The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  “Now, Dismas, you say the shroud is ‘promised’ to Frederick.”

  “Yes, and no. Yes. No. But, well, yes. I suppose, promised.”

  “Is it? Or is it not?”

  “My dear uncle Frederick . . . let us toast him!”

  Dismas raised his cup. “To Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony. Long health to him. And life.”

  Albrecht glumly raised his cup. “Frederick. The shroud. Why is it promised to Frederick? If indeed it is promised? We do not understand you, Dismas.”

  Dismas stood wobbily and held up his cup in the direction of the shroud. “Let us toast the shroud.” He looked confused. “Is it appropriate, Cousin, to toast the shroud of our Lord Christ? Sure, this wine is worthy . . .”

  “Sit down, Dismas,” Albrecht said with mounting impatience. “But yes, it is appropriate. To the shroud. Now—”

  “Y’know, Cousin,” Dismas interrupted. “All my life as a relic hunter, I’ve dreamed of finding the shroud. And now it has pleased God to deliver it into my hands.” Dismas crossed himself. “I propose a toast. To God. Er, is that appropriate?”

  “Yes. We are certain God is well pleased. But tell me, what claim does Frederick have to it?”

  Dismas shrugged. “He’s always wanted one. And now”—Dismas thumped the table—“he shall have one. This is excellent good wine, cousin.”

  “I’m glad you like it. Have some more. But, Dismas, we, too, have always wanted a shroud. Long have you known this. Only recently we asked you to explore acquiring the Shroud of Chambéry for us.”

  “You did. You did. Yes. I remember. Yes.” Dismas leaned on the table. “Tell you what, cousin . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “After I deliver the real shroud to Uncle Frederick, if you like, I’ll go to Chambéry and see if the Duke of Savoy will sell us his.” Dismas belched. “Whoops. I reckon once the real shroud goes on display in Wittenberg, the Duke of Savoy may decide, what the hell, and sell us his.” Dismas waggled his finger. “I wager I could get it for a good price. I’ll tell him, Look here, your ducalship, now the whole world knows that shroud of yours is just a rag, a piece of linen. The real one’s in Wittenberg. Splendid wine, this.”

  “Dismas,” Albrecht said. “Listen to us. We do not want the Duke of Savoy’s shroud.” He pointed. “We want that shroud there.” Albrecht pointed to the table.

  Dismas sighed sympathetically. “I know. I know. I wish I hadn’t promised it to Uncle Frederick. But . . . there it is.”

  “How much is he offering?”

  “It’s not a question of money. Is it?”

  “Dismas. I ask—how much?”

  “Well, since you ask, six hundred.”

  Albrecht looked aghast. “Six hundred?”

  “Um. Ducats.”

  Albrecht threw his napkin onto the table. “Frederick agreed to pay this enormity of a sum?”

  Dismas nodded. “Um. Plus expenses.”

  “What expenses?”

  “Going to Cappadocia and back is an undertaking. Do you know what those extortionate Venetians are charging these days for ship’s passage to Anatolia? Then there’s the caravan. And the guides. And you have to hire a bodyguard of Mameluks. And another bodyguard to protect you from the first bodyguard. What a country! Then you have to pay all the local sultans along the way for permission to—”

  “Yes, yes, we are sure it was a laborious undertaking.”

  Albrecht dabbed at his perspiring forehead with his napkin. He rose and went over to look at the shroud.

  “Cousin?” Dismas said diffidently.

  “Yes?”

  “Forgive me, but you’re perspiring.”

  “What of it?”

  “If you don’t mind . . . perhaps not on the holy shroud?”

  “Oh.” Albrecht stepped away from the table. “All right. Five hundred. Plus another fifty for your expenses.”

  Dismas gestured helplessly. “But, Cousin. It’s promised. To Frederick.”

  Albrecht looked at Dismas gravely.

  “Are you aware, Dismas, of what is going on in Wittenberg?”

  “Well, I’ve been away. Cappadocia.”

  “I much regret to inform you that Wittenberg has become a hive of heresy.”

  “Oh? Um. Hm. That’s not good.”

  “It is monstrous. And I much regret to say that your uncle is harboring a diabolical enemy of Holy Mother Church. I speak of the foul Augustinian friar Luther, may God have mercy on his leprous soul.”

  “I had heard something . . .”

  “Are you aware, Dismas, that your uncle Frederick has refused to deliver Luther for examination by the Dominican inquisitores?”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Further, that he refuses not only our request to hand him over, but the repeated requests of his holiness himself? What do you say to that?”

  “Well, I’m no theologian. But it sounds . . . naughty.”

  “And now, Dismas, you propose to take this . . .” Albrecht looked reverentially upon the shroud. He made a sign of the cross. “. . . most sacred of all relics into the very den of this iniquity.”

  Dismas frowned. He looked perplexed. Then brightened. “Perhaps it might help to purify the den of iniquity.”

  “How?”

  “Perhaps when Luther sees it he will repent. Or maybe when Uncle Frederick sees it, he will realize his error and hand Luther over to your good Dominicans.”

  “We dare not take that risk, Dismas. We speak now not as your cousin, but ex cathedra.”

  “Who?”

  “Officially, Dismas. That is, in our capacity as Archbishop. We speak with the full authority of Mother Church.”

  “Oh. Should I kneel?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Look here, Dismas. We cannot in good conscience allow you to take the burial cloth of Our Blessed Lord into Sodom and Gomorrah. We cannot. Therefore, on behalf of Holy Mother Church, we, her humble servant, will take possession of it. Fear not. You will be paid. Yes. Even though we must declare that five hundred ducats is a most staggering sum.”

  “Five-fifty. Expenses.”

  “As you say. Done.”

  Dismas nodded gravely. “Well. I cannot disobey my Archbishop. That would be a sin. Would it not?”

  Albrecht nodded. “A grave sin.”

  “Then it appears that I have no choice. But what am I to tell my uncle Frederick?”

  “Leave Frederick to God’s just and good judgment. We shall endeavor to bring him back into obedience to Holy Church.”

  “Dear Uncle Frederick,” Dismas said.

  Albrecht put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Be content, Dismas. The shroud belongs here. God is well pleased with you. Does the Bible not tell us, ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. And unto God, that which is God’s’?”

  Dismas nodded. “If you say.”

  10

  To Hell with Purgatory

  Back in Nuremberg, Dismas went directly to inform his fellow conspirator of his success. They celebrated in the time-honored fashion of conspirators—by getting well and truly drunk.

  “Then he says to me, ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.’ ”

  Harghhh!

  It was lively at the corner table at the Corpulent Duke.

  “We should have asked for more,” Dürer said, shaking his head. “I knew it.”

  “Five hundred and fifty is a good day’s work. So, listen. Listen. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “The next morning, I pretended to have a really bad head. And he tried to convince me that I had agreed to four hundred.”

  “What an asshole! You didn’t let him—”

  “Oh, no.”

  Dismas dug into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of gold ducats. He dropped them one by one onto the table, making a clinky waterfall.

  “How are you going to explain all your ducats to Agnes?”

  Dürer frowned. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

&n
bsp; “Buy her something nice.”

  “A flying stick!”

  Harrgh!

  “Necklace, better. See? I think of everything.”

  “Screw the necklace. I’ll tell her the Emperor finally paid me for the Aachen altarpiece.”

  “You did the Aachen altarpiece? I thought it was whatsisname.”

  “It was. But she won’t know that.”

  Harrghh!

  “Very humorous, Nars. Everything is humorous. Even I am humorous. And I am from the cantons, where no one is humorous. Here, have some more brandy.” Dismas poured onto the table, entirely missing Dürer’s cup.

  “Look, what a mess,” Dürer said. He dipped his forefinger into the puddle and began to paint on the table. “A new medium. God, I’m versatile.”

  “What are you painting? Wait, I know. A self-portrait! Yes. Looks just like you. The eyes so limpid.”

  “You have no aesthetic sensibility. But what else can one expect from a Switzer peasant. Look. Can’t you see? It’s a portrait of Albrecht! He’s crying!”

  Harghhh!

  Dürer belched. “It shows him after he has found out that his shroud, for which he paid the sum of five hundred and fifty ducats, is fake. Look how he cries! To hell with him. Now he has a Dürer, which is better than any true shroud.”

  Dürer leaned over the puddle and addressed it. “Are you happy now, stupid Archbishop?”

  Dismas said, “Why would he find out that it’s a fake?”

  “I am making a joke. You are not understanding it. One of us needs to be more drunk. I think it’s you. Or me.”

  Dürer reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of ducats. He arranged them into neat piles.

  “Mine are neater than yours. But I am an artist. Look how they glisten in the candlelight. There is true beauty. Are you listening? Or are you dreaming about cows in the Alps? What a philistine you are, Dismas. But a good philistine.” He turned back to the ducats. “I will paint them. I will call it Still Life with Albrecht’s Ducats!”

  Harrrrghhh!

  “Wait. I know,” Dismas said. “You can put your self-portrait on the coins. That way you can have many self-portraits!”

  “Tell me again what he said, about the cost.”

  Dismas imitated Albrecht’s voice. “We must declare, Dismas, it is a most staggering sum.”

  Harggghhh!

  Dürer said, “Do you know what I learned? After you left for Mainz? Albrecht is taking bribes. From the Emperor.”

  “Bribes? For what?”

  “Maximilian is dying. He wants to put his grandson Charles, the King of Spain, on the throne. So with his last ducats, he’s bribing the electors to vote for him. If only I knew this before you left. We could have asked for—a thousand. Two thousand . . .”

  “Be content, man. We got five hundred and fifty.”

  “It’s all rotten,” Dürer announced with sudden gloom. “It’s all corruption and rot. We live in a time of rottenness.”

  “Before you mount the pulpit, consider. We have just swindled the most powerful archbishop in Germany out of five hundred and fifty ducats. Now you may declaim about how evil are the times.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Not everything is rotten. Frederick is not rotten. A toast—to Frederick of Saxony. Do you know, I made Albrecht toast him.”

  Harggh!

  “You should have seen his face. I thought he’d—shit. Spalatin.”

  Frederick’s secretary was standing by the door. He looked about, spotted Dismas, and came over to their table.

  “Well!” Spalatin said heartily, smiling and taking in the scene of the two lubricated friends and their piles of gleaming ducats. “I see we are celebrating.”

  “Yes,” Dismas said, suddenly sober. “We are . . . I . . . I lost my money to that scoundrel Bernhardt.”

  Spalatin nodded sympathetically. “Yes. I was sorry to hear it.”

  Dismas gestured at the coins. “Well, I hired a lawyer. A clever fellow. And . . . he got it back for me. Some of it. Expensive, lawyers. But worth it. As you can see.”

  “I’m glad. Your uncle’s been asking for you.”

  “We were just toasting him. I’m coming to see him.”

  “Something rather strange happened,” Spalatin said. “Last week.”

  “Oh?”

  “A courier arrived at the castle. He said he had an urgent message from Master Dismas of Nuremberg. But when it was opened, it was blank. Empty. Nothing. Was it from you?”

  “I . . . no. No. I would remember, sure. Well, that is strange. Will you drink with us?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m meeting Henlein, the clockmaker. He’s over there. Your uncle wants a fancy clock for the lecture hall. Let’s hope it’s less expensive than your lawyer. Best not let him see this pile of ducats or he’ll try to sell you a clock.”

  Spalatin went off to sit with the clockmaker.

  “Do you think he believed me, about the letter?”

  “He didn’t seem to care. Why’d you tell him that, about the lawyer?”

  “It was all I could think to say. Should I have told him it was the ducats the Emperor paid you for the Aachen altarpiece? One of us had to say something. There’s enough money here to—”

  “Buy another drink. And another after that.”

  It was well after midnight when they left the Corpulent Duke.

  “Don’t fall into the moat,” Dürer cautioned.

  Dismas said, “I shouldn’t have lied to Master Spalatin. He’s a good man.”

  “Yes. You should have told him the truth. That you sent your uncle a big lie written in vanishing ink as part of a scheme to swindle the Archbishop of Mainz. Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set ye”—Nars belched—“free. Come on, let’s go to Wittenberg right now so you tell him yourself.”

  “If you are trying to console me, you are not.”

  “I’m only saying—”

  “Well, don’t say anything more.”

  “Stop tormenting yourself. We’ve done a great service. Maybe now Albrecht won’t be able to afford his cardinal’s hat.”

  Dismas pulled a ducat from his pocket and held it up to the moonlight.

  “Where do you suppose this came from, Nars?”

  “From where all ducats come. Jacob Fugger.”

  “More like, from some poor bastard who dropped it into Albrecht’s indulgence coffer to free a loved one from Purgatory.”

  “If he dropped that into the coffer, he may have been a bastard, but sure, he wasn’t poor. And if he was so stupid as to believe you can buy your way out of Purgatory by giving gold to an overfed friar, I say too bad for him. I’m with Luther. He says there is no Purgatory. It’s all a lot of hoo-ha to scare us into believing. I say to hell with Purgatory. Hey. That’s good. To hell. With Purgatory? Do you see?”

  “Yes, Nars. Very amusing. Make sure to tell it to Agnes.”

  11

  On My Honor

  A few days later, Dismas was on horseback approaching Wittenberg on the Leipzig road.

  He had no great affection for Wittenberg as a place. It was a small, flat town on the northern bank of the Elbe, surrounded by nothing in particular. Amusingly, various artists, Cranach among them, added to their landscapes of Wittenberg a backdrop of majestic mountains, making it look Bavarian. Yet for its drabness, you had to admire what Frederick had wrought here: a university that would someday rival even Paris.

  As his horse clopped across the wooden bridge Dismas saw the great tower of the castle church rise on his left; on his right, the twin towers of the cathedral. On the far eastern edge of town was the Augustinian monastery where Friar Luther was probably at this very moment scribbling another scalding diatribe against the Holy Father in Rome. Yet another headache for Uncle Frederick.

  The guards at the city gates waved him through. Soon he arrived in the courtyard of the castle church. He dismounted and stood awhile looking up at the edifice. It saddened him to think that he would nev
er see it again, this place where he’d spent so much time over the years, filling Frederick’s galleries. He was sadder, still, to think he’d never again see his great patron.

  Chamberlain Klemp told him the Elector was in the long gallery. Master Cranach was painting another portrait.

  Dismas went first to Spalatin’s study. He was a bit anxious about the chance encounter at the tavern in Nuremberg.

  “Ah, the prodigal nephew,” Spalatin greeted him with a smile.

  What did he mean by that? Or was it just his wonted jocundity? After a few pleasantries, Dismas asked casually, “By the way, did you ever find out more about that strange business of the courier?”

  “No. Probably just a stupidity by the Taxis. Not the first, by any means. So, have you brought something wonderful for your uncle’s galleries? There’s not much room left. We did an inventory last month. Care to guess?”

  “Over seventeen thousand, I should think.”

  “Seventeen thousand four hundred and forty-three. I don’t think the Archbishop of Mainz will ever catch up, at this rate. Speaking of whom, we hear from Mainz that he’s got himself a shroud.”

  “Ah? Well.” Dismas laughed uncomfortably. “There are an awful lot of shrouds out there.”

  “This one’s said to be quite something.” Spalatin looked. “Have you not heard of it?”

  “I? I’ve been traveling, you know. And I’ve seen too many shrouds in my day to get excited. How’s my uncle?”

  “Fair. Gout. Stones. As you know, he loves to eat.”

  “Ah, yes.” Dismas patted his belly.

  “He misses the hunt. It was such a part of his life. But that’s all in the past now. Luther continues taxing.”

  “What’s the latest?”

  “We’re hearing of plots against his life. We’ve posted guards all about.”

  “Would they dare try to kill him here?”

  Spalatin shrugged. “He’s made enemies of powerful people. The Emperor, the Pope, and our beloved soon-to-be Cardinal of Mainz. If it weren’t for your uncle, Friar Luther would be a pile of ash and bone by now.”

  “Well, thank God for Uncle Frederick.”

  “Difficult to predict how it will go. One hopes that in addition to writing pamphlets denouncing Rome, Friar Luther is finding time to pray God to grant long life to the Elector. Your uncle will be glad to see you. He talks of you all the time. He’s so fond of you, Dismas. You are a nephew to him.”