.”
“With respect,” Dismas said, jaw muscles clenching, “the Pope’s Swiss Guard descend from Reiselaufers. Who have nothing in common with Landsknechte. God be thanked.”
“Oh, come. Landsknechte and Reiselaufers both enjoy reputations as the finest paid killers in Europe. You have much in common.”
“If his grace insists.”
“Don’t pout, Dismas. Hatred is a mortal sin.”
“Perhaps Friar Tetzel will sell me an indulgence.”
“What a mood you are in today! Have some more wine. It will cool your Helvetian blood.” Albrecht filled Dismas’s glass. “Now, is it true what I am told, that there was in Basel a boat? A boat that belonged to the Fisherman?”
“There was a boat. But I very much doubt it ever belonged to Saint Peter. It was a disgraceful fraud. Not even a good disgraceful fraud.”
Albrecht sighed. “How splendid it would have looked in our cloister courtyard. Truly, it would have been something.”
“Would my cousin have me purchase frauds for him?”
“No. But admit, Dismas, it would be something.”
“I give my promise—if ever I should come across the true fishing boat of Saint Peter, I will buy it for your grace, whatever price is asked.”
Albrecht was looking out the window with its circular mullions.
“Never mind fishing boats. What we truly lack, Dismas, is a shroud.”
Dismas stifled a groan. Another recurring theme.
“Not a shroud,” Albrecht self-corrected. “We mean of course the Shroud. The true burial cloth of the Savior.” Albrecht made a sign of the cross.
Dismas said, “As I have told my cousin, I have seen many—many—‘true’ shrouds. In Basel this year I counted fourteen.”
Albrecht looked sad. “And not one worthy?”
Dismas shook his head. He almost felt sorry for Albrecht.
“Not to be vulgar, but truly I would not have hesitated to blow my nose on any of them. The effronteries one sees these days are beyond imagination. I regret to tell my cousin that this poses a great risk to your—and to the Elector Frederick’s—commendable passion for holy relics. You have both breathed new life into an ancient commerce. But demand outstrips supply. Prices rise. Scoundrels enter. Forgers and fakers. It is sad. More, a scandal. In Basel I spoke to Master Schenk about this. I said to him, Look here, Schenk, if this continues, people will lose all confidence in the market. The bad will drive out the good. And then what?” Dismas spoke with such passion that he nearly said, “If your Friar Tetzel does not first ruin everything with his outrages.”
Albrecht was not listening. His mind was somewhere beyond the mullions.
“The Duke of Savoy has a shroud,” he said. “You know it, surely.”
“In Chambéry. Yes. I saw it. Years ago.”
“And?”
“Of all the so-called true burial shrouds of Our Lord, it has the best pedigree, you might say. It appeared first in Lirey. France. In I believe 1353. It was the property of the knight Geoffrey de Charny. A knight of great reputation. But a Templar, and one must always be en garde with relics fetched from the Holy Land by Knights Templar. As I recall, it was denounced as a forgery not long after it surfaced in Lirey. By the local bishop. One Pierre d’Arcis. But you know how it is.”
“No. Tell us. How is it?”
“The people paid good money to see it. So despite the Bishop’s denunciation, the de Charnys continued to display it. A century later, de Charny’s granddaughter, Margaret, gifted it to the House of Savoy, to the Dukes. They built the Sainte-Chapelle in the castle at Chambéry as its shrine. It has remained there ever since.”
Albrecht said pensively, “And what did you make of it?”
“I would call it more subtle than other ‘true’ shrouds I’ve examined. With most, the paint is practically still wet. It could be the one true shroud. Still, I have my doubts.”
“Why?”
“Well, the custom in Our Lord’s time was for the Jews to wrap their dead for burial in two cloths. The body in one, and the head in another. The Gospel of John makes reference to it as a ‘napkin.’ The Chambéry shroud is one piece. It shows the image of an entire body, head to toe.”
“The Gospel of John is not definitive,” Albrecht sniffed. “We think you are mistaken there, Dismas.”
“Your grace’s knowledge far exceeds my own. I have only my experience in the relic trade to rely on. And this.” Dismas tapped his nose.
“Would the Duke of Savoy sell it?”
Dismas shook his head. “Unlikely. It’s a mint. I mean,” Dismas added uncomfortably, “a reliable source of revenue. Savoy is not a wealthy duchy. The duke needs the money. He displays it with regularity. Pilgrims come. Kings and queens come.”
Albrecht was staring out the window again. “He is called Charles the Good. Why? we wonder. What is ‘good’ about him?”
“They say he’s kind. He takes care of his poor, and does not oppress his subjects. He doesn’t have an easy time. Always he is being invaded by the King of France.”
“Then they should call him Charles the Much Invaded,” Albrecht said. “They call your uncle Frederick ‘The Wise.’ Is he so wise, I wonder?”
“Well, he’s learned, sure. Speaks three languages, in addition to Latin and Greek. He’s building a great university. They say his Master of Theology is a scholar. An Augustinian friar. Luther. Very holy person, they say.”
“I speak five languages. In addition to Latin and Greek. Frederick’s grandfather was called Frederick the Meek. His brother, Johann the Constant. His nephew, Johann the Magnanimous. Who devises these names? And there was that troublesome cousin. What did they call him? George the Bearded.” Albrecht smiled playfully. “And how will we be called, Dismas?”
“Albrecht Cardinal Brandenburg. Perhaps someday, His Holiness, Pope Albrecht?”
“A German pope? Judgment Day will come first. But as to the business of the shroud. If John’s Gospel is correct about the Jews and their head napkins—a wonder Jews would be willing to pay for a second cloth—then the Chambéry shroud must be a fake.”
“This is my thinking, yes.”
“Then it follows that somewhere out there exists the true shroud.”
Dismas frowned. “Well, perhaps, but . . . one might ask, is it likely that Our Lord would leave us such a memento of himself?”
“Yes. It would be proof that he rose from the dead. Find it for us, Dismas. Find it and we will make you rich. You know that we are your best client.”
“One dreams of a client like your grace.”
“You spread yourself too thin. Come to Mainz, Dismas. Work exclusively for us. For God’s sake, Frederick must have enough bones by now. His castle is an ossuary. Come to Mainz. You would not regret it.”
Dismas had heard this overture before. “Your grace’s generosity is beyond the comprehension of such a wretch as myself.”
“You try our patience, Dismas. Go to Wittenberg. Go to your uncle Frederick.”
Albrecht rose and extended his hand to be kissed. On his way out, Dismas asked, “Who’s being burned?”
Albrecht was scribbling at his desk. He didn’t look up. “Um?”
“I saw them setting fresh faggots at the stake. In the square. They tell me there’s been a lot of burnings.”
Albrecht continued writing.
> “We had another outbreak of the plague. Drogobard insists on burnings. Good for morale. We’re running out of Jews, so it’s been witches, mainly. Let’s pray we don’t run out of those. Safe travels, Dismas. Watch yourself in the Thuringian Forest. We’ve had reports of banditry. Give our love to Uncle Frederick. The Wise.”
4
Frederick
Dismas would have preferred to travel to Wittenberg through Nuremberg so he could deposit his earnings with his banker, Master Bernhardt, change clothes, and visit with Dürer. But with All Saints fast approaching, there was no time. All Saints was the most important feast day of the year for Frederick. His relic galleries were opened for public viewing. Dismas had purchases from Basel that required mounting.
He arrived in Wittenberg on the twenty-seventh of October, eight days after leaving Mainz. When transporting gold, he posed as a monk. The disguise would not in itself stop a brigand, but his halberd would, concealed in the cart close at hand.
Frederick’s majordomo Klemp greeted him with warmth and enthusiasm. The servants here always made him feel welcome and cherished. In Mainz, the best he’d get from Albrecht’s staff was a grudging nod, to remind him of his social rank. On top of which, now at Mainz he must endure the smirks of Landsknechte.
“The Elector has been asking for you every hour!” Klemp said. “He asks, ‘Where is my nephew Dismas?’ He sent out riders. Didn’t they find you?”
“I went north. To avoid Thuringia.”
“Come, he’s in the galleries. Did you bring wonderful things?”
“One or two. Saint Barbara. A toe.”
“No!”
Klemp clapped his hands together. “The last of the Fourteen Holy Helpers? What joy this will bring him!”
“He’s been after me for years to get it for him. Between us, Klemp, I was about to chop off one of my own toes and tell him it was hers.”
Klemp giggled. Sweet old thing. They made their way to the galleries.
“Master, look who is arrived!”
Frederick’s back was to them. He was bent over, peering into a case, a cane in each hand. The gout and the stones now kept him from his hunting. He’d put on great weight.
He turned slowly. Dismas’s first experience of Frederick had come before even meeting him, when he saw Dürer’s portrait of him as a younger man. In it, Frederick stares at the viewer with intense, bulging eyes above a broken nose and beard. If one did not know it was a portrait of Frederick “The Wise,” one might think its subject was called “The Mad.”
Frederick lifted his arms, summoning a hug. Dismas could barely get his arms around him. It was like embracing a bear.
He released Dismas, looked him up and down.
“Is it Brother Dismas now? Have you given up your sinful ways?”
Dismas was still wearing his monk disguise.
“Klemp, get this miserable excuse of a friar proper clothes. And bring us wine.”
Klemp scurried off.
Frederick growled. “Prodigal. Do you realize there remain only four days before All Saints?”
Dismas explained about his circuitous route. The wine arrived. Frederick eased his frame into a chair. It creaked.
“You come from Mainz.”
“His Grace the Archbishop commands me to convey to you his love.”
“Um. Albrecht’s buying himself a cardinal’s hat. The Brandenburgs will have no money left at this rate.”
Dismas regaled Frederick with an account of Tetzel and the indulgence-pricing session.
Frederick shook his head. “Friar Martin is exercised. Livid. Spalatin says he’s about to burst on the subject of Tetzel and his indulgences. Tetzel. There’s a scoundrel. Plants himself right across my borders, to taunt me. I can’t stop my subjects from crossing over. If they want to drop their guldens into Albrecht’s coffer, it’s their business.” He waved the thought away and smiled. “Now, Nephew Dismas, what have you brought your old uncle?”
Dismas presented him with St. Barbara’s toe. Frederick’s eyes welled. He didn’t ask what Dismas had paid. He didn’t care. Together, they placed it in the gallery along with bits of the other Holy Helpers. There were 117 gold and silver monstrances in Frederick’s galleries. The Holy Helpers had special meaning for him, as they had lived in the Rhineland at the time of the Great Plague. Worshippers at their shrine prayed for relief from fever and sudden death, for surcease from headache, illness of the throat, tumors, tuberculosis, family discord, temptation on the deathbed, and other afflictions. And now, with Barbara’s toe, the collection was at last complete. Prayers said here would have even greater power than before. And, yes, Frederick could charge more for indulgences purchased here. But it was money to buy bricks for his university.
Frederick and his relic master spent the next days mounting the other Basel purchases throughout the galleries.
There were eight galleries in all. Gallery One held relics of holy virgins; Two, female martyrs; Three, holy confessors (St. Sebald’s rib was the prize here); Four and Five, devoted to holy martyrs, were stacked almost to the ceiling. In truth it did resemble an ossuary.
“It’s starting to feel like a warehouse, Uncle.”
The centerpiece here was the mummified holy innocent Dismas had procured in the Holy Land.
Gallery Six held relics of the holy apostles and evangelists; Seven, of patriarchs, prophets, the Holy Family, the Nativity, and the ministry of Christ. Here was the straw from the manger; a strip of swaddling cloth; a strand of Jesus’s beard; the thumb of St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary—and the very first relic Frederick had bought, in 1493, on the island of Rhodes on his return from pilgrimage in the Holy Land.
Gallery Eight was the holy of holies: relics of Christ’s passion. A length from the cord that bound his hands as he stood before the Sanhedrin and Pilate; bits of the rod he’d been given as a mock staff; a piece of the scourge that flayed his back; the sponge soaked in vinegar held up to him on the cross; bits of the nails driven into his hands and feet; and holiest of all, pieces of the cross itself. Most precious to Frederick was a thorn from the Crown of Thorns—a thorn, moreover, that had pierced Christ’s forehead. It was difficult to stand in Gallery Eight without being overcome with emotion. Few among those who came to venerate here remained standing or dry-eyed.
• • •
Meals at Wittenberg were taken twice a day, in midmorning and late in the afternoon. Toward dusk on the eve of All Saints, after all the preparations had been completed, Frederick bade Dismas join him at table along with Spalatin, his secretary and confidant, and court painter Lucas Cranach.
Dismas knew both men. He enjoyed the company of Spalatin, a kind and humorous man whose conversation was scholarly but never condescending. He loved gossip. Cranach Dismas found hard going: dour, touchy, without humor, and rather full of himself. But, sure, a painter of talent and formidable industry. He seemed to own everything in Wittenberg, so perhaps he was entitled to his self-regard.
He and Dismas had gotten off to a bad start some years ago when Frederick tasked Cranach with assembling a catalog of his relic collection. At the time it comprised (a mere) five thousand relics. Dismas knew that this was not a commission Cranach rejoiced over. He would rather be painting portraits and altarpieces. But one did not refuse a request from one’s patron. Cranach took out his resentment on Dismas, chafing at him endlessly over the authenticity of this or that relic, harrumphing and huffing. They’d nearly come to blows over the leaf from the Burning Bush. A tooth of St. Jerome had also been a cause of contention. In the years since, Cranach had relaxed into a sullen companionability. Dismas’s friend Dürer also received Frederick’s patronage, occasionally. Dürer had opinions regarding Cranach. He did not regard him highly. Dismas did not feel confident to judge Cranach’s work. It seemed quite good.
It was quite possible what bothered Dürer was—money. As court painter, Cranach enjoyed not only official prestige but also a fine salary—rumored to be fifty gulden, not counting the
special commissions. Dürer insisted this was more than he deserved. It amused Dismas to listen to Dürer go on about Cranach. Artists.
What a feast was laid on. Small wonder Uncle Frederick had grown so in girth. Food arrived and continued to arrive on great salvers: venison, bear, pheasant, snipe, carp, crab, pike, herring, cod. Cheeses, apples, plums. Dismas gorged, having spent the previous week eating road rations. Wine flowed in rivers. At length Dismas thought he might explode.
They were into the sweets when one of Spalatin’s undersecretaries entered with an air of urgency. He bent to whisper into Spalatin’s ear.
Frederick said, “Let’s hear it.”
“Friar Martin, your grace.”
“Yes?”
“He’s . . .”
“Speak, man.”
“He’s posted a notice, your worship. On the door of the castle church.”
5
Dürer
What sort of notice?”
“It’s rather lengthy, your worship. I’ve not had time to read it all. It’s . . . well, denunciations, I suppose you’d call them. Of Friar Tetzel. Ninety-five denunciations.”
Spalatin groaned, “I knew something like was in the offing.”
“Ninety-five?” Frederick smiled. “Is our church door sufficiently commodious?”
“He might have given us notice,” Spalatin said. “If your grace will excuse me.”
Spalatin went off with the undersecretary, leaving Frederick, Dismas, and Cranach in silence.
• • •
Dismas having finished his recitation, Dürer said, “That must have given Frederick a proper case of indigestion.” He dabbed at the canvas on his easel. “Did they have to give him a purge?”
Dismas sat by the large window in Dürer’s studio.
“He seemed quite amused by it all. It was Spalatin who was perturbed.”
“You say Luther posted them? I thought he nailed them to the door.”
“That’s what the sensation-mongers are saying. It was just pages of a pamphlet, pasted on.”
“It may not be so amusing for Frederick much longer,” Dürer said. “They burn people for that sort of thing.”
The Relic Master Page 4