The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  “What a shame, to mar such a handsome face. So I ask one more time: Where was it?”

  “Tell him,” Dismas said.

  “Venice.”

  Caraffa smiled. He tapped the blade of his dagger on the top of Dürer’s head like a schoolmaster reproving a recalcitrant student. He stood.

  “The occasion?”

  “Urbino and the Doge were making a visit to the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. To inspect the progress on the altarpiece being done by Tiziano. The Assumption of the Virgin.”

  “I remember! And what was your place in that tableau?”

  “I am friend of Tiziano.”

  “I am impressed. And what are you doing in Chambéry, with this rabble, playing a noble?”

  “They, too, are my friends.”

  Caraffa crouched again and held the tip of his dagger beneath Dürer’s right eye.

  “What shall I do with you, Count Lothar? Shall I remove this eye? Or . . .” He moved the dagger tip at the other. “I cannot decide. You decide. Which do you prefer to lose first?”

  Dismas spoke. “He’s Albrecht Dürer, the painter. Of Nuremberg. Do you want to be famous as he who blinded the greatest of the German painters?”

  Caraffa rose, tapping the dagger blade against his palm.

  “Dürer. I have heard of Dürer. Are you the greatest of the German painters? I wonder—is there such a thing as a great German painter?”

  “Yes,” Dürer said. “But they’re rare. Almost as rare as Italians with morals.”

  They heard from below the heavy sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones through the open window. Caraffa went and looked. More sounds followed. More carriages and clattering of hooves.

  “His grace departs.”

  Caraffa said to the lieutenant holding the Shroud: “Convey this to his grace. He is anxious to have it. Inform him that I will join him shortly on the Aix road. First I must attend to some details.”

  The lieutenant bowed and took the Shroud.

  “Take Rosano and Griffani with you,” Caraffa said. “Fulco?”

  “Signore?”

  “What you hold in your hands is more important than your life. Which you will forfeit if you do not yourself place it in Urbino’s hands.”

  Fulco bowed and departed, taking two of the men. Five of Caraffa’s bodyguard remained.

  “Now,” Caraffa said, “we must make a tableau of our own. What shall we call it?”

  He crouched in front of Cunrat, smiled, and sliced open his throat. Cunrat gurgled, head sagging.

  “We will call it Landsknecht with Throat Cut.”

  Caraffa stood and wiped the blood from his dagger.

  “We will proceed in order of rank, from lowest to the highest. So, now . . . Hmm . . .”

  Caraffa pointed the dagger at Dismas, then at Dürer, then again at Dismas.

  “The Good Thief? Or the greatest of the German painters?”

  He crouched in front of Dismas and said in a mock-apologetic tone, “I think you must be next, Master Dismas. For surely a great painter outranks a thief.”

  Dürer spoke. “You’ve given your master a fake.”

  “What can you mean?”

  “The shroud. It’s a copy. I made it.”

  Caraffa tut-tutted. “You should not lie, right before meeting God.”

  “I wouldn’t. It’s the truth.”

  Caraffa stood, face clouding. “What nonsense are you saying?”

  “It’s why I’m here,” Dürer said. “He needed someone to make a duplicate shroud. To switch with the real one. But we weren’t able to make the switch after all. The one you gave your man is the one I made.”

  Caraffa stared. He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Very well. Then stay. And tomorrow at noon, through that window there, you can watch the real Shroud of Chambéry displayed.”

  Caraffa glanced through the window.

  Dismas said, “What will your master say, Caraffa, when he learns you’ve deceived him?”

  Caraffa crouched and put his blade against Dismas’s throat.

  Dismas went on: “Your master is half mad from pox. He thinks the Shroud will heal him. When he hears that the real Shroud is hanging from that balcony . . . when he hears of the miracles in the square, what will be his reaction?”

  “What miracles?” Caraffa snarled.

  “Oh, there will be miracles. I heard the Duke and Rostang discuss it. Always there are miracles when a shroud is displayed. Good for business. How then will it go for you when Urbino hears, and thinks you’ve tricked him? When he learns that the shroud he hugs to his diseased body in hopes of a miraculous cure is a forgery? And that his own chamberlain has played him for a fool?”

  Caraffa’s blade pressed against Dismas’s throat.

  Caraffa stood and went to the open window and looked out. The chapel balcony was directly across, no more than thirty yards.

  “Suppose what you say is true. And they display a shroud from the balcony. Suppose even that there are miracles. And my master hears of them. What does it matter? I have only to tell him that Charles was so mortified to discover that his reliquary was empty, that his precious Shroud had been stolen, that he displayed a copy. To avoid the humiliation of everyone learning of the theft. Who in the crowd would be able to tell the difference between the real Shroud and a copy?”

  “Will your master believe that a fake shroud caused miracles?”

  “One more word, Reiselaufer, and I will remove your tongue.”

  Reiselaufer, Dismas thought. He knows everything. How?

  “Listen to me, Caraffa. For your own sake. What will Urbino think when he hears that pilgrims with pox were healed by the Shroud of Chambéry? He will hear. News of such things travels faster than a duke’s carriage.”

  Caraffa stuck the dagger through Dismas’s cheek.

  Dismas’s mouth filled with blood.

  Caraffa returned to the window and stared out again. He spoke as if to himself.

  “A perfect vantage point.”

  Dismas spat out a mouthful of blood and gritted his teeth against the pain.

  “Yes,” Caraffa went on, murmuring to himself, “perfect.”

  His gaze turned from the balcony to the square below. “So many pilgrims.” He sniffed. “They don’t need miracles. They need a bath.”

  Caraffa turned and looked about the place.

  “This is the apartment of the archdeacon. Rostang told me that he had to requisition it for their surprise visitor.”

  He looked at the corpses of Nutker and Cunrat.

  “What a mess. It looks more like an abattoir than the residence of an archdeacon. I fear it will be an even worse mess before we are finished.” He chuckled. “How appropriate, for the archdeacon to die from a bolt fired by a crossbow from his own window. What symmetry?”

  Caraffa gave instructions to one of his men. He was to fetch Silvio and Pelucco with their crossbows. And to have Andino, Sinzo, and Paulo prepare bombs, a dozen.

  The man left.

  “What are you doing, Caraffa?” Dismas said.

  “Making arrangements. Because you have been so persuasive, Master Dismas.”

  Caraffa leaned out the window to have another look at the balcony across.

  “To display it, the archdeacon and the two bishops hold it by the edge over the balcony. From here, it will be an easy shot for Silvio and Pelucco. They can shoot falcons—in flight—at two hundred feet. I have seen them do it.

  “The archdeacon is usually in the middle. So Silvio will kill the archbishop, Pelucco a deacon. The other deacon will I think quickly retreat, with the Shroud. So there will be only a glimpse of the Shroud. Not enough time for it to cause miracles.

  “Then Andino and the two others here will throw bombs into the crowd of pilgrims. Boom. Boom. Boom. To create some chaos. As if this was part of the plan by the Shroud robbers. To facilitate the escape of the accomplice who would catch the Shroud below, when it fell. But alas i
t did not fall. What do you think of my plan so far, Reiselaufer? The best is yet to come.”

  “Killing bishops and pilgrims. What a lot you and Satan will have to talk about.”

  Caraffa laughed. “So says he who tried to steal the burial Shroud of Jesus! Satan and I made our peace long ago. Killing pilgrims is unfortunate. But necessary. Of course, the point isn’t to kill pilgrims. The bombs in the square are only a pretext. A bigger bomb will explode here, in this room. An accident, by the careless plotters. Whose bodies—that is, yours—will be found. So unpredictable, gunpowder. After such a fracasso, I don’t think that Duke Charles will again display his shroud for a very long time. Not during the lifetime remaining to my master. Which anyway will I fear not be long.

  “So now I must leave you. I must attend to Sister Hildegard, to see if she still has air inside her trunk.”

  “Wait,” Dismas said.

  “No, Master Dismas. We are finished, you and I.”

  “How did you know?”

  Caraffa hesitated. He shrugged.

  “If it will make your last hours even more unpleasant, why not tell you?

  “My master was tasked by his uncle the Pope, to whom he owes very much, to procure for him the Shroud of Chambéry. Since our plan was to pass through Chambéry on our way to Paris, the opportunity presented itself.

  “Cardinal Albrecht learned of our plan. The Vatican is full of spies. But since my master’s uncle is the Pope, we are the best informed of all.

  “Albrecht sent Leo a letter, saying that he would be happy to procure the Shroud for the Pope, on the condition that the Pope release him from having to pay him half the indulgence money. Albrecht said he would send the best relic thief in all Europe. He said we would be able to recognize him by his hands.

  “Leo did not answer the cardinal. Why give up half of Albrecht’s indulgence money? And now we had this very useful piece of information. And here we are.

  “And now I must go, or Sister Hildegard will, as you would say, suffocate, sure.”

  46

  Places, Gentlemen

  Dismas and Dürer sat, backs against the wall with the stiffening corpses of Nutker and Cunrat.

  The wound in Dismas’s cheek seeped blood into his mouth, causing him to spit gobs. Caraffa’s men kept a relaxed vigil over their immobilized charges. The boss was gone. One of them found a bottle of wine. Another, searching for loot, returned with Dürer’s sketchbook.

  “You’re a painter?”

  The guards were impressed by his portrait of Magda.

  “Is there one of her without clothes? I’d like to see that.”

  Laughter.

  Dismas murmured, “Don’t. They’re trying to provoke you.”

  The soldiers were taken with Dürer’s portfolio. They flipped through the leaves. Here was a landscape of the Bauges; a cityscape of Chambéry; Duke Charles on his throne; Urbino recumbent, pale with approaching death.

  Dürer said to them, “You like my stuff?”

  “Our painters are better.”

  “Have you ever had your portrait painted?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Who will remember you when you’re gone?”

  “All the girls I’ve fucked.”

  “And when they’re dead? Who’ll remember you then?”

  “Who cares?”

  “My portraits make people immortal.”

  “Listen to this asshole.”

  “Why do you think emperors and princes pay me good money to paint them? So they’ll live forever.”

  “All right, then. Paint me.”

  “I don’t work for nothing.”

  The guard held out the wine bottle.

  “One drink, for my portrait.”

  “I get more than one drink for my work.”

  “All right. A drink—and I won’t cut off your balls.”

  “How can I paint you, with my hands tied?”

  The guards murmured. The one seeking immortality drew his dagger and crouched in front of Dürer. He sniffed.

  “Any tricks, German, I’ll peel you like an orange.” He reached behind Dürer and cut the rope.

  Dürer rubbed the circulation back into his hands.

  “Bring me my case,” he said. “The wooden box. In the room where you found the sketches.”

  The guard brought the case.

  “I need more light. By the mirror, there.”

  Dürer slowly and painfully got to his feet. As he did, he swiveled toward Dismas and, concealed from the guards’ view, slipped behind Dismas’s back a palette knife.

  Dismas began to saw.

  Dürer arranged his sitter by the mirror. He called for more candles and began. He sketched leisurely with the charcoal, knowing very well how people are fascinated to watch as their likeness is conjured into existence. Soon the guards were absorbed watching as he drew their comrade. They stood intently over his shoulder.

  “You’re making him too handsome!”

  “Shut up,” said the sitter. “Keep at it, German. Make me beautiful and maybe I’ll give you two drinks before I cut off your balls.”

  Dismas sawed with the palette knife. He saw Nutker’s dagger, still sheathed.

  One of the soldiers lost interest in the portrait and turned away. He went to get the wine bottle and resumed watching, a short distance from the others.

  The rope parted. Dismas shifted the palette knife to his left hand. He filled his lungs and sprang, seizing Nutker’s dagger with his free hand.

  He plunged the palette knife into the side of the wine drinker’s throat, and in the next motion buried Nutker’s dagger between the shoulder blades of another man. Both went down. Now Dismas was unarmed.

  Dürer lunged at one of the two guards, who gave him a blow to his face, knocking him down. He and his comrade turned their fury on Dismas, swords drawn.

  Dismas knew it was over. They were young and strong. He was too old for hand-to-hand. He stepped backward over the body of the dead guard and tripped. He went down hard, air knocked out of him. He looked up and saw the two swords coming at him. But it wasn’t over.

  He heard a roar, a savage sound, Unks hurtling himself at Dismas’s attackers with such fury the three of them flew through the air and crashed into the floor. Unks decapitated one man with a sword slice and, with its hilt, pounded the other man’s face into a jam of gore. Unks’s fury did not abate. He continued to pulp the man’s skull until Markus pulled him off.

  Unks sat panting. He crawled, murmuring and weeping, to the bodies of his comrades.

  Cunrat was still alive, barely. Unks lifted Cunrat’s head and pressed it to his chest.

  Cunrat’s eyes flickered. They looked at Dismas, lips moving.

  Dismas put his ear to Cunrat’s mouth.

  “The rag . . .”

  “It’s all right, Cunrat,” Dismas said. “We’ll get it back for you. Promise.”

  Cunrat shook his head.

  “No . . . Nutk . . .”

  Cunrat died. Unks began to wail, hugging his lifeless friend, rocking back and forth.

  There was no time for obsequies. Dismas told Markus and Unks of Caraffa’s plan, the crossbowmen, the bombs.

  “We must go,” Dürer said, rubbing his jaw where he’d been struck.

  Dismas looked at his friend.

  “You did well, Nars.”

  “We have to go, Dis.”

  “No,” Dismas said.

  “Dismas. Five are coming back. With weapons. Bombs.”

  “Yes, Nars. Which we need. Markus, Unks, get ready. Nars, go to your room.”

  “Why?”

  “I need you to live. To take the dispatch to Rostang. If I’m killed, you’ve got to see it through. Bolt the door to your room.”

  “But—”

  “Bolt the door, Nars. Do it.”

  Dismas turned to the others.

  Markus was assembling his crossbow. As he did he said, “And if they come back, all five of them together?”

  D
ismas sighed. “We have the advantage of surprise.”

  “At this range a bolt will go through two, even three men. Once I got four. But that was lucky.”

  Dismas said, “If I’m killed, see it through. Make sure Nars delivers the dispatch to Rostang. It’s the only way.”

  “Will Rostang believe?”

  “It’s the only way. Caraffa has thirty men. We are four. Swear you’ll see it through, Markus.”

  “Why did I stop in Chambéry? I would be walking now on gold cobblestones.”

  “You’d have been shipwrecked on the way. Or died from puking. Swear.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  47

  He’d Better Be

  Boots, coming up the stairs.

  Dismas stood next to the door, back flattened against the wall, clutching sword and dagger. Unks was on the other side. Markus crouched behind an overturned table at the far end of the room facing the door.

  “Don’t shoot us,” Dismas whispered.

  The footsteps neared. From the sound, it was the five of them.

  Dismas’s heartbeat quickened. His cheek wound oozed blood.

  On the landing now.

  Caraffa’s men threw open the door and entered the room. They froze.

  Dismas and Unks attacked, pushing them together for Markus. Markus stood and fired. The bolt went through the throat of the first man and into the chest of the man behind him, through him, and into the wall. Unks quickly killed two; Dismas the one remaining. It was over in seconds. The archdeacon’s apartment was a true abattoir now, strewn with eleven bodies.

  Markus and Unks seized weapons from the dead. A good harvest: two crossbows and two boxes with the bottle bombs.

  There were a dozen, packed with gunpowder, fuses protruding through the corks. One was larger than the others—probably the one they planned to detonate in the apartment, that would “accidentally” kill the Shroud stealers, thwarting their vile plot.

  “Careful with those,” Dismas said.

  “This one,” Unks said, holding the largest, “I will light and stuff up his Dago bunghole.”

  Dismas went to Dürer’s room.

  “Nars. Open up.”

  The door slowly opened a crack. Dürer peered at Dismas from within, palette knife clenched in his hand.