“Yes. Did you get a good price on the clock?”
Spalatin laughed. “I’m no match for a Nuremberg clockmaker. We may have to borrow some of those ducats of yours. I’m glad you got them back. What a scoundrel, Bernhardt.”
• • •
Dismas made his way to the long gallery. He entered at the far end. Frederick was in a great chair by the window. His eyes looked closed. Was he slumbering? Posing for portraits bored him.
Dismas approached softly. The floor creaked. Cranach turned and put a forefinger to his lips. Dismas peered at the easel. A miniature. The brushes were tiny, some had only one or two hairs. They spoke in a whisper.
“How is he?”
“Asleep.”
“So I see.” Dismas examined the tiny painting. “It’s good.”
“What have you been up to? Digging up graves?”
“No. I’m done with all that.”
“What’s this about Albrecht’s shroud?”
Dismas shrugged. “Spalatin mentioned something.”
“Shouldn’t you know?” Cranach said. “It is your business.”
“I’ve seen more shrouds than you have canvas, Master Cranach.”
Frederick’s eyes opened. In his youth, they bulged, giving his gaze an intense, manic aspect. Dürer’s portrait had caught it. Now in old age—and great weight—they’d receded and fixed you sideways. The jowls softened what might otherwise have been a severe, even malign countenance.
“Nephew. Are you advising Master Cranach?”
Dismas smiled. “Trying to get him to add a halo, but he refuses until you are canonized.”
“Little chance of that, now. Come.” Frederick beckoned for a hug.
“Lucas.”
“Yes, your worship?”
“Enough for today.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Cranach gave Dismas an annoyed glance as he wiped his brushes. A man of many parts, Cranach: court painter, burgomaster, owner of the largest publishing house in Wittenberg, owner of its pharmacy, owner and builder of properties. He and Luther were close.
Dismas thought: Dürer and Cranach, two great artists. Dürer melancholic, yet you can have a laugh with him if he’s in the right mood. In all the years Dismas had known Cranach, he had never had one laugh with him, or even seen him laugh. Dismas thought Cranach’s painting reflected this. No felicity.
“What have you brought your aged uncle?” Frederick asked.
“I fear I’ve come with empty hands. I’ve . . .” The words caught in his throat.
“What is it?”
“I’ve come to say good-bye, Uncle. I’m going home. It’s time.”
Frederick frowned heavily. His ears moistened.
“This is very sudden. We’ve work to do yet on the collection.”
Dismas smiled. “You’ve the greatest collection in the world, Uncle. Well, after the Vatican’s. Master Spalatin tells there’s hardly any room left.”
“And how will you make your way?”
“I’ll be all right. Your generosity all these years has made me prosperous. Don’t worry on that account.”
“I thought you lost all your money. To that devil Bernhardt.”
So. He knew. Spalatin.
“I”—he cleared his throat, evicting the lie—“I was able to recoup some of what was lost.”
Frederick stared. Dismas’s insides shriveled.
“I shall miss you, Dismas.”
“And I shall miss you, Uncle.”
Frederick twisted a ring from a finger and held it out.
“A token of my love.”
“I . . . no.” Dismas held up his palms in refusal.
“It belonged to my uncle. Stop dithering. Take it.”
It was a signet ring engraved with the Wettin coat of arms and the crossed red swords of the Arch-Marshal of the Holy Roman Empire.
“It’s too much, Uncle.”
“God keep you safe, Dismas.”
They embraced. Dismas walked to the door, eyes welling.
“Dismas.”
“Yes, Uncle?”
“You heard. Albrecht and his shroud?”
Dismas winced.
“Yes, Uncle. I heard.”
“It sounds marvelous, does it not?”
“Well, as you know, Uncle, shrouds are the most problematic of relics. How many have you and I been offered and declined?”
“Sixteen.”
“There.”
“Yet there seems to be great excitement over this one. Its provenance is said to predate that of the Duke of Savoy’s.”
“Well, still . . .”
“Dismas.”
“Yes, Uncle?”
“How long have we known each other?”
Dismas’s insides were on fire. “Very long, Uncle.”
“I should hate to think that anything was left unsaid between us at our last meeting.”
“I, too.”
“Why did you not offer it to us?”
Dismas’s heart beat like a cantering horse.
“I . . . was not altogether confident of the provenance, Uncle.”
“Yet you were confident enough to offer it to the Archbishop.”
“His grace has never been fastidious with regard to provenance. Recently, he built himself Saint Peter’s Galilean fishing boat. I thought it unlikely he would cavil at this item.”
“In other words, you sold him a forgery.”
“Well . . .”
Frederick shook his head.
“I am disappointed in you, Dismas. I have no fondness or regard for Albrecht.” His voice rose to a growl. “But he is about to become a prince of the Holy Roman Church.”
Dismas wanted to melt into the cracks in the parquet.
“How much?”
“Five hundred and fifty, Uncle.”
Frederick gave an impressed grunt. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate to have been spared that expense.”
“Oh, Uncle. I would never have . . . never. On my honor.”
“You speak of honor?”
“Until this occasion, Uncle, I never sold anyone a piece, to you or to anyone, that I knew to be false.”
Frederick nodded sadly. “So you were virtuous. Almost to the end.”
Dismas’s cheeks burned with shame.
“Still I shall miss you. Now go, and tell Master Cranach to come and finish me off.”
12
A Great Day
Dürer insisted on being present at the grand unveiling of the Shroud of Mainz, despite Dismas’s insistence that he not attend.
“Frederick knows, Nars. He’s not going to say anything. But Spalatin knows . . . look, if it gets out, and we’re seen together here . . .”
But Dürer was obdurate. Not for anything could he be dissuaded. He seemed to regard the unveiling as just another art opening. Dismas relented in the end, but insisted that Dürer wear a monk’s habit as a disguise.
“If someone shouts out, ‘My God, it’s a Dürer!’ sure, I don’t want to be found sitting there next to Dürer.”
Albrecht—now officially Albrecht Cardinal Brandenburg—staged the occasion with elaboration worthy of the Second Coming.
As they made their way into the cathedral, they saw Friar Tetzel, very much open for business with his indulgence coffer.
“Swine,” Dürer loudly muttered.
“Quiet, for God’s sake,” Dismas hissed. “What did you expect? That Tetzel wouldn’t be here? Why do you think Albrecht bought the shroud? For decoration?”
They took their seats, which Dismas had made sure were not up front. From outside the cathedral, they heard a tremendous blast of trumpet.
“Just as Our Lord would have wanted,” Dürer said.
Dismas counted 250 in the procession. Albrecht, now thirty, looked splendid in his new scarlet galero and vestments. In his lengthy homily, he paid homage to St. Boniface, martyr and patron saint of Mainz and Germany, he who had established Christianity among the heath
en Franks. Albrecht referred to him several times as “our most beloved forefather in Christ,” slyly insinuating direct lineal descent.
Dürer groaned and muttered throughout. Albrecht concluded by calling for all good German Christians to join in Christ and heal the recent divisions by burning Martin Luther at the stake.
“Yes, that will bring us all together,” Dürer said. “Nothing so healing as a good burning.”
It was time for the main event. On a signal, two thin golden ropes threaded through pulleys high in the ceiling lifted the shroud from its bejeweled silver and gold reliquary case, suspending it in midair above the altar.
There it wafted among clouds of incense and chords of plainchant. Many gasped, just as Albrecht had on first seeing it on the table in his study. There were moans and cries of religious extremis. Even Dürer conceded that as stagecraft, it was “Not bad.”
Dismas had predicted at least one spontaneous miraculous “healing” at the unveiling. As it turned out, there were two: a blind man saw, and a lame woman walked. Both miracles courtesy of Tetzel.
When the woman, second to be healed, cried out, Dürer whispered, “I had no idea it was that good.”
• • •
After the ceremony, there was a wine and cheese reception for major donors in the cloister courtyard. Dismas forbade Dürer to attend and went alone.
It was a warm day. He was thirsty, and still in a turmoil of emotions over Uncle Frederick’s disappointment. He drank several cups of wine in rapid succession.
Albrecht stood at the head of the receiving line, in excelsis, beaming as he received compliments on the marvelous thing he had done for Mainz. Dismas joined the line.
Albrecht’s smile tightened when he saw Dismas. He had deemphasized Dismas’s role in obtaining the shroud, preferring to create the impression that its appearance was somehow miraculously coterminous with his elevation to the College of Cardinals. He extended his hand and bulbous cardinal’s ring.
“Ah, Dismas. A great day.”
“Indeed, Eminence.”
“Bless you,” Albrecht said by way of dismissal.
Dismas, emboldened by wine, stood his ground.
“How wonderful,” he said to Albrecht, “such a spontaneous validation.”
“Eh?”
“The healings. Two!”
“Yes. As you say, wonderful. Good to see you.”
“I expect his eminence will amortize his investment in no time at all.”
Albrecht’s smile tightened into a rictus.
“Good day to you, Dismas.”
“Actually, it’s good-bye, Eminence. I’m leaving. Going home.”
“Ah?” Albrecht did not look displeased.
“Retiring. How could I ever hope to top this?”
“Yes, well, bless you. Now move along, there’s a good fellow. Kaspar. Countess. How splendid to see you both.”
13
Not a Great Day
It would have been easier to travel south by river, even against the current, but the numerous toll stations on the Rhine between Mainz and Basel were full of nosy tax inspectors. With all those lovely ducats he was carrying, Dismas thought it more prudent to take the road, in his monk’s-habit disguise.
A journey of one month, perhaps: Strasbourg, Basel, bypassing Berne to Thun, down into the Lauterbrunnental, and then the steep climb up to Mürren. He wished he were there already. But he was grateful to have the hard riding ahead to distract him from his shame over Frederick’s admonition. It gnawed at his heart like a rat. He had given serious thought to donating his ill-gotten ducats to the first monastery he came across. But then what? Again take up the life of relic hunter? He could never show his face again in Frederick’s court. And the thought of further dealings with Albrecht was—unthinkable. Start all over again, hawking relics in the fairs? No.
So, he resolved to push on, pray for forgiveness, or at least forgetfulness, and concentrate on home. On the bracing mountain air, the deep pine smell, meadows that burst into color in the spring, the roar of glacial rivers, the full moon on snow, and the night-shriek of owl and hawk. These would heal his soul.
Toward nightfall of the fourth day he heard hooves approaching from behind and his name being shouted and the harsh command to halt.
Lieutenant Vitz rode at the head of a dozen men. There were no courtesies or explanations. One of Vitz’s men seized the reins of Dismas’s horse. Swords were drawn. What was this?
He was to accompany them back to Mainz. No reason was given. On the ride back, which was briskly paced and ominously devoid of conversation, Dismas racked his brain to think what could have occasioned such a brusque recall.
They reached Mainz in the middle of the night. Despite the hour, Dismas was escorted directly to Albrecht’s formal reception room. Here he found himself face-to-face with the grim-faced Cardinal, a frowning monsignor, several fretful priests, and a stone-faced Drogobard. Spread before them on a long table was the shroud. Not a good sign.
Albrecht did not extend his ring to be kissed. He pointed to the shroud and said, “Pray, explain that.”
Dismas glanced at the shroud, then at Albrecht. “I do not understand, Eminence.”
He walked to the table and examined the shroud. Nothing appeared awry. It was just as he had last seen it.
“Was it the custom of Our Lord to wear jewelry?”
“I . . . cannot think so, Eminence.”
“Specifically, rings?”
Dismas peered at the image’s hands. He saw it—there, on the right hand. He stared. Surrounding details swam into focus: the ring was in the mouth of a winged, crowned serpent.
He recognized it. His chest tightened. Cranach’s signature: a detail from the coat of arms bestowed on him by Frederick on the occasion of being appointed court painter.
His mind reeled. What in God’s name was it doing on the shroud?
Dürer!
But how had he not seen it before? He’d examined every stitch, every fiber of Dürer’s shroud.
Dismas looked up at Albrecht.
“I fear that I . . . still do not comprehend. This . . . was not there before.”
Albrecht motioned to the monsignor. The monsignor spoke:
“There was a fire in the chapel where the shroud is kept. There was intense heat. The emblem appeared then.”
Dismas’s mind raced. Albrecht wasn’t above parading fake relics like a St. Peter fishing boat. But the Cardinal of Mainz was not one to tolerate being made a fool of in front of his own people.
Apart from a fierce desire to murder Dürer, Dismas couldn’t think what to say, other than: “Could it be another miracle?”
“Seize him,” Albrecht ordered Drogobard.
Drogobard’s hand clamped tightly around Dismas’s arm.
“Wait, Eminence,” Dismas said. “At the unveiling, did we not all witness two miracles?”
Albrecht glared.
“And that being the case”—Dismas forged ahead—“how could the shroud be a fake?”
Albrecht was in a cold rage. But he could hardly admit to those frauds in front of his monsignor and the priests and Drogobard. Luther had stirred things up too much. Faked miracles were not only out of fashion but frowned upon. These people in the room might be his servants, but servants gossiped. It would get out. He was Cardinal now. Dismas had him, for the moment.
“Leave us.”
The monsignor, priests, and Drogobard withdrew.
Albrecht rose from his throne and descended the steps of the throne platform. He circled Dismas.
His tone was wounded rather than censorious. “What did we do to deserve such perfidy?”
“In sincerity, Eminence, I am every bit as astonished at this as yourself.” The statement was truthful at the technical level.
“No, no,” Albrecht said. “None of that.” He made another slow circle. “Master Cranach’s signature was not supposed to reveal itself until you were safely back in your cantons. Your neutral cantons, where y
ou are beyond our reach. But for the accident of the fire, you would have made your escape.”
“Eminence—”
“One more word and I’ll summon Drogobard to remove your tongue. Now, who contrived this pretty little plot? Yourself? We think not. For you are not that clever, are you, Dismas? No. You’re just a dirty Switzer bone dealer, wearing fine boots bought with thievery. No. Such a witty piece of treachery would have been devised by Uncle Frederick. Frederick. The Wise.”
The full horror now dawned on Dismas. Albrecht thought this was Frederick’s doing, a plot to humiliate him.
“May I speak?”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
“It was me. Not Frederick. It was my doing.”
Albrecht scoffed. “You thought this up? You painted this?”
“Yes.”
“Such talent, Master Dismas! We had no idea you were such an artist. And why did you adorn this masterpiece with Cranach’s signature, pray?”
“I believe the explanation must be that . . . it is a pentimento.”
“Pentimento?”
“Yes,” Dismas went on. “Yes. I recall, now. I had the linen for some time. Some years ago, I remember painting Cranach’s signature on it. In tempera. I put it away and forgot all about it. Tempera fades over time, you see. Especially on linen. So what had been there before must have . . . vanished. When I set about to make the shroud . . . I had forgotten about it. Careless of me,” Dismas said with a nervous laugh. “So your eminence is right. I am not so clever, after all. And now I am at your mercy.”
“Mercy? Is that what you expect?”
“Well, it is a virtue commended by Our Lord.”
“Do not speak to us of Our Lord.” Albrecht pointed at the shroud. “You have profaned his very image.”
“If I might propose, respectfully—your eminence was not quite so fastidious in the matter of Saint Peter’s boat.”
“Guard!”
Dismas was taken away.
14
Cardinal Sin
A message for the Elector, Master Spalatin. From Mainz. The Cardinal.”
The Relic Master Page 9
