“My spies have told me that when I die, my son, Maanu, will unleash cruel persecution against all the Christians of the city and that some of you have been marked for death. Thaddeus, Josar, and you, Izaz, must leave Edessa before I die. You will not be safe here afterward. Maanu will not dare murder Marcius or Senin, even though he knows they are Christians, because they are of the noble families of Edessa, who would take vengeance against him.
“He will burn the temples to Jesus and destroy the houses of those of my subjects most faithful to the worship of the Christ. Many men, women, and children will be murdered as he terrorizes our Christian brothers and sisters and attempts to force them to return to the worship of the old gods.
“I fear for the shroud of Jesus; I fear that the grave cloth will be destroyed. Maanu has sworn to burn it in the marketplace before all the citizens of Edessa, and on the day of my death he will do just that. You, my friends, must save it.”
The five men listened in silence to the king’s words. Josar looked at the queen, and for the first time he realized that the beauty that had always graced her was now fading and that the stray hairs one could see among the folds of her veil were silver. His lady had aged, although the brightness of her eyes was unchanged and her presence was as majestic as always. What would happen to her? He was certain that Maanu, her son, hated her.
Abgar sensed Josar’s concern. He knew of his friend’s undying devotion to the queen.
“Josar, I have asked the queen to leave the city as well. There is still time, but she will not listen.”
“My lady,” said Josar, “your life is in more danger than ours.”
“I am the queen of Edessa, Josar, and a queen does not flee. If I must die I will do so here with my people, those who believe in the Christ as I do. I will not abandon those who have placed their trust in us, the friends I have prayed with. I will remain beside Abgar; I could not bear to abandon him to his fate in this palace. So long as the king lives, Maanu will not dare act against me.”
Abgar sat up on his couch, clutching the queen’s arm. Over the last few days he and she had talked for hours, through the nights and until sunrise, devising the plan that the king was now about to explain to his most beloved friends.
“My last command to you, my friends, is that you save the shroud of Jesus. Upon me it worked the miracle of life, enabling me to live to this old age that is now upon me. The sacred cloth belongs not to me but to all Christians, and it is for them that you must save it—and yet I ask that it not leave Edessa but that the city preserve it for all time. Jesus sent it here, and here it shall remain. The last loyal members of my guard maintain it in the first temple we built to him. Thaddeus, Josar, you will retrieve the shroud and deliver it over to Marcius. You, Marcius, will find a hiding place for it, to save it from the wrath of Maanu. Senin, I ask that you organize the flight of Thaddeus, Josar, and young Izaz. My son will not dare attack your caravans. I place my faithful subjects under your protection.”
“Where would you have me hide the shroud, Abgar?” asked Marcius.
“That is for you to determine, my good friend. Neither the queen nor I must know, though you must choose one person to share the secret and put that person, too, under the protection of Senin. I feel my life ebbing away. I know not how many days remain to me, but I hope I may be given enough to allow you to carry out those things I have asked of you.”
Then, as dusk deepened into night, knowing it might be the last time, the king took his leave of them.
The sun was just rising as Marcius reached the western wall. Workers were already there, awaiting his instructions. As the king’s architect, Marcius was charged not only with constructing the buildings that gave glory to Edessa but also with overseeing all the public works in the city, such as this construction at the western wall, which was being broadened so that a grand ornamental gateway might be made in it.
He was surprised to see Marvuz, on horseback, speaking with Jeremin, the overseer of the work.
“Greetings, Marcius.”
“What brings the head of the king’s guards to the wall? Has Abgar sent for me?”
“I am sent by Maanu, who soon enough will be king.”
“He will be king if God wills it.”
The loud laugh that came from Marvuz echoed in the silence of the dawn.
“He will be king, Marcius, he will be king, and you know that, for you were with Abgar last evening. You saw that his death is upon him.”
“What is it you want here? Speak quickly, for I have work to do.”
“Maanu wishes to know what orders Abgar has given. He knows that not only you but also Senin, Thaddeus, Josar, and even Izaz the scribe were at the king’s bedside well into the night. The prince wishes you to know that if you vow loyalty to him, no harm will befall you; if you do not, he cannot be responsible for the fate you encounter.”
“You come here to threaten me? Has the prince so little respect for himself that he would stoop to threats of violence? I am too old to fear anything men might do to me, Marvuz. Maanu can only take my life, and it has already run its course. Now go, and let me work.”
“Will you tell me what Abgar has told you?”
Marcius turned on his heel without replying and began to inspect the mortar that one of the workers was removing.
“You will be sorry for this, Marcius, you will be sorry!” shouted Marvuz as he swung his mount about and galloped off to the palace.
For the next few hours Marcius seemed absorbed in his work. The overseer watched him out of the corner of his eye; Marvuz had paid him well to spy on the royal architect. He regretted that he was forced to betray the old man, who had always been kind to him, but Marcius’s time had passed, and Marvuz had assured the overseer that Maanu would repay his services most generously.
The sun stood at its zenith when Marcius told the overseer that it was time for a break. Sweat poured from the bodies of the workers, and even the overseer was weary from the labors and ready to sit and rest awhile.
Two young servants from the house of Marcius came just then with two baskets. The overseer saw that they brought fruit and water, which the architect began to share among the workers.
For an hour they all rested, although Marcius, as so many times before, remained absorbed in the study of his plans. Indeed, he was so dedicated to his work that at one point he broke off his examination of the plans to climb up a ladder and mount a high scaffolding, examining the wall to ensure that it was being built firm and solid. The overseer closed his eyes, weary with the heat and the labors, while the workmen barely had the strength to talk.
It was not until the sun was sinking in the west that Marcius allowed the workmen to cease their labors. He wished them all a good evening and, accompanied by his servants, made his way home.
There was little for the overseer to report on Marcius’s activities, but he repaired to the tavern at the sign of the cloverleaf, to meet there with Marvuz.
Marcius, childless and widowed, for his wife had died years ago, loved his two servants as though they were his own sons. They were Christians, as he was, and he knew that they would not betray him.
The night before, Marcius had made a promise to Thaddeus and Josar before leaving the palace of Abgar: When he had determined where to hide the shroud of Jesus, he would send them word. Josar would devise a plan to deliver the shroud to Marcius without arousing Maanu’s suspicions, since they knew, as Abgar had warned them, that Maanu would send spies to watch them. They also decided that Marcius would tell Izaz alone where the shroud was hidden, and this meant that the moment Izaz received the information, it was imperative that he go to Senin and flee the city. Thaddeus had made arrangements for him to journey to Sidon, where there was a small but prosperous community of Christians. Timaeus, the spiritual leader of the community, had been sent there by Peter to preach. Izaz would find refuge with Timaeus, who would safeguard the secret of the shroud’s location.
Despite Abgar’s plea that they sav
e their lives, Thaddeus and Josar had made the decision to remain in Edessa. They would share the fate of their Christian brothers and sisters. Neither of them wished to leave the shroud behind, though they would never know where Marcius had hidden it.
They met in the temple that evening with many other Christians of the city. They prayed together for Abgar, asking God’s mercy for their king.
That morning, Josar had carefully rolled up the grave cloth and hidden it in the bottom of a basket, as Marcius had counseled him. Before the sun had risen to its zenith, Josar went to the market, the basket over his arm, and wandered among the merchants’ stalls, conversing with the tradesmen. At the hour they had agreed upon, he spied one of Marcius’s servants buying fruit from an old man; Josar went up to the youth, who was carrying a basket like Josar’s, and greeted him warmly. Then, stealthily and with great care, they exchanged baskets. No one noticed the exchange, and Maanu’s spies saw nothing suspicious in the fact that Josar was greeting one of his fellow Christians.
Nor was the overseer suspicious when Marcius, high on a scaffolding, picked up an apple from the fruit basket he had carried with him and bit into it distractedly from time to time as he went along the wall, testing its firmness, tapping to find dangerous hollow spaces among the fired bricks. Marcius had always enjoyed masonry and even today liked to lay bricks—what did it matter to the overseer if he spent his strength in the noonday sun when all about him were drowsy with the heat and the buzzing of the flies?
Marcius refreshed himself with the cool water that one of his servants had brought to his bedchamber. Resting from the heat of the day, the royal architect removed his dusty tunic and put on a clean one. He sensed that the days of his life were numbered. The moment Abgar died, Maanu would attempt to learn where the shroud was hidden so that he might destroy it. He would torture anyone he believed might know where it was hidden, and Marcius was among the friends of the king whom Maanu would suspect of sharing the secret. That was why he had come to a decision, about which he would tell Thaddeus and Josar that very night—a decision he would carry out the instant he learned Izaz was safe.
Accompanied by his two young servants, he made his way to the temple, where he knew his comrades would be praying. When he arrived, he took a place at a little distance from the others, where the community of the faithful would not see him. Though they were all Christians and loyal to one another, Maanu’s money was plentiful, and it might persuade one of them to betray him.
Izaz glimpsed the architect standing in the shadows. Taking advantage of the moment when Thaddeus and Josar asked him to help distribute the bread and wine among the worshippers, he approached Marcius, who gave him a small, tightly rolled scroll of parchment, which Izaz tucked into the folds of his tunic. Then he signaled to a huge man who appeared to be awaiting a sign and slipped quietly out of the temple. Outside, followed by the enormous man, Izaz hurried toward the place of the caravans.
Senin’s caravan had been readied for its departure from Edessa. Harran, the man charged by Senin with leading the caravan to Sidon, was waiting impatiently. He showed Izaz and the colossus, who was called Obodas, the place reserved for them and gave the order to depart.
Izaz did not unroll the parchment until the sun was well up in the sky the following morning. He read the two lines whereon the architect had written in clear characters the hiding place of the Holy Shroud. He then tore the parchment into tiny pieces and slowly scattered the pieces across the desert as they marched on.
Obodas watched over him attentively, keeping his eye ever alert to their surroundings. He had orders from Senin to protect the young man’s life with his own if need be.
Three nights later, Harran and Obodas thought they were far enough from Edessa to take a brief respite from their journey and send a messenger to the house of Senin. It would take him three days to arrive, and by then Izaz would be safe.
Abgar was dying. The queen sent for Thaddeus and Josar, to tell them that within hours, perhaps minutes, the king’s life would be at its end. He no longer recognized even her.
It had been ten days since Abgar called his friends into that same room to speak to them; they had conversed together until the blackest darkness of the night. Now the king was nearly lifeless; he did not open his eyes, and only a faint haze on the mirror held beneath his nose indicated that he was still alive.
Maanu, impatiently awaiting the king’s death, had not set foot outside the palace. The queen would not allow him to enter the royal chambers, but that was of no importance. He would learn of his father’s death, because he had promised a young slave girl her freedom if she told him everything that took place in Abgar’s chamber.
The queen knew she was being spied upon, so when Josar and Thaddeus arrived she sent all the servants out of the chamber, and the friends conversed in whispers. She smiled with relief when she learned that the shroud was safe. She promised to inform them immediately when Abgar died; she would send the scribe Ticius, who was a Christian and a loyal servant. The three old friends made their farewells with emotion, for they knew that they would never see one another again in this life, and the queen asked Thaddeus and Josar to pray that God might give her strength to face the death that her son surely intended for her.
Josar, his eyes filled with tears, could not bear to say good-bye to the queen. She was no longer the beautiful woman of many years ago, but her eyes were bright with intelligence and energy, and her regal bearing remained unbowed. Conscious of the devotion the old scribe Josar bore her, she squeezed his hand and embraced him, so that he might feel that she knew how much he had loved her and to show that she loved him as the most loyal of her friends.
For three days more, Abgar lay dying. On the third day, the palace was dark, and the night outside black, and only the queen was watching over him. He opened his eyes and smiled at her in gratitude, his gaze filled with tenderness and love. Then he expired, at peace with himself and God. The queen clutched her husband’s hand. Then she softly closed his eyes and kissed his lips.
She allowed herself only a few moments to pray, asking that God take Abgar into His keeping. Then, stealthily, she slipped through the dark corridors of the palace until she came to a nearby apartment where for some days now the royal scribe Ticius had been staying.
He was asleep, but he awoke when he felt the queen’s hand upon his shoulder. Neither spoke a word. Then, under the cover of night and darkness, the queen returned to the royal bedchamber, while Ticius crept carefully out of the palace and made his way to the house of Josar.
The sun had not yet risen when Josar, filled with desolation, heard from Ticius the news of the king’s death. He, too, had only moments for prayer. He had to send a message to Marcius, as the royal architect had bidden. Their plan depended on it. And he had to advise Thaddeus, for the life of them both, he was certain, had come to an end.
“ALL RIGHT, MARCO, SPIT IT OUT—WHAT’S ON YOUR mind?”
Santiago Jiménez’s direct question took Marco by surprise.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Jesus, aren’t we supposed to be detectives?”
Paola smiled. Marco had asked her to invite John Barry, the U.S. cultural attaché, and Santiago Jiménez, Europol’s representative in Rome, to dinner at their house. John had come with his wife, Lisa. Santiago was single, so his companion was always a surprise—and never the same girl twice. This time he’d come with his sister Ana, a vivacious young woman, a journalist who was in Rome covering a summit of the heads of state of the European Union. Now, after several convivial courses, they were all relaxing around the table with dessert and coffee.
“All right, then, you know that there’s been another accident at the cathedral in Turin,” Marco began. He took his time, summing up the case for them, outlining in general the relevant history and the fantastic similarities among the incidents, thoughtfully responding to their comments and questions.
“The history of the shroud is interesting—the way it’s appeared and
disappeared over the centuries, the dangers it’s been exposed to—but it’s hard to imagine someone would be so determined to destroy it or steal it,” Lisa mused as the conversation began to wind down, her interest as an archaeologist sparked. “It’s been in the cathedral at Turin since the House of Savoy deposited it there. As I recall, the story is that the cardinal of Milan, Carlos Borromeo, promised to walk from Milan to Chambèry, where the shroud was at the time, to pray that the plague that lay on his city be lifted. The Savoys, who owned the shroud, were moved by his piety and decided to move it halfway, to Turin, to keep the cardinal from having to walk so far. And it’s still there today. So think about it—obviously, if there’ve been so many accidents in the cathedral, and you don’t believe they’re unrelated, and you’ve got to admit that it can’t have been the same individual who set the fire two weeks ago and over a hundred years ago, then—”
“Lisa, slow down,” John scolded her. “Let Marco finish.”
“Yes, but what I can’t figure out is what’s behind it—I can’t see any motive. It may just be some fanatic who wants to destroy the shroud.”
“A fanatic could have caused the accidents over the last ten, fifteen, twenty years, but a hundred years ago?” Ana took up the argument. “It’s a great story, though. I’d love to write it.”
“Ana! You’re not here as a reporter!” Her brother glared at her across the table.
“It’s okay, Santiago, it’s okay. I’m sure we can count on Ana to keep this off the record and strictly confidential. Right, Ana?” Marco smiled at the journalist, but his meaning was clear. “And, John, Lisa’s gone to the heart of it. I’m asking you and Santiago to help me think about this, to find some plausible explanation for this mystery. I don’t know whether my people and I are too close to this thing—I’d appreciate some outside eyes. I’ve prepared a report that details all the unexplained events that have happened in the cathedral or in relation to the shroud over the last hundred years. I know I’m presuming on our friendship and that you’re both up to your ears in work, but it would be a great favor to me if you’d read it and let me know what you think.”
The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud Page 9
