The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  “Too bad we can’t use Master Bernhardt’s blood.”

  “Fresh blood won’t be a problem. There’s always a beheading. We’ll pay some kid to hold a bucket under the scaffold. I would have to work quickly, mind, before the congealing. The linen would be essential.”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking of that.”

  Dürer said gravely, “You understand, this won’t be one of your everyday shrouds.”

  “Yes, Nars. You have already said it will be a masterpiece.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I mean, we’ll need a story. Where it came from. Where you found it.”

  “It’s called provenance.”

  “I know that, Dismas.”

  Dismas said, “The Chambéry shroud that Albrecht is obsessed with . . . It first appeared in the 1350s. So in theory, ours would have to have appeared sometime before that. Can you forge documents?”

  “Of course,” Dürer said, insulted.

  “Don’t play the orchid. Then once I’ve worked out the details of the provenance, you would have to devise the appropriate documentation.”

  “I must say, it seems that I will be doing most of the work.”

  Dismas stared. “First the orchid, now the martyr? Who will be taking all the risk? Tell you what. I’ll paint the shroud and forge the documents and you go to Mainz and lay your neck on the block.”

  Dürer snorted. “If Albrecht is putting on displays of Saint Peter’s fishing boats, I doubt he will be particular about a shroud. Especially one so exquisite. So I see no risk on your part. And enormous labor on mine.”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  “Seventy-thirty.”

  “Then forget it. If I’m going to sell my soul to the devil, I won’t sell it cheap.”

  Nars groaned histrionically. “All right. Fine. We will put such a price on it Albrecht will have to take out another loan from the Fugger. Let’s drink to it.”

  Dürer filled their cups with wine. “How shall we toast?”

  “Well,” Dismas said, “we might start by begging God’s forgiveness.”

  “That’s a depressing toast, I must say.”

  “How do you suppose God will look on what we’re doing? It’s blasphemy and thievery.”

  “Who can know the mind of God? Maybe this is part of his plan.”

  Dismas stared. “Cheating an archbishop with a forged shroud of Christ? God’s plan?”

  “Why not? He’s a rotten man and a rotten archbishop. Him with his Saint Peter’s fishing boat. It’s quite clear to me. We are God’s agents.”

  “I feel exalted. What shit you talk, Nars. We do this for the worst of reasons—money.”

  “Very well, if you feel so guilty, then donate your fifty percent to the poor. I’m keeping mine. It may be God’s work, but I’m not doing it for free.”

  Dismas raised his glass. “To God’s mercy. May it be boundless.”

  They drank.

  Dismas said, “No self-portraits.”

  Dürer rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, no,” Dismas said. “Don’t make faces. If your shroud has your image on it anywhere, I won’t peddle it to the Archbishop of Mainz.”

  “What do you take me for?”

  “A genius of the first order. And a narcissist of even higher order.”

  “There is no such thing as higher than the first order. You know nothing of mathematics. But fine, yes, anything to please the relic master of Wittenberg and Mainz.”

  “Done. Now let’s get drunk. There won’t be much booze in the days ahead.”

  8

  The Shroud of Mainz

  Esteemed and Most Beloved Uncle, It is with an enormity of incitement that I write your Wholesomeness to inform you that I have come into possession of a marvelous indeed mirakulous Item . . .

  Dismas put down the quill and cursed. Sure, he was no writer. Worse, he felt dirty—filthy-rotten dirty—addressing this sham to his uncle Frederick. Several times he came close to tearing it up. But he reminded himself that if Dürer was correct, Frederick would never see it.

  Again he took up his pen and continued.

  Long have you exprest a most reverent desir to possess a THE True Burial Shroud of the Savior. Most long have I belabored labored . . . to obtain for your Excellence this beforesaid most Holy Relick. Truth, sure, it is that you have heard me most numerously declaim against . . .

  Dismas groaned. Really, he should hire someone to write the bloody thing for him. But that was out of the question.

  . . . denunciate such Shrouds as I have seen. But now I believe that I have beheld THE One and True Cloth in which Our Savior was lained in His Tombe.

  How should this great thing have eventuated, your worship may ask? Verily, do you. Now I shall relate How this was come into being. Certainly my most Knowledgefull Uncle is aware of One Boniface of Montferrat, he of Notoreitty . . . he of most Greate Infamy of the Forth Crusade in the earliest years of the Thirteenthe Century past? Certainly, lo. That Accursed Enterprize, in which Italliann Christian Crusaders most foully and cruelly and abomminabley assaulted their bretherne Christian brothers and sisters, and children—oh, crimson infamy!—of the City of Constantinopple. Theyr sanguinarious outrages being perpetratted until theyre bloodlust were sated, they fell to lootinge this most Holy City of its Relicks. Blasfemy, sure thy name is, suredly, the Forth Crusade!

  One such relick, untowhich now had been unknown, was, it mirakulously seems, the True Burial Cloth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Since thatt hateful Event in Anno Dominni 1204, by which again I reference the Forth Crusade, this MOST Holy Cloth has been in the possession of the heirs of the beforenamed Dastard Boniface who thank Holy God and all the Saints met his own much deserved Extinction at the hand of the also sanguinnary Bulgarian Tzsar Kaloyan soon thereafter. What joy.

  The Shroud then having passed to his daughter Beatrice, Marqueza of Savvona, it then descented in a most matrilinear fashion until such time as . . .

  Dismas scribbled on into the night.

  Having made peace with his deplorable illiteracy, he became rather swept up in his faux provenance. Reaching the conclusion, he warned Uncle Frederick that he had paid a “Most Blushfull Sum” to the abbot of the Cappadocian monastery where Dismas had purportedly found this Holiest of Holy Relics.

  In a postscript, he wrote that he would depart Nuremberg for Wittenberg with this precious cargo one week after the date on his letter.

  Finally he apologized for sending such a sensitive document by post, via the Taxis courier, but explained that he desired that his message reach Frederick without delay. He signed it “Your Devoted Nephew,” which gave his conscience a final prick.

  On rereading his tissue—tapestry—of mendacity, Dismas felt even worse shame. Again he reminded himself that Uncle Frederick would never see the letter, as it was intended for the eyes of his other patron, Albrecht of Mainz.

  Dismas rolled it into a tight scroll. Instead of sealing it with wax, he tied it with string. He wrote on the outside STRICKTLY AND MOST URGENTLY CONFIDENTIAL FOR HIS HIGHNESS BY THE GRACE OF GOD FREDERICK III ELECTOR OF SAXONY.

  This ostentatious labeling would ensure that the dispatcher of the Taxis imperial post, who received a handsome stipend from Albrecht’s spymaster, would open it, copy it word for word, and send the copy by his speediest courier to Mainz. The original he would hold and delay sending to Wittenberg. Thus would the bait be dangled before Albrecht. They reckoned it would whet Albrecht’s appetite more than if Dismas simply arrived in Mainz with Nars’s shroud for sale.

  As for the original letter: by the time it arrived in Wittenberg, the ink—mixed by Dürer—would have disappeared. They contemplated the scene with amusement: the Taxis courier arriving in Wittenberg, announcing that he had a most urgent communication for the Elector. Then reaching into his dispatch case and handing Frederick’s chamberlain a document completely blank, inside and out.

  Dismas took the draft of the letter to Dürer’s house. He’d gone there several times in t
he last fortnight, but each time Dürer refused to open the door to his studio. Dismas had to converse with him through the closed door, which he found tiresome.

  More vexing was why it was taking Dürer so long. Dismas was anxious. Every day brought more gossip about Albrecht’s negotiations with Rome for his cardinalate. His last archbishopric had cost him ten thousand gold ducats. Now word was Pope Leo was demanding three or four times that for the cardinal’s hat. Albrecht would have to go to Fugger again for another loan. How much would he have left with which to purchase a shroud?

  Dismas was met at the front door by the ever dour and unwelcoming Agnes. She remonstrated. Her husband was behaving in a most peculiar manner, even by his standards. He barely emerged for meals. And he refused her entrance to his studio. She demanded to know what nefariousness was going on. Nothing good, sure.

  Dismas tried to jolly her. Artists were different from normal folk. Clearly her husband was in the throes of a creative fever, at work on something magnificent. He added, “And profitable.”

  Agnes was not humored by these rhapsodies, and went off in a swush of petticoat to sulk in her own part of the house.

  Dismas banged on the studio door. Hissed: “Nars. Let me in.”

  “Go away.”

  “Cranach could have done it in half the time.”

  The door opened. Dürer shut and rebolted it as soon as he was inside.

  “It’s not finished,” he said.

  Dismas beheld the linen tacked on the easel. It was unlike anything of Dürer’s he’d seen before. The detail was extraordinary. You could make out individual eyelashes and strands of beard. It looked like a pentimento of a lustrous oil painting of great complexity that had been left out to bleach in the sun for fifteen centuries.

  The face was arresting. Here was a man who had suffered unspeakable agonies but whose expression in repose of death conveyed eternal serenity. It did somewhat resemble its creator, but stopped short of outright self-portraiture. What restraint that must have required.

  “Well?”

  “It’s good, Nars. Very good.”

  “One or two more touches. I’ll fold it octavo. Easier to transport that way. I’m going to singe the corners.”

  “Burn it?”

  “For verisimilitude.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the relic master. If it’s supposed to have been around since 33 AD, shouldn’t it have got a bit scorched at some point?”

  “All right. But don’t let it all go up in smoke.”

  Dürer took a corner of it between thumb and forefinger and caressed it gently. “No. It will be perfect. So, how much are we asking for it?”

  Dismas looked at it with an appraising eye. “Two hundred ducats.”

  “Two hundred? For this?”

  “It’s a good price, Nars.”

  “Why not just give it to him? I put my soul into this.”

  “It’s a beautiful soul, sure.” Dismas looked at the shroud. “All right. I’ll try for three. But that’s no guarantee we’ll get it.”

  Dürer folded his arms over his chest.

  “You will not sell it for one pfennig less than five hundred ducats.”

  “For that kind of money, he’ll want Jesus’s body, too.”

  “Pah. He’ll amortize it in a month. The true burial shroud of Christ. People will come from everywhere. Magellan will sail back from the Indies to view it.”

  “I’ll ask for five. But that doesn’t mean we’ll get it.”

  “Not a ducat less.” Dürer looked admiringly at his creation. “What about Frederick?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What would he pay for it?”

  “Absolutely not! And shame on you even for thinking such a thing. I feel rotten enough addressing this, this . . . lie to him.” Dismas thrust his letter at Dürer. “And you’d better be right about your disappearing ink, or I’ll . . .”

  “Stop fretting, man. You’re worse than Agnes.”

  Dürer took the letter and read. He shook his head. “Christ in Heaven. Your writing truly stinks. The grammar, the spelling . . . All those years hanging about Frederick’s university, and still you write like a peasant.”

  “I regret that it is not up to your standard,” Dismas sniffed.

  “The drift’s serviceable enough.” He chortled. “Albrecht will shit his cassock when he reads this.”

  “Let’s hope his purse strings will be as loose as his bowels.”

  9

  Render unto Caesar

  Five days after handing the letter to the Taxis dispatcher in Nuremberg, Dismas set off at a casual pace for Wittenberg, bearing with him the true burial shroud of Christ, folded octavo.

  On the second day of his journey, as he approached Bayreuth, he heard from behind a commotion of hooves. Six riders—at the head of them, Vitz, Drogobard’s lieutenant. Dismas gladly noted the absence of Landsknechte. A favorable sign. Albrecht would know how distasteful Dismas would regard the inclusion of Landsknechte in a party to intercept him.

  Dismas affected surprise at being accosted. Vitz was courtly, but insisted, as gently as a man of arms could, that the Archbishop required his presence. Most urgently.

  Why? Dismas asked.

  Vitz could not say. A matter of state.

  Dismas feigned reluctance. He was on his way to Wittenberg, also on “state business.”

  Vitz remained firm. Pretense having gone on long enough, Dismas said very well, if it was truly that urgent, naturally he would accompany them to see his esteemed patron, the Archbishop.

  Two days’ hard riding and he was on a ferry across the Rhine to the city of Mainz, spires lambent in the glow of the dying day.

  • • •

  Dismas speculated what pretext Albrecht would adduce for summoning him in such an imperious way. He couldn’t very well just greet him with his usual airy “Ah, Dismas,” followed by “My spy network intercepted your letter to Frederick about this shroud.”

  He arrived at the Archbishop’s palace. Servants scurried to unpack his cart. Dismas held on to the leather case containing the shroud, about the size of a large Bible.

  “Dis-mas! Dearest cousin! How good of you to come! Your journey was not too taxing, we trust?”

  Dismas knelt to buss the episcopal ring.

  “Come, come, no need for that,” Albrecht said, lifting Dismas from his obeisant posture.

  “Is everything well with my cousin? The lieutenant was unable to explain why I am so urgently required here.”

  “Sit. Sit. You must be exhausted from your journey. Wine for Master Dismas,” he ordered a servant. Wine—rather good wine—was brought and poured, the servant dismissed.

  “Dismas. It has come to our attention that a certain item has surfaced.”

  “Oh?”

  “Um. A shroud.”

  “Ah?”

  Albrecht smiled. “Of quite extraordinary provenance.”

  “That does sound interesting.”

  “A provenance antedating the Shroud of Chambéry.”

  Dismas squirmed in his seat, feigning discomfort, though some of his discomfort was genuine enough.

  “Well, such a find would indeed be something. Might I ask how my cousin came to hear of such a thing?”

  “Dismas.” Albrecht smiled indulgently. “We are Archbishop of Brandenburg, Magdeburg, and Halberstadt. Do you not suppose that we are well informed concerning matters within our lands?”

  Dismas smiled. “I suppose a diligent shepherd must, sure, keep watch over his flocks. Must be tiring. So much territory to watch over. So many lambs.”

  Albrecht frowned. “But are you not excited by this news? The discovery of such a sacred relic—the true burial shroud of Our Lord?” Albrecht made a sign of the cross. Dismas made one, too.

  “Indeed, I would be.” Dismas nodded.

  They stared at each other.

  Dismas said, “I feel pity for the Duke of Savoy.”

  “Why?”

&nbs
p; “When this shroud is shown to the world, his shroud will be seen for what it is. Irrelevant. Who will make pilgrimage to Chambéry to venerate a mere piece of cloth? No more pilgrims. Poor Duke.”

  “Ah, so my cousin is aware of this new shroud?”

  Dismas adopted the expression of a man at pains not to divulge a great secret.

  “Cousin,” he said, “I find myself in a most awkward position.”

  Albrecht nodded sympathetically. “How so, my son? You know that our love for you is without bounds. How can we help? Unburden your soul to us.”

  “The item of which you speak . . . is . . . well, it is in my possession.”

  “Mirabile!”

  “But with regret, I must inform my cousin that it is promised.”

  “In what way, promised?”

  “To the Elector Frederick.”

  Albrecht’s eyes had fixed on the leather case at Dismas’s side.

  “We must behold it, Dismas.”

  “Perhaps it would be better not to look upon it, cousin. Seeing it would only . . .”

  “What?”

  “I fear it might arouse in my cousin the desire to . . .”

  “Speak plainly, man!”

  “To possess it. It has great power.”

  “We insist, Dismas.”

  Dismas sighed. “As my cousin commands.”

  A long refectory table stood against the wall. Dismas cleared it of objects. He placed the leather case atop, unfastened the straps, and made a sign of the cross. Albrecht, too, crossed himself. Dismas unfolded the shroud with reverence and stood back.

  “Ecce homo.”

  Albrecht gasped.

  • • •

  They met again later in Albrecht’s study for the evening meal.

  After displaying the shroud for Albrecht, Dismas had feigned exhaustion and the need of a bath. This would leave Albrecht alone in his study with the shroud, his avidity intensifying.

  The meal was sumptuous, delicacy upon delicacy, accompanied by the finest wines from the palace cellars. Albrecht kept filling Dismas’s cup to the brim. Dismas had prepared for this by drinking beforehand a cup of olive oil, to coat his stomach against inebriation. He pretended to be tipsy.