The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  “It’s to be a surprise. For someone of importance. And power. Should the surprise be spoiled”—Dismas lowered his voice to a whisper—“I tell you, out of friendship, you wouldn’t want to experience his displeasure.”

  Dismas slid two more guldens across the table at him.

  “For your discretion.”

  • • •

  The shop was in the north end of town, in the St. John district. It was a pleasant day, so on their way back to the Edenhaus, Dismas and Nars took the road near the river. Presently, on their right, they saw it, painted on the wall of the Preacher Cloister.

  Dismas had seen it many times; oddly, Dürer had not, though of course he knew of it. Everyone did. It was celebrated.

  The mural had been there almost eighty years now, a thanks-offering after an outbreak of plague. An admonition that Death comes for everyone, no matter their rank: Emperor, Pope, Cardinal, Knight, Merchant, Mother and Child, Peddler, Beggar, Turk and Jew. Thirty-nine types were here represented, dancing—grappling—with the skeletal figure of Death.

  Dürer sniffed and pronounced it appallingly bad art. Dismas had no opinion as to its aesthetic value. He pointed out to Dürer that at least it was a more humane response than what Basel had done a century earlier, after another outbreak. Six hundred Jews were rounded up, shackled inside a barn on an island in the Rhine, and burned alive. Everyone agreed that this offering had pleased God, for the plague did not return to Basel for some many years.

  Dismas had never given the Dance of Death mural more than passing thought. Now, suddenly, strangely, he began to feel queer inside, sick-like, as if a pestilence were roiling within his bowels.

  “You all right?” Dürer said. “You look peculiar.”

  Dismas turned away from the mural, reeling. His breathing quickened. His chest tightened. He began to sweat. His heart beat a staccato rhythm. His head spun. His face and hands were clammy hot. He pulled off his gloves.

  “Dis—what is it?”

  “I . . .”

  Dürer supported him. “Sit.”

  Dismas slumped to the ground. He put his head between his knees and tried to slow his breathing. After some minutes the sickness subsided. His heart ceased its drumbeat. He rose slowly, leaning against the mural. Then it came to him that the mural had triggered the memory of his own dance with death in Albrecht’s dungeon.

  “All right?” Dürer asked.

  Dismas nodded. “Give me a moment.”

  While Dismas composed himself, Dürer read aloud from the inscription beneath the image nearest them, of the Count being led away by Death.

  “In this world I was well known,

  and also called a noble Count.

  Now I’m felled by Death,

  and placed here in this dance.”

  Dürer snorted. “Not quite the way it happened. Ah. Look who else is here.”

  The Cardinal. Dürer read:

  “I was by papal choice

  cardinal in the holy church.

  The world honored me greatly.

  Now I cannot ward off Death from me.”

  Dürer reached into his satchel and took out his paint box. Dismas looked on.

  “What are you doing? We’ll be arrested.”

  Dürer continued, working briskly. Done, he stood back a few paces to admire his work.

  “There!”

  The Cardinal in the mural now bore an unmistakable resemblance to Albrecht Cardinal Brandenburg, Primate of Germany.

  “Christ, Nars. Let’s go, before they throw us in jail.”

  “I want to make one of Luther.”

  “I thought you admired Luther.”

  “An homage—Luther with his boot up Death’s arse!”

  “I’m sure he’d be honored. Come on.”

  When they were a safe distance, Dürer said, “What was all that about, back there?”

  “Explain later. First, a drink.”

  They reached the cathedral square, on the city’s high ground. They bought beers and sat on the terrace in the shade of linden trees. It was a fine day, and the view to the east was splendid. They could see all the way to the Black Forest. The beer calmed Dismas’s jangled nerves. Dürer discoursed on religious art.

  “What shit, that mural,” Dürer said. “There’s plenty of money in Basel. They could have afforded something better than that.”

  “Cranach?”

  Dürer snorted. “But the point isn’t to make good art, is it? No. It’s to loosen the bowels of the faithful so they’ll loosen the strings on their purses. No coincidence it’s painted on the wall of the Preacher Cloister.”

  “You’re the one preaching.”

  “Know who they should have got? Bosch.”

  “Who’s Bosch?” Dismas said. “Beer’s good. Should be, at this price.”

  “Who is Bosch?” Dürer shook his head. “Sometimes I forget what an ignorant Swiss peasant you are.”

  “Illuminate me.”

  “Jeronimous Bosch. Netherlander. He’s dead now maybe three years. He did this triptych. A triptych is a three—”

  “I know what a triptych is.”

  “It’s called The Garden of Earthly Delights. When I saw it, I almost shat myself. Took my breath away. One of the panels is Hell. Didn’t sleep for a week. Next to Bosch’s Hell, Dante’s Inferno is a summer field. I tell you, if the town fathers of Basel had got Bosch to paint their mural? Basel today would be known as the Holy City. A city of angels. Why? Because no one would dare to commit the littlest sin, for fear of ending up in Bosch’s Hell. You could—”

  “Dismas?”

  Schenk, the director of the relic fair. Christ.

  “Franz. Well. Hello.”

  Dismas stood and greeted him. He introduced Dürer. “Here is my friend . . . Heinrich.”

  Schenk plumped himself down without being invited.

  He said with his wonted tone of mischief, “What are you doing here? You’re out of season.”

  “Neither buying nor selling. Passing through.”

  “Passing through. Hm, but to where? Come on. Out with it.”

  “Milan.”

  “Ah.” Schenk’s eyes twinkled with conspiracy. “And what’s in Milan?”

  Dismas glanced over both his shoulders and said in a whisper, “The True Cross. The whole thing. One piece.”

  Schenk roared with laughter.

  “Then your pockets are full and you can afford to buy me a drink.”

  Dismas ordered a round of the indecently expensive Torgau beer.

  They chatted pleasantly about nothing in particular until Dismas noticed that Schenk was staring wide-eyed at his hands. Hell. He’d pulled his gloves off at the mural and forgot to put them back on.

  “In God’s name, man, what happened?”

  “This? Oh. A stupid thing. Accident.”

  Schenk’s gaze remained fixed on the strangely symmetrical holes in the skin between Dismas’s thumbs and forefingers. What kind of accident could cause such parallel wounds?

  Dismas’s mind, still unsettled from the episode at the mural, went blank. Schenk waited for an answer.

  Dürer interjected. “He’s being polite. It was my fault.”

  “Your fault? How . . . ,”

  “We were hunting. It was cold. Very cold. Yes. Dismas was holding his hands together so, you know, blowing into them to get them warm. Blowing. I was loading my crossbow, and clumsy fool that I am, it discharged. Bolt went clean through both his hands. Another inch and he’d have holes in his cheeks. Just as well he doesn’t, what this beer costs.”

  “Merciful God. How dreadful.”

  “Um,” Dismas said. “Hurt like a bastard.” He held out his hands and grinned. “But now—I have the stigmata. Which is only proof of what everyone already knew—that I’m a living saint.”

  Schenk laughed.

  “But enough of me,” Dismas said. “What’s the gossip?”

  “Well, let’s see. Otto Henger was through, week before last. On his way t
o Dalmatia in hot pursuit of a mandible of Saint Jerome. Seven teeth intact, Henger claimed.” Schenk shook his head gloomily. “The Luther business is starting to have a depressing effect on prices. People are more skeptical now about relics and indulgences. Damn Luther. Listen to this. A skull of Saint Diomeda—an exquisite piece—that should have fetched a hundred gulden in Antwerp went begging. Finally someone snapped it up for twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five?” Dismas said. “That’s terrible.”

  Schenk shook his head. “Why not just give it away? Bad sign.”

  Schenk said that he had the greatest respect for Dismas’s client Frederick, but he simply could not understand—for the life of him—why he was protecting the very man whose heretical promulgations were undermining the relic business. Frederick, whose collection was rivaled only by the Vatican’s! Personally, Schenk said, he admired many things about Luther. Yes, he agreed with a lot of what he had to say. And, yes, he admired the Elector for his principled stand, what with everyone howling to burn Luther at the stake. Still . . .

  Schenk shrugged off these melancholy thoughts and predicted that the market would stabilize and rebound. These theological scraps always affected prices. Sure, the fellow who’d bought St. Diomeda’s skull would probably sell it next year for two hundred gulden. More.

  He wiped his lips. What else? Let’s see. Erasmus of Rotterdam had taken up residence in Basel, adding great luster. It was said Erasmus was sympathetic to some of the reforms Luther advocated. But he absolutely rejected Luther’s insistence that faith alone was necessary for salvation. As for Luther calling the Pope—Schenk lowered his voice—a raging whore of Babylon? Erasmus was appalled. What had gotten into Luther? Rumor was it was something to do with his bowels. He was all blocked up, they said.

  What else? The new city hall was being hailed throughout Europe as a marvel. Remember all that complaining about how much it was going to cost! Ha. Oh, and the council had worked out an agreement with the Confederation: if Basel is attacked, the cantons will provide military assistance. In return, Basel will mediate disputes among the cantons.

  There was something else. What? Oh, yes, some German noble had gone missing in the Black Forest.

  Dismas and Dürer had been half listening to Schenk prattle. Now they perked, careful not to show too much interest.

  “A missing noble,” Dismas ventured. “Did he get himself lost?”

  “Lothar. Count of Schramberg, in the Rottweil. Met him once or twice. Came to the fair, looking for bargains. I was not impressed, to be honest. You know the kind. Arrogant. Reminding you every five minutes how important he was, not only being a count, but nephew of the Spanish King, him who’s about to be emperor.”

  “Godson, not nephew,” Dürer corrected.

  Dismas stifled a groan.

  “Ah? You know him?”

  “Only by . . . reputation,” Dürer said. “What did you mean he’s gone missing? How does a count do that?”

  “It’s a mystery. Damned strange. Went out hunting with a dozen of his people and never came back. Vanished. Pfft. Well, wouldn’t be the first time the Black Forest has swallowed someone up. Some say it was witchcraft.”

  “Oh, come.”

  “Ah, he’s probably off whoring,” Schenk said. “They say he’s a bit of a beast with the womenfolk. They’ve got searchers out looking. Being as he’s the Emperor’s godson, like you say, they’re wanting to find him.”

  Schenk pointed to the east.

  “Think of it—all that ruled by a Spanisher now.”

  “Burgundian,” Dürer corrected. “Ghent-born.”

  “Well, he is King of Spain. Might as well be a Spanisher. Seen his portrait? A Habsburg, sure. You could plow a field with his jaw. And more Catholic than the Pope. He’ll be giving Leo lessons! And bringing his Dominicans and the Inquisition with him. Your uncle Frederick’s going to have a time of it protecting Luther now. Mark you, there’ll be war between France and Spain. Thank God for the Confederation. Enough of fighting in other people’s wars, I say. Bad for business.”

  They finished their beers. Schenk wished Dismas good hunting in Milan. He teased Dismas that his intact true cross was sure to be the talk of the fair.

  He left. Dismas and Dürer made their way toward the Edenhaus, both preoccupied with the same thought.

  “Do you think they’d look for him here?” Dürer asked nervously.

  “There’s no reason to. But I think time to move on. That was clever, Nars, that business about shooting me with the crossbow. Mind you, it’s just the sort of thing you would do.”

  As he put on his gloves, Dismas again felt the queasiness rising within him that had knocked him to the ground in front of the mural. He shuddered and walked on.

  • • •

  Dismas didn’t want to make a show of hasty departure. There was no need for one. Schenk had only passed along a bit of local news. Basel was not in an uproar over a dissolute German count gone missing. He told Dürer to be ready to leave in the morning—assuming he was still resolved to continue on to Chambéry. Yes, Dürer said. He would accompany Dismas to Chambéry.

  Dismas alerted Cunrat, telling him to be ready to leave at first light. He suggested to him that he and the other lads might want to get a decent night’s sleep tonight instead of conducting another marathon of venery at the bawdy house.

  Cunrat said he would consider it. He and the lads had scoured the apothecaries of Basel and procured enough of Magda’s phallus tonic to keep a battalion of Landsknechte stiff until Judgment Day.

  Dismas tried to blot out the memory of Unks, unsheathed and throbbing. Reluctantly, he made his way to Paracelsus’s surgery to bid farewell to Magda.

  • • •

  Magda was even more improved, up and helping with the other patients. Her memory had completely returned, as Paracelsus had predicted.

  “Well,” Dismas said with forced cheer, “what good hands you’re in.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “So, we’re off.”

  “I’ll change. And I must thank Doctor.”

  “Magda. I am off. Not you.”

  “But I’m coming with you.”

  “No.” He smiled. “You must stay. And heal. These injuries to the head. Serious business.”

  “I am well enough.”

  “You don’t know where I’m going.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It should,” Dismas said sternly. “If you did know, sure, you wouldn’t argue with me.”

  “All right, then, tell me.”

  Dismas sighed. “It’s not a trip for a girl, Magda.”

  “I’m no girl. Only a whore.”

  “Why should you say such a thing?”

  “You know it’s true.”

  “That wasn’t your fault. It was . . . you are no whore.”

  “What difference? He took my virtue. Is that why you don’t want me?”

  “No,” he said. He took her hand. “You have far more virtue than I.”

  “Then why won’t you let me come with you?”

  “Look, Magda—”

  “Stop telling me to look. I can see as well as you can hear with your—goblin ears.”

  “If you knew how I came by these ears, you might listen better to me.”

  She looked away from him. “That was cruel of me. Forgive me.”

  Dismas pulled off his gloves and held out his hands to her, palms up.

  She looked at them and gasped.

  “This is why you must not come.” He put the gloves back on. He smiled. “And you should see the feet.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Do you remember in the forest, by the fire, when I told you that I am a sinful man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you see, now I must pay for my sins. I must do a penance. And well”—he chuckled—“it’s not a small penance.”

  “Was it murder?”

  “No.”

  “Rape?”


  “Magda.”

  “Must we go through all the Ten Commandments?”

  Dismas looked at the window into the courtyard.

  “Let’s go outside.”

  It was late afternoon. The stone bench was still warm from the sun. Paracelsus’s parrot, Hector, a gift from a wealthy merchant who did business in the Indes, regarded them with aloofness from the crossbar of his perch.

  “It’s nice here,” Dismas said. “Peaceful. Paracelsus is fond of you. I have watched him with you. He’s like a father with you.”

  “Yes. I am fond of him, too.”

  “You could make a good life here. Learn from him. In time you could—”

  “Dismas. Stop.”

  She took his hand. They sat in silence.

  He said, “This thing that I must do. It will not end well.”

  “Then why must you do it?”

  “It’s a penance. If I don’t, I will go to Hell.”

  “I could help you.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not something for a woman. Even a clever woman like you. Who can shoot a crossbow.”

  “I owe you my life. Why won’t you let me repay?”

  “You repaid me when you tried to give yourself up to Lothar, in the forest. Anyway, it’s I who owe you. Helping you was the only decent thing I have done in years.”

  “Then let me do something for you.” She looked at him. “Not to repay. I have feelings for you, you see.”

  He wanted to kiss her. Instead he said sternly, “Are you so ungrateful that you would throw away the life that was saved?”

  She took her hand away from his. Tears welled. “Now you are cruel.”

  He put his hand to her chin and turned her face back to his. He kissed her.

  They sat beneath the tree, silent, pressed against each other. Birds twittered above them in the branches, exchanging the day’s last gossip in the gathering twilight. Hector looked on condescendingly, majestically indifferent to the lesser creatures, so drab beside his sumptuous plumage.

  Dismas said, “I’ll come for you at dawn. Day after tomorrow.”

  “I will be ready.”

  They embraced. Dismas left quickly so she would not see the tears burning his eyes.

  24

  Gifts

  Next morning at dawn, they assembled in front of the Edenhaus to make their departure.