Albrecht said, “If it’s your commission that concerns you, you needn’t worry. You will be well compensated. As always.”
“With respect, your grace, it has nothing to do with that. Under no circumstances would I accept compensation for that . . .”
“Dismas. If it makes the people pious, what matter if it’s . . .”
“A fake?”
“Improvised.”
“Your grace, as your official relic master, I take pains to—”
“Yes, yes. We are well acquainted with your vaunted integrity. Why? Because we hear you proclaim it on every occasion. Are we now to be subjected to yet another avowal?”
Dismas squeezed his fists under the table in silent rage. What iniquity. And now to be lectured for protesting. Albrecht launched into a jeremiad on another theme.
“This has been a most difficult season for us, Dismas. Most difficult. And we must say, your uncle Frederick has done nothing to help. No, I must say—we are aggrieved. Much aggrieved.”
The Luther affair, surely. Dismas had been away from the Empire, but even in Venice and Genoa and Naples news reached him of what was happening in the north. Dürer was correct that Frederick’s amusement over Luther’s protest would be short-lived. His Master of Theology was the talk of all Europe.
Albrecht warmed to his subject.
“This obstreperous friar had the temerity to send me his odious theses. Theses! There’s a dignified term for the rantings of a drunken monk. He enclosed a groveling letter, addressing me as ‘Your Illustrious Sublimity.’ And calling himself ‘fex hominum’—a shit among men! That’s nothing but the truth. And then presumed to lecture us—we, who hold three archbishoprics—on church doctrine pertaining to indulgences. Gall. The Dominicans issued a pamphlet defending their brother Tetzel and his legitimate practices. And what did the students in Wittenberg do? Your uncle Frederick’s students? Burned them! Eight hundred pamphlets! Did your uncle do anything to punish this gross impudence? He did—nothing.”
Albrecht worked himself into a fine lather.
“Then, when his holiness demanded that your uncle give Luther over to the Dominicans for examination, what does he do? Again nothing! Refuses. Refuses the Holy Father in Rome!”
Albrecht crossed himself.
“When his holiness demanded of Frederick that at the very least he banish Luther from Saxony, again he refused! And now? Now Frederick says he will banish Luther, or hand him over to proper authority in Rome, only if he is convicted of heresy. But Frederick will not hand him over for judgment. It is”—Albrecht held up his hands in an attitude of martyrdom—“unconscionable.”
Dismas said, “These are matters above my station.”
“So modest, Cousin.”
“I’m a bone dealer, your grace. Not a theologian—like yourself.”
“Yes. Well, bone dealer, do you know what’s going to happen to your trade if these heresies promulgated by your uncle’s precious monk take hold? If indulgences are swept away, do you suppose the people still will clamor for a rib of Saint Sebald or a lock of Saint Apollonia’s? Do you suppose you will have any patrons then?”
This was something Dismas had, indeed, considered. As Frederick had, sure. By protecting Luther, Frederick was undermining the very foundation of belief in relics. Wagering the value of his own vast collection. Many indulgences were earned by venerating relics. If indulgences were abolished, who would come to venerate the holy bones?
Luther’s indignation and attacks had increased pari passu with Rome’s denunciations of him. Now he indicted not only indulgences, but also the papacy itself. And in such language! His most recent pamphlet called St. Peter’s “that insatiable basilica.” He wrote, “Let the Pope build it with his own money! He is richer than Croesus!”
He was issuing pamphlets at a furious pace. The presses could hardly keep up. He’d denounced the validity of the sacrament of penance. Denied the very existence of Purgatory. Denied the authority of Rome. The ground shook beneath his slippers.
It was—unthinkable: three of the most powerful men in Europe—the world—the Pope, the Emperor Maximilian, and Albrecht—all wanted Luther tied to a stake and burned. Yet each time they reached out to light the fire, Luther snatched the torch from their hands and set fire to their own robes. How was a mere monk able to do this? Because he was protected by the Elector Frederick, who declined to hand over one of his Saxon subjects to other authority. What did Frederick have to gain by shielding Luther? Only the ill will of this troika. And here, perhaps, was the greatest irony of all: Frederick himself remained devoutly Catholic. So far as anyone could make out, he didn’t agree with Luther on a single point of his heretical doctrines.
Albrecht’s fury now ventilated, he spoke in a gentler tone. “You go to Wittenberg?”
“By way of Nuremberg. I’ve not been home in many months.”
“Assure our brother in Christ Frederick of our”—he sighed—“continuing love. How goes it with his collection? Still larger than our own?”
“In numbers, yes,” Dismas said evenly. “But he has nothing so dazzling as your grace’s fishing boat.”
“Then he will be jealous.”
“Doubtless.”
Albrecht extended his ring to be kissed.
“Fare you well, Dismas. Return to us soon. Bring us wonderful things. You know how we depend on you. And, Dismas?”
“Your grace?”
“Emphasize to your uncle that his collection, being larger than our own, will suffer more than ours should Luther’s apostasies take root. All those galleries of his, suddenly”—Albrecht leaned and blew out the large candle on his desk—“emptied of meaning. Tell him.”
7
Disaster
The trip to Nuremberg seemed to take forever. Dismas was thoroughly dejected by Albrecht’s flagrant trumpery. He felt a heavy foreboding about things to come. He couldn’t predict the future, but it seemed unlikely Luther would survive, even with Frederick’s protection.
Frederick was powerful, sure. He was ruler of Saxony and an elector of the Holy Roman Empire. But only one of seven electors. Albrecht was another. If the Emperor Maximilian was dying of the pox, as seemed certain, would his successor continue to countenance Frederick’s shielding of Luther? Rumors were that Maximilian would be succeeded on the throne by his grandson Charles, King of Spain, a more resolute, indeed adamant, champion of Catholic doctrine. Charles might well declare “Enough!” and brush Frederick aside to seize Luther. What then? Internecine war within the Empire? Could Frederick withstand that? Surely not. Thinking about this, Dismas felt a great weariness descend on him. He felt old.
Finally his journey ended. Early one morning he saw through the mists the walls of the free imperial city looming ahead. Nuremberg presented itself grandly, with its walls and battlements and towers. But now it came to Dismas that he yearned for a different landscape.
It was time to go home, like Markus. To the mountains. To Mürren, his first home, the little village atop the great cliffs. The realization, which struck him almost physically, gave him a jab of happiness. He found himself grinning. Yes, it was time. He spurred his horse to a trot.
He would call on his friend Dürer. No, first he would visit the bathhouse and soak in hot water. Then put on fresh clothing. Then Dürer. They would dine splendidly, get a bit drunk, but not so drunk this time that Dürer would climb onto the table and shout insults at the Pope. Then a good sleep in clean linen in his own bed. And in the morning, he would go to Master Bernhardt and collect his savings.
He calculated what it would amount to. Master Bernhardt’s last accounting came to over two thousand gold florins. A tidy sum. More than enough to last him out his lifetime. He’d need a cart to carry it. He felt like laughing. Yes. He would go home, find a sweet and pretty girl and fill her belly with babies. He would build his home above the town, and every morning look out at the mountains, at the Eiger and the Jungfrau. It was a view to take your breath away, no matter how many
times you’d seen it. No more sniffing about for bones and truckling to venal archbishops. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt such peace of mind. Not since Hildegard and the children were alive.
He found Dürer in good form. He had spent his winter in Venice. He talked with excitement about some new technique Dismas only vaguely comprehended, called chiaro-oscuro. Something to do with the contrast of light and dark. He proudly showed Dismas some new woodcuts, which were indeed exemplary. And he announced that he was writing a book on mathematics, a subject on which he was deeply knowledgeable.
Italy always seemed to refresh Dürer, even though he deplored Italian morals. He was full of gossip, much of it about Pope Leo’s extravagances and strange inclinations. These lurid details reinforced his increasing regard for Luther. He told Dismas that Leo had recently financed a war—at astronomical cost, eight hundred thousand gold ducats—in order to obtain for his nephew Lorenzo the Duchy of Urbino. In consequence, some cardinals had plotted to poison Leo.
“Pity they didn’t succeed,” Dürer said. The cardinals were dealt with gruesomely.
Talk of Leo led to talk of Luther’s latest philippic against Rome. He was now denouncing the Pope as “the Antichrist.” And oh, dear, as “a great, raging Babylonian whore.” Dismas made Dürer promise there would be no drunken profanations tonight at the Corpulent Duke.
Dürer winced at the memory. His hangover the next day had been Homeric, Agnes’s wrath Medean. Tonight, they agreed, would be jolly, but a night of Socratic moderation.
• • •
Over dinner, Dismas told Dürer about Albrecht and his St. Peter’s fishing boat fraud. He told him, too, of his epiphany that morning on the road to Nuremberg, of his plan to give up relics and go home. He said that this prospect made him happy, but also sad, because it meant they would see less of each other. Dismas said when he built his cabin, he would make a room in it with big windows so that Dürer could paint when he came to visit. Dürer said there was nothing of interest to paint in the cantons.
“What would you have me paint? Cows?”
Dismas said in that case, he would buy an enormous mirror, so Dürer could paint his favorite subject.
Dürer laughed. It was a pleasant meal.
Then Dürer said, “Thank God Agnes didn’t follow your advice and give our money to that bounder Master Bernhardt. Sounds like you got your money out before the calamity befell.”
“What do you mean?” Dismas said.
“Dismas—you did get your money out?”
“He still has my money.”
A look of horror came over Dürer.
“I only assumed because you seem so happy that . . . you’d withdrawn your funds.”
“I’ve been away, Nars. I returned only this morning.”
Dürer now looked stricken.
“Nars, what’s happened?”
“Christ in Heaven.”
“Just tell me. What’s happened?”
Dürer signaled the tavern keeper. “Brandy. Two great brandies.” Magnus lumbered off.
Dürer said to Dismas, “Bernhardt is in the jail.”
“Jail? Why?”
“Well, I suppose it’s called stealing.”
“Stealing? Stealing from . . . who?”
Dürer shrugged. “Well, everyone. From everyone who gave him their money to invest. It’s quite a list. You’re in fine company, at least. Ernest, Duke of Brunswick. Gerlacht of Isenburg-Neumagen. Bruno of Isenburg-Büdingen. Many Isenburgs. Many Schwarzenbergs. George, Duke of Hohenfels. A number of Hohenzollerns—Freinar, Heinrich. Franz.”
Seeing the look on Dismas’s face, Dürer said in an effort to cheer him:
“Maybe Albrecht of Mainz had some money with him. The disgrace isn’t that he swindled the nobles. Screw the nobles. They’ll just squeeze more money out of their peasants and go on drinking the best wines and putting up tapestries. But it seems a number of monasteries and convents also gave him money. Listen to this. The foundation that supports the Neustadt Almshouse? He took them, too. What a bastard, eh? Also the Furth Benevolent Society for the Blind. It’s one thing to rob rich assholes. But stealing from the blind? That takes balls. Sure, there’s a hot place in Hell for him . . .”
Dürer’s voice trailed off. He put his hand on Dismas’s shoulder.
“Was all your money with him?”
• • •
The execution of Master Bernhardt two weeks later was well attended. The consensus was that beheading by sword was a far too benevolent way of delivering the despicable embezzler to Satan. There were appeals for a more protracted death. It was proposed that Nuremberg invite the executioner of Mainz to carry out the sentence. Mainz was a center of invention, and not just of moveable type. Its executioner had recently introduced a protocol called “The Grand Marionette.” The condemned was impaled ear, hand, and foot with large fishhooks tied to rope strings, and made to dance his way to death, feet not touching the ground. (A lesser variant, designed as mere torture, was called “The Petit Marionette,” in which the feet did touch.) But alas, the city council of Nuremberg felt that to execute Bernhardt in this way would only showcase the innovation of a rival city.
The Duke of Hohenfels, who had lost a grievous sum, volunteered the use of his bear pit and his champion, Siegfried. Others wanted Bernhardt burned slowly, over low heat. One recent burning—of a witch—had lasted the better part of an afternoon, owing to a combination of a stiff breeze and wet faggots.
Finally the high justice of Nuremberg, rising above the clamor for lurid retribution, ordered beheading, amidst heavy protest. At least when spectators saw Master Bernhardt being led to the Raven Stone, it was apparent his sojourn in the Nuremberg dungeon had not been a pleasant one. But this was small consolation.
Dismas did not attend, having succumbed to a black depression. He took to his bed. For a fortnight he barely moved. Hardly ate or drank. Faithful Dürer came every day, sometimes more than once, to pound on his door, but Dismas would not open it.
Finally, on the day after Bernhardt was beheaded and his body quartered and left for the carrion birds, Dismas was summoned from his evil sleep by the sound of a violent banging on his door.
Dürer had come with an ax. He shouted through the door. Unless Dismas opened it he would chop his way in.
Dismas got up and shuffled to the door.
“Christ. Stinks in here.”
“I didn’t ask you in. Go away.”
Dürer opened the windows, and fanned the fetid air. He gathered up clothing and made Dismas dress.
“I’ve got very good news. But if I stay in here another moment I will puke. Come on.”
Dismas could barely walk. Dürer half carried him to the bathhouse, then to the barber to be shaved and deloused, then took him home. Agnes greeted Dismas with a severe look.
“And you wanted us to give our money to that beast!”
“Not now, Agnes,” Dürer said. “Go and make a meal. Look at him. He’s starving.”
“Serves him right.”
“Agnes!”
Agnes went off in a huff. Dürer led Dismas to his studio, where they could not hear Agnes’s grumbling.
“Look at you,” Dürer said. “I could have used you as the model for my Melancholia.” The copperplate engraving was celebrated as one of his finest works. The remark did not cheer Dismas.
“Well, do you want to hear my good news? Or would you prefer to leap out the window and kill yourself?”
Dismas sighed. “Tell me your wonderful news.”
“It’s not going to make you as rich as you were before that swine stole your money. But rich enough to go home to your boring cantons. And more than enough for some farmer’s daughter to marry you. Dismas. Are you listening?”
“To every word,” Dismas said unconvincingly.
“I’m going to make a shroud.”
Dismas stared. “This is your news?”
“And you’re going to sell it to that pimp, Albrecht.” While Dism
as was absorbing this, Dürer added, “We’ll have to decide how to divide the money. But don’t worry about that. There will be a lot of money. Because it will be a masterpiece.”
• • •
Dismas tucked into Agnes’s rabbit stew. She was not an easy woman, but she was a splendid cook.
“Slow down,” Dürer said. “You’ll choke.”
He ladled a fourth serving into Dismas’s bowl.
“Your color’s returning. So, do you want to hear about Bernhardt’s execution? Everyone came. I might do an engraving. It would sell like pancakes, sure.”
“No,” Dismas said.
“Why?”
“Because you might tell me that before they chopped off his head, he asked God’s forgiveness of the priest. I don’t want to contemplate the possibility that God might forgive him.”
Dismas wiped his mouth, gulped down an entire glass of wine, and leaned back in his chair.
“This scheme of yours. You do understand there are many shrouds out there. I’ve seen—I can’t even remember—hundreds, anyway.”
Nars sniffed that while this might be the case, none of them had been made by Albrecht Dürer. He’d painted tempera on linen some years ago, with splendid result. He spoke in a mathematical vocabulary about bodily proportions. He prattled endlessly but learnedly about a Franciscan monk he’d met in Bologna who’d written a great treatise on measurements and perspectives.
Dismas pretended to listen. His mind was on more practical aspects. The linen. He knew a merchant in Augsburg who sold linen from Palestine to shroud forgers. The linen was usually the best part of them. It had a distinctive weave named after the bones of herring. Dismas wanted to inform Dürer of this, but Dürer was now banging on with intensity about “treble dimensionality.” Finally he saw an opening and waded into Dürer’s wordstream.
“What will you use for paint?”
Dürer looked as if it was a stupid question. “What do you think? Blood.”
“Human blood?”
Dürer considered. “Well, I’ve yet to paint in the medium. It would require dilution, for the aging effect. I might add particles of rust. Oxide . . . Ground-up iron filings . . .” He was talking to himself now.
The Relic Master Page 6