The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud

by Julia Navarro

  She had spoken with pride, but she realized too late that she’d sounded ridiculous, pedantic, trying to impress these people who could not have cared less who she was or what she knew. She was furious at herself and at being put under their microscope, observed like some exotic specimen by these beautiful women and powerful men.

  Lisa tried again. “Coming, Sofia?”

  “Lisa, let us have Dottoréssa Galloni a little while longer. This is very interesting.”

  D’Alaqua’s words took Sofia by surprise. Lisa turned away, resigned, but drew Mary along with her. Suddenly Sofia and D’Alaqua found themselves alone.

  “You seem uncomfortable, Dottoréssa Galloni. Is anything wrong?”

  “I am uncomfortable, and I expect you know why.”

  “Ah, well, you shouldn’t be upset with Mary, in any event, for her genuine interest in your work. She is an extraordinary woman, really—intelligent and sensitive, and her question was absolutely innocent, believe me.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “The truth is, you and your friends have come to the party to see me, isn’t that right, Dottoréssa Galloni?”

  Sofia felt herself flushing. Once again he had scored a direct hit.

  “My boss is a friend of John Barry’s, and I…I…”

  “And you left my office with nothing, so you and he decided to arrange a coincidence—what a surprise, meeting here like this! Too obvious, Dottoréssa Galloni.”

  Sofia’s face burned. She wasn’t prepared for this duel, for the frankness of this man, who was so sure of his own superiority and who looked at her with amusement.

  “It isn’t easy to meet with you.”

  “No, it isn’t, so now that we’re here, go ahead and ask whatever you’d like.”

  “I told you: We suspect that the supposed accident in the cathedral was no accident and that only some of the men who work for you could have set the fire, but why?”

  “You know I have no answer for that question. But you have a theory, so tell me what it is and I’ll see if I can help you.”

  At the other end of the terrace, Marco was observing them with amazement, as were the Barrys. At last, John couldn’t contain his irritation at the situation any longer and sent Lisa to liberate D’Alaqua.

  “Sofia, forgive me, but Umberto has so many friends here who want to talk to him, and you’re monopolizing him, my dear. James is looking for you, Umberto.”

  Sofia felt like a fool.

  “Lisa, it’s I who is monopolizing Dottoréssa Galloni. You’ll let us finish our talk, won’t you? It’s been a long time since I’ve have such a fascinating conversation.”

  “Oh, of course, I…well, if you need anything…”

  “It’s a gorgeous evening, the party is lovely, and you and John are wonderful hosts. I’m so happy you’ve invited me to share this with Mary and James. Thank you, Lisa.”

  Lisa beat a quick retreat back to her husband and whispered something in his ear.

  “Thank you,” said Sofia.

  “Please, Dottoréssa Galloni, don’t underestimate yourself!”

  “I never have.”

  “I think you may have tonight.”

  “It was stupid for us to come.”

  “It was obvious, I’ll admit. And our hosts’ discomfort confirms that they engineered this little ‘encounter.’ I’d be surprised if Mary and James knew about it, though.”

  “They don’t—or didn’t. I’m sure they’re wondering why Lisa invited us, though, because we’re totally out of place. I’m sorry; it was a mistake.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Your question?”

  “Yes. I’d like to know your theory of the crime—or alleged crime.”

  “We believe that someone wants the shroud—whether to steal it or destroy it, we don’t know. But we’re sure the fire was related to the shroud—and so were all those other so-called ‘accidents’ in the cathedral in the past.”

  “That’s an interesting theory. Now tell me who you suspect, who you think might want to steal or destroy the shroud, and—especially—why.”

  “That’s what we’re looking at now.”

  “And you have no clues that bear out your suspicions, am I right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Dottoréssa Galloni, do you think I want to steal or destroy the shroud?”

  D’Alaqua’s words were spoken with a hint of mockery that amplified Sofia’s sense of ridiculousness.

  “I won’t say we suspect you directly, but it’s possible that some employee of yours might be involved.”

  “My human-resources man at COCSA, Signor Lazotti—I gave strict orders that he cooperate with you fully. Has he?”

  “Yes, we have no complaint there. He’s been very efficient and very generous with his time, and he sent us a long report on all the information I requested.”

  “Then allow me to ask you one more question, Dottoréssa Galloni—what did you and your boss expect from this ‘chance encounter’ with me this evening?”

  Sofia lowered her head and took a sip of champagne. She had no answer to that, at least no legitimate answer. You couldn’t give a man like D’Alaqua excuses like “Marco had a hunch.” For the second time, she felt she’d failed some subtle test.

  She shrugged lightly and smiled. “We thought we’d just come and see what happened, Signor D’Alaqua.”

  “Shall we have something to eat?”

  Startled by his abrupt change in course, Sofia looked at him. Had she heard right? But then Umberto D’Alaqua took her gently by the elbow and led her to the long buffet table. James Stuart, accompanied by the Minister of Finance, strolled over to them.

  “Umberto, Horacio and I were having a little argument over the effect that the Asian flu is going to have on the European markets this year….”

  Sofia listened as D’Alaqua outlined his interpretation of the Asian economic crisis, stunned by his mastery of the subject. She soon found herself drawn into the debate with the Minister of Finance and contesting some of Stuart’s points, while D’Alaqua listened with interest. When their little group broke up, she and D’Alaqua seated themselves at a table with other guests, where he continued to be attentive and charming. Sofia could see that he was at ease and enjoying himself, and she felt herself relaxing too.

  “Your friend is delightful.” Mary Stuart’s cheery voice brought Marco back to reality as he watched his dazzling colleague across the terrace. Or was it Paola’s surreptitious nudge in his ribs?

  “Yes, she is,” Paola replied. “Intelligent, accomplished, and charming.”

  “And lovely,” Mary added. “I’ve never seen Umberto so interested in a woman. She must be exceptional if Umberto is so taken with her. He looks so happy, so relaxed with her.”

  “He’s single, isn’t he?” Paola asked.

  “Yes, but we’ve never understood why. He’s got it all—intelligence, looks, education, culture, money—and he’s a wonderful person in the bargain. I don’t know why you don’t see more of him, John, and you, too, Lisa.”

  “Mary, dear, we don’t actually travel in Umberto’s circles. Nor yours—even if you are my favorite sister.”

  “Oh, Lisa, don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not being silly, sweetheart. In my daily life, I don’t run across ministers or bankers or multinational businessmen. There’s no reason for me to. Or for John to.”

  “Well, you should see more of Umberto. He loves archaeology. He’s financed several digs, and I’m sure you two have a great deal in common,” Mary insisted.

  It was almost one o’clock when Paola reminded Marco that she had to get up early the next day. Her first class was at eight. Marco asked her to tell Sofia they needed to go.

  “Sofia, we’re leaving,” Paola said, leaning over the dottoréssa’s chair. “Do you want us to drop you off?”

  “Thanks, Paola, I’d appreciate it.”

  D’Alaqua rose as Sofia did, kissed her ha
nd in farewell, and promptly extended the same courtesy to Paola. He smiled, but his eyes had turned distant again. From time to time, as they had talked, Sofia thought she glimpsed something else there. But she read him perfectly now.

  As Lisa and John accompanied them to the door, Sofia glanced a last time at the terrace. Umberto D’Alaqua was conversing animatedly with a group of guests.

  They were barely in the car before Marco’s curiosity got the better of him.

  “So spill it, dottoréssa; tell me what the great man said.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, Marco, he did say it was more than obvious that we’d come to the party to see him. He made me feel like an absolute fool, caught flat out in a lie. And he asked straight out—dripping with sarcasm, of course—whether we thought that he was the one after the shroud.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The rest of the night we talked about Asian flu, oil prices, art, and literature.”

  “Well, you two certainly seem to have hit it off,” Paola said.

  “I suppose we did, in a way, but that’s it.”

  “He might not think so,” Paola insisted.

  “You two planning on seeing more of each other?” Marco asked.

  “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen. He was charming, as I said, but that’s it.”

  “And that hurts.”

  “I guess if I was to be perfectly honest about my emotions I’d say it does, but I’m a big girl. I’ll get over it.”

  “Which means it hurts,” said Marco, grinning.

  “You make a nice couple.” Paola wouldn’t give up.

  “It’s nice of you to say so, Paola, but I’m not kidding myself. A man like Umberto D’Alaqua isn’t interested in a woman like me. We have nothing in common.”

  “You have a lot in common,” Marco insisted. “Mary told us he loves art and archaeology, even finances excavations, sometimes goes on digs himself. And you, in case you didn’t know, are also intelligent, educated, cultured, and gorgeous—right, Paola?”

  “Well, of course. Mary even made a point of telling me that she’d never seen D’Alaqua as interested in a woman as he was in you tonight.”

  “All right, you two, let’s drop it. The bottom line is that he told me in no uncertain terms that we’d crashed the party. Let’s hope he doesn’t lodge a protest with some government minister or president somewhere.”

  It was raining steadily, but a crackling fire enhanced the comfortable masculine luxury of the room, a library. Several paintings by Dutch masters revealed the sober taste of its owner. Settled on rich leather couches, the six men were deep in conversation.

  They stood as the door opened and their elderly chief entered. One by one they stepped forward to embrace him. He motioned to them to resume their seats. “I’m sorry to be late, but it’s hard to get anywhere in London at this hour. I couldn’t get out of my bridge game with the duke and his friends and our brothers.”

  A soft tinkling sound at the door announced the butler, who entered to remove the tea service and offer the men drinks. When they were once again alone, the elderly man was the first to speak.

  “All right, then, let’s have a review.”

  “Addaio has confined Zafarin, Rasit, and Dermisat to his estate outside Urfa. The penitence he’s imposed on them is to last forty days, but my contact assures me that Addaio will not let it go at that, that he’s preparing something further for them. As for sending a new team, he hasn’t decided about that yet, but sooner or later he will send one. He’s concerned about Mendib, the prisoner in jail in Turin. Apparently he’s had a dream, one he can’t shake, that Mendib will bring ruin to the community. Since then, he hardly eats, and he’s not himself. My contact fears for his health and for what he might decide to do.”

  The man who had spoken was middle-aged, with a thick beard and skin tanned dark brown. He was well dressed, straight-backed, and spoke in an impeccable upper-crust accent. His bearing and presence were those of a retired military officer, accustomed to discipline and order.

  The elderly man gestured to another of the men to speak.

  “The Art Crimes Department knows a lot, but it doesn’t know what it knows.”

  They all looked at him with concern and curiosity as he went on.

  “They’re pursuing their theory that all these ‘accidents’ that have happened in the Turin Cathedral over the years aren’t accidents at all.” He paused and looked around the room at his fellows. “They’re convinced the events are tied to the shroud, that someone wants to steal or destroy it. But they can’t figure out the motive. And they’re still investigating COCSA, thinking they’ll find their link there. As I reported earlier, their Trojan horse operation is under way, and Mendib will be set free from the Turin jail in a couple of months.”

  “The time has come to act,” said the elderly man, a slight accent surfacing to reveal that English was not his native language.

  “Mendib has to be taken care of,” he went on. “And as for the Art Crimes Department, it’s time to pressure our friends to stop this Valoni. He and his people are moving in dangerous directions.”

  “Addaio may have reached the same conclusion, that the safety of the community requires Mendib’s elimination,” said the military gentleman. “Maybe we should wait to see what Addaio decides before we do anything ourselves. I’d prefer not to have his death on our conscience if we can avoid it.”

  “There’s no reason for Mendib to die. All we have to do is make sure he reaches Urfa,” said one of the other men.

  “That’s dicey,” said another. “Once he’s on the street, the Art Crimes Department will put a tail on him. They’re not amateurs; they’ll have a first-rate operation, and we could wind up in the position that to save his life we’ll have to sacrifice many others—we’re talking about dead cops and carabinieri. It looks like this last episode is going to burden our conscience however it plays out.”

  “Ah, yes. Our conscience!” exclaimed the elderly man. “All too often we put it aside, telling ourselves there’s no other way. Ours is a history in which death has always played a part. As has sacrifice, faith, mercy. We are human, only human, and we act in accordance with what we believe to be best. We make mistakes, we sin, we act correctly. May God have mercy on all of us.”

  For a moment no one spoke. The other men lowered their eyes, sorrow shadowing their faces. Finally, their master raised his eyes and sat up in his chair. “All right, then—I’ll tell you what I believe we must do, and then I’ll hear your opinions.”

  Night had descended by the time the meeting ended. The rain was still falling all across the city.

  A.D. 542–544

  Eulalius, a young man is here asking to speak with you. He comes from Alexandria.”

  The bishop finished his prayers and got to his feet with difficulty, assisted by the priest who had interrupted him.

  “Tell me, Ephron, why is this visitor from Alexandria so important that you disturb my prayers?”

  The priest was expecting the question, although Eulalius knew well that Ephron would summon him only on a matter of importance.

  “He is a strange young man. My brother sent him.”

  “Abib? And what news does this strange young man bring?”

  “I cannot say. He says he will speak only to you. He is weary; for weeks he has been on the road, journeying here.”

  Eulalius and Ephron left the small church and made their way to a nearby house, where the bishop greeted the dark-skinned young man, whose exhaustion was evident in his eyes and parched lips.

  “I come to speak to Eulalius, bishop of Edessa,” the traveler said, as he drank the water Ephron offered him.

  “I am Eulalius. Who are you?”

  “Praise God! Eulalius, I am about to tell you an extraordinary thing, which will fill you with amazement. Can we not speak in private?”

  Ephron looked at Eulalius, who nodded. The priest withdrew, leaving the
two alone.

  “You still have not told me your name,” the bishop said, turning back to his visitor.

  “John. I am called John.”

  “Be seated, then, John, and rest while you tell me this extraordinary thing.”

  “Extraordinary it is, sir. And it will be hard for you to believe me, but I trust in the help of God that I may convince you of what I have come to say.”

  “So—out with it.”

  “It is a long story. I have told you that I am called John, as was my father, and my father’s father, and his grandfather and great-grandfather. I have traced my family to the fifty-seventh year of our era, when Timaeus, the leader of the first Christian community, lived in Sidon, now Alexandria. Timaeus was a friend of two disciples of our Lord Jesus Christ, Thaddeus and Josar, who lived here in Edessa. Timaeus’s grandson was called John.”

  Eulalius listened intently, waiting for the young man to come to the heart of his tale.

  “You must know that in this city there was a community of Christians under the protection of King Abgar. On Abgar’s death, Maanu, the king’s son, inherited the throne and persecuted the Christians of the city. He stripped them of their goods and possessions and subjected many of them to the pains of martyrdom for clinging to their faith in Jesus.”

  “I know the history of this city,” Eulalius said impatiently.

  “Then you know that Abgar, afflicted with leprosy, was cured by Jesus. Josar brought to Edessa the shroud in which the body of our Lord had been buried. When the shroud was placed upon the skin of the sick king, a miracle occurred. On the shroud there is something extraordinary: the image of our Lord and the signs of his martyrdom. As long as Abgar was alive, the shroud was an object of veneration in the city, for upon it was the face of the Christ.”

  “Tell me, young man, why has Abib sent you?”

  “Forgive me, Eulalius, I know that I am trying your patience, but I beg you to hear me out. I myself chose to come to you and merely asked Abib to vouch for me. When Abgar sensed that he was dying, he charged his friends Thaddeus and Josar and the royal architect Marcius to protect the shroud above all else. Marcius was charged with hiding it, and not even Thaddeus and Josar, the two disciples of Jesus, ever learned where this hiding place was. Marcius cut out his tongue so that no matter what tortures Maanu inflicted upon him, he could never tell. And suffer tortures he did, Eulalius, as you must know, for they were the same tortures as the most prominent Christians of Edessa were made to suffer. But one man did know where Marcius had hidden the shroud with its image of Jesus.”