The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  Dismas, Rostang, Caraffa, and the Cardinal’s attending monsignor took their places at the rear. Dismas positioned himself at an angle behind Caraffa so that he could observe him. Caraffa was examining every inch of the chapel, as Dismas had.

  “It is a bit warm,” the Duke said, noting that the Cardinal was perspiring greatly under his carapace of brocade. Urbino’s face was streaming with sweat, causing the white greasepaint to streak and cake, giving him a ghastly aspect.

  “Air. Let us have some air, please!” the Duke commanded.

  A subdeacon opened the door to the balcony, admitting a welcome breeze. Immediately nostrils began to twitch from the miasma of the thousands of pilgrims massed in the great square below.

  “Umph.” Duke Charles held his pomander to his nose and inhaled. “Incense. Quickly, please!”

  Minions scurried and brought in two enormous braziers filled with glowing red coals. They set them at either end of the altar. A subdeacon appeared carrying a large silver and gold chest from which he scooped copious amounts of incense onto the coals. Billows of smoke wafted upward, filling the chapel with intense but pleasant aroma.

  “Much better,” Duke Charles said. “We love our pilgrims, but they are fragrant. I prefer the scent of myrrh. And now . . .”

  The Duke reached inside his cloak and produced a large key. The archdeacon produced a second key. Two bishops wearing miters appeared from behind the curtain. Each in turn produced a key. Dismas eliminated any notion of obtaining four separate keys from four different people.

  The archdeacon collected all four keys and walked to the altar. He genuflected before it, then walked around it, disappearing behind the tabernacle. Presently came the sound of locks opening, and the squeal of metal from the heavy iron grille protecting the Shroud.

  The Duke resumed his narration:

  “In 1509, the Duchess Marguerite commissioned a most beautiful reliquary for the Holy Shroud . . .”

  As he spoke, the archdeacon emerged from behind the altar. In his hands was a silver casket, coruscating with jewels.

  “. . . made by the Flemish artist Levin van Latham. I don’t like to say how much this cost because it would be vulgar. But since I am a vulgar man”—he smiled—“I cannot resist telling you that this was accomplished at a cost of twelve thousand gold ecus.”

  His guests nodded appreciatively. It was a princely sum that princes could appreciate. Dismas calculated it was about half what Albrecht had borrowed from Fugger in order to purchase his cardinalate.

  “This was of course a very nice thing of Marguerite to do,” the Duke continued. “Ah, but the Duchess was also a very shrewd lady. Why do I say this? Because she attached a condition to her gift. What was this condition? That every day, for all eternity, a mass would be said in the chapel for the repose of the soul of her husband, Philibert. And for her own. What a clever lady she was! I think I will myself make some nice gift to the chapel so that I will have masses said for all eternity for my soul. Surely I shall need them. And now . . .”

  The Duke nodded. The archdeacon set the silver casket on the altar, opened it, and reached in.

  The Shroud of Chambéry was folded to what appeared to Dismas three-by-one feet. He counted quickly, before the archdeacon and the bishops began the unfolding. Thirty-two layers of folds.

  “And now let us pray in silence,” said the Duke.

  All bowed their heads, except Dismas, and—he noted—Caraffa.

  “Ecce sindon,” the archdeacon intoned. Behold the Shroud.

  Apt, Dismas thought. After having Jesus scourged, Pilate presented him to the baying mob saying, “Ecce homo.” Behold the man. Not “Behold the King of the Jews.” Perhaps the mob would see that this pathetic, bleeding man was no king. The ploy failed. The mob demanded crucifixion. Out of petulance, Pilate ordered the titulus nailed to the cross over Jesus’s head to be worded tauntingly “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”—in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew.

  Dismas now remembered a detail from one of his shroud hunts. A fourth-century saint—was it St. Nino of Georgia?—said that Pilate’s wife had kept the Shroud. There were so many versions. He tried to summon the name of Pilate’s wife . . . Claudia? According to the legend, she converted and ended up a saint. In the Gospel of Matthew, she sends Pilate a message, telling him Jesus is innocent. She’d had a dream. Just as Caesar’s wife Calpurnia did on the eve of his assassination. They were always having terrible dreams, these Roman wives of high officials. No wonder, the way they ate, at their interminable banquets.

  Now there was a collective intake of breath in the chapel. Dismas’s mind cleared like air after a thunderstorm.

  35

  That Was a Viewing, Eh?

  Fuck the Shroud. Twelve thousand gold ecus? I say we steal the casket.”

  Dismas sighed. “Cunrat, we may no longer be monks, but such language. Have you no care for your soul?”

  “You said it’s a fake.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know anymore. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s not. But all the same, don’t say such things.”

  “Go on,” Magda said.

  They were all together in the apartment except for Dürer, who’d gone off with Duke Charles after the viewing for some “private time.”

  “I have seen many, many shrouds,” Dismas said. “None like this. With the others, you could tell right away they were the work of human hands.

  “The image is faint. At first, you don’t even see it. Then you do. The linen is fine. It has the fishbone pattern, a tight weave. A good match with the linen Dürer and I purchased in Basel.

  “The man is tall. His face is long. The nose is prominent. The eyelids are closed. Duke Charles told us that up close you can see the impression of the Roman coins they put on the eyes. But we were not close enough.

  “The five wounds are indicated by the bloodstains. On the forehead, from the Crown of Thorns. The hands are folded across the groin, so. Here the blood has flowed from wounds in the wrists. Not the palms. This is accurate, for if the nails went into the palms, the weight of the body would cause the palms to tear and come out.

  “The soles of the feet display the greatest concentration of blood. Also there is blood from the spear wound in the side, made by the lance of Longinus. This lance I procured some years ago for Frederick of Saxony. The lance wound is on the right side of the man’s chest. This, too, is correct. Roman soldiers were trained to spear on that side, since their opponent would be holding his shield with the left hand, protecting his left side. The blood itself is not red, but light orange, like stains from old iron.

  “It’s all one piece. I estimate fourteen feet long and four feet wide. One side shows the front of the body, the other, the back, as if it was folded over the body at the head. And here is the problem. I learned—in the Holy Land, from rabbis, the Jewish priests—that the custom then was to use a separate cloth for the head. Indeed, the Gospel of John refers to a separate head cloth. But this is all one Shroud. What do we conclude? We don’t.

  “On the back of the man, there are hundreds of wounds. To be scourged was a most terrible cruelty. The Romans put pieces of lead and bone on their whips, to tear the flesh. You would think that this alone would be enough to cause death. Sure, in many cases, it must have been. But for Jesus there was much more to suffer. Then . . .” Dismas shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Well, then took place a most extraordinary thing.

  “It was now very quiet in the chapel. Duke Charles, who had been talking without cessation, even he stopped talking. Everyone was thinking, Here is the Shroud in which lay the crucified body of Jesus Christ. It makes you quiet. So there we were, everyone having quiet thoughts. Then came this sound.

  “From the Duke of Urbino. He was overcome. Completely. He was beating his chest with his fist. Not because he needed more of Magda’s fingerhut. No, he was making mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Then he commenced to weep. Sobbing. So now we are all looking at each other and it is,
well, embarrassing. And then . . . God in heaven . . .

  “Urbino is kneeling, like the rest of us. Suddenly he is on his feet and he lurches at the Shroud.

  “The archdeacon and the two bishops who are holding the Shroud by the edge . . . their faces, when they saw what was happening. They did not know what to do. After all, here is the Duke of Urbino, nephew of the Pope, their master’s honored guest. After today, I don’t think there will be further private viewings for Italian dukes afflicted with the pox.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened is that the Duke of Urbino grabbed the Shroud with both hands and before the archdeacon and bishops could pull it away, he buried his face in it.”

  “Good God!”

  “Yes. And what a face—with the awful makeup they put to cover his sores.”

  “Disgusting,” Cunrat said.

  “Yes, Cunrat, very disgusting. From the look on the face of poor Duke Charles, I think he, too, was thinking it was disgusting.”

  “Then what?”

  “Now the archdeacon and bishops are trying to pull the Shroud away from the crazed Urbino. But Urbino is not letting go. Oh, no. He is seizing it, with both hands, weeping into it, copious weepings and moanings, begging Jesus to heal him. I thought, My God, it’s going to tear. Can you imagine?”

  Magda crossed herself.

  “Now Caraffa is holding Urbino by his waist, trying to pull his master away. Finally he succeeds. Well, by now the atmosphere in the Holy Chapel is very different than before, let me tell you.

  “Duke Charles is saying nothing. I think because he is about to faint. But you can see from his face that he is not happy. No.

  “As for the guards, the myrmidons of the Holy Chapel . . . they did not know what to do. But I can tell you, from experience, that guards of holy places are . . . you don’t want to make trouble with them. They are not like normal soldiers. They take special vows. They were now pointing their pikes. For one moment I thought they would impale Urbino in the chapel with the pikes.

  “So now the archdeacon and bishops, who are very pale in the face, get back their shroud—and never mind folding it—they take it and run from the chapel. They are fleeing. So they can remove the”—Dismas winced—“detritus left on the Shroud by Urbino.”

  No one spoke.

  Nutker said, “If this rag is real, then his pox’ll be healed. Won’t it?”

  Dismas considered. “I had not thought of this, Nutker. Well, yes. Perhaps we will now find out if the Shroud is real. But even if he is not healed, that would not necessarily mean that it’s a fake. Relics have discretion in healing. They heal only those they desire to heal.”

  “I’m not going to touch it now,” Cunrat declared. “I don’t want to get his pox. And, Little Sister, don’t tell me you can’t get it from dribble.”

  • • •

  An hour later, the door opened. Dürer.

  “That was a viewing, eh?”

  He tossed his hat onto the table, sat, and poured himself a hefty slug of wine.

  “How is his grace?” Dismas asked.

  “Not bad, considering that a prince of Italy wiped his revolting face all over his most precious possession. He’s a bit shaky. He drank three glasses of wine, one after another. Then the archdeacon arrived. I think he had been weeping. His face was like a raspberry. But he informed the Duke that they had managed to remove the ducal residue. When he heard this, Duke Charles almost wept with relief. He’s a sweetie pie, Charles,” Dürer said. “Here the Duke of Urbino had just defiled his Shroud, only days before it is to be displayed before thousands of people. Anyone but Charles ‘The Good’ would have been fulminating and cursing and chopping off heads.

  “Instead he was very calm. He drank a fourth glass of wine. Then he said, ‘Poor fellow!’ I said, ‘Poor fellow?’ He said, ‘Well, he was overcome.’ He said this was not the first occasion when a guest has been overcome at seeing the Shroud. But he said normally they don’t use it for a handkerchief.

  “He said—his words exactly—‘One’s heart goes out to him.’ Can you believe? If I was the Duke, if it was my shroud, I would be summoning my army to march on Urbino. And Florence.” Dürer drained his glass.

  Dismas considered. “He doesn’t have that kind of army. But he’s a Christian, sure, to have such compassion.”

  They fell silent.

  Dismas was troubled. “How can we steal from such a fellow?”

  “Agreed,” Cunrat said. “We steal the casket and leave the rag.”

  “Cunrat, that is not what I meant.”

  “Ah. He’ll commission a replacement casket,” Cunrat said. “Then he can have masses said for himself every day for eternity.”

  The other Landsknechte agreed this was an excellent proposal.

  Dismas suddenly felt queer and dizzy, as if a hurricane were rising in his brain. He stood and paced, holding his head.

  “Dismas?” Magda said. “Are you not well?”

  He didn’t hear. He looked at Dürer. Dürer’s lips moved but Dismas couldn’t hear him. He heard something else. He couldn’t make out what it was. But it was addressed to him. He closed his eyes.

  Suddenly, there before him was the man in the Shroud. The coin-closed eyes, the long nose, the forehead trickled with thorn blood.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Dismas?”

  Magda was on her feet.

  “Dismas?” She took his head in her hands. “Dismas!”

  This day you shall be with me in Paradise.

  “Dismas!”

  Dismas opened his eyes. Everyone was staring at him strangely.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “Give him some wine.”

  Dismas looked around the room.

  “Why are you all staring?”

  Dürer said, “You looked like Urbino, just before he hurled himself at the Shroud.”

  “I’m fine. What were we talking about?”

  “I was about to say that I am a very clever fellow,” Dürer said.

  “You’re always saying that.”

  “I know how to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “The Shroud, stupid man. What did you think? The Ghent altarpiece?”

  Suddenly Dismas felt a great weariness. More tired than he had ever been. Why was he lying down on the floor? Everyone was now looking down at him. Strange.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  Magda crouched by him, her palm to his forehead.

  “You’re feverish,” she said.

  “Christ, the pox!” Unks said. “Stand back!”

  “Unks,” Magda said sharply. “Don’t be foolish. He doesn’t have the pox.” She gave Dismas water. He gulped it down.

  Dismas said, still lying on his back, “You know how to make the shroud?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. But still there remains the problem of how to switch them.”

  “Wait,” Magda said. “One moment ago you said it was not right we should steal it from such a sweetie pie as Duke Charles.”

  “No,” Dismas said. “No, it is right that we steal it. It’s very clear.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Shroud wants to be translated.”

  They stared at Dismas.

  “It spoke to me.”

  Dürer whispered to Magda. “He needs rest.”

  “Nars,” Dismas said, “don’t talk like I’m a madman. The Shroud wants to be translated. I’m telling you.”

  They all looked at each other.

  “To keep it from Urbino,” Dismas explained.

  “Well,” Dürer said, “if I was Jesus, I would not want my shroud to be used as a hankie by a diseased Italian duke. Still . . .”

  “We will translate the Shroud,” Dismas said. “And after, we’ll give it back to Duke Charles.”

  “Oh no. No, no. What sense does this make?” Cunrat said. “We’re to risk our lives to steal it, only to give
it back?”

  “Is it not marvelous?” Dismas said. “It’s not every day you witness the workings of Divine Grace.”

  Then everything went black as Dismas fainted.

  • • •

  He heard words. Female and male. Nearby. He felt something pleasant and cold on his forehead. He thought of opening his eyes but that took too much effort, so he left them closed and listened to the voices.

  “Has this happened before?” the woman’s voice said.

  “Never,” said the man’s.

  “Paracelsus speaks of this. He was a surgeon in the army. At first the mind cannot absorb what has happened. Later comes the shock. Sometimes in strange ways.”

  “Hearing a shroud speak to you is strange, sure.”

  “To be hung from hooks, by the ears and hands and feet, for a week . . .”

  Dismas opened his eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “You fell,” Magda said. “How do you feel?”

  Dismas propped himself up on his elbows. “Fine. I had a dream. Where is everyone? What’s the time?”

  “It’s the middle of the night. You slept a long time.”

  Dismas looked at Dürer. “What are you doing up?”

  “What do you suppose? I was worried about you.”

  Magda said to Dismas, “What do you remember?”

  “Nars was saying that he knows how to make the shroud.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  Dismas shrugged. “No. Why?”

  Magda smiled and caressed his head. “Nothing.”

  Dürer said, “While you were in the arms of Morpheus, I solved the problem of how to switch the shrouds.”

  Dismas looked at him groggily. “Well?”

  “Duke Charles is planning another tableau vivant. The night before the Shroud is displayed.”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you suppose is to be the theme of the tableau?”

  “I don’t know. The Apotheosis of the Painter Dürer?”

  Dürer chortled. “Ah. You shall witness the apotheosis of the painter Dürer. The theme is to be the Last Supper. And who do you suppose has been cast in the role of the apostle whom Jesus loved?”

  “Didn’t get the lead? What a shame. You know it so well.”