The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  But it was beautiful. It seemed to Dismas unlike Dürer’s own style, as if done by someone else.

  “Well? We tremble to hear your artistic judgment,” Dürer said.

  “It’s all right. I don’t know about the nose.”

  Dürer snatched it out of Dismas’s hand and gave it back to Magda.

  “Wait . . .” He took it back, scribbled in the lower corner, and handed it to her. “There.”

  Magda looked at it. “What is ‘TV’?”

  “Tiziano Vecelli. Titian. It’s done in his style. But Dismas would of course not understand that.”

  “To me it looks more like a Cranach,” Dismas sniffed.

  • • •

  That night Magda had another of her nightmares. Every night she had one. Dismas woke her gently.

  “It’s all right. Go back to sleep. Dream good things.”

  She gripped his arm.

  “Talk to me. Just for a little.”

  Because of her nightmares, Dismas had taken to putting his bedroll on the ground near hers. A chaste arrangement. This way he could comfort her.

  He looked up at the stars, abundant in the moonless night. She felt warm beside him, and gave off a smell sweeter than any saint’s bones. How good it was to have an armful of warm girl on a cold night. He felt her finger gently tracing the edges of his mangled ear.

  “Tell me about her,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  “She died.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I should have died with her. And the children. I was in Judea, looking for the lance of Longinus.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They were quiet awhile.

  “Who is Longinus?”

  “The Roman soldier at the Crucifixion. He who pierced Jesus’s chest with the lance.”

  “Ah. Did you find this lance?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How, perhaps?”

  “With relics you can never really be sure. It’s in Wittenberg. In Frederick’s gallery. He was very pleased to have it. When he learned about my wife and children, he purchased indulgences for their souls. Generous indulgences. Sure, they are no longer in Purgatory now. Anyway, they died without sin. She was a good woman. Go to sleep, now. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  “The Shroud of Chambéry, do you think it’s truly the burial cloth of Christ?”

  Dismas considered. “No. But it doesn’t matter. The Cardinal gave me this penance. So here I am. And now here you are. Because”—he gave her nose a playful twist—“you are so stubborn.”

  “Was she pretty, your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Hildegard. Go to sleep.”

  “Tell me something about her.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me why you loved her.”

  “Well, she was my wife.”

  “Dismas. What an answer.”

  “She was pretty. She loved our children. And she would make me laugh. I was never sad when she was with me. She was a good cook. She would sing while she . . .” He fell silent.

  “Sure, they are in Heaven,” Magda said. “You will be with them again. But not just yet.”

  26

  Chambéry

  After breakfast they put on their religious habits. Mindful of the embarrassing lack of crucifixes in the Black Forest when he performed the test of St. Boniface, Dismas had purchased a dozen in Basel.

  “This wool scratches,” Unks grumbled. “It’s like wearing a cat. Are these hair shirts? What kind of fucking monks are we supposed to be?”

  “Bonifacian,” Dismas said. “And, Unks, please don’t be saying such words in Chambéry. Monks do not curse.”

  “Ha. There was this friar in my village of Klotze. Every time he opened his mouth would come a stream of—”

  “Yes, Unks, I’m sure. But we must be good monks. Why? Because if they discover that we are not monks, they will kill us. Is this sufficient incentive for you? Now, we must have names.”

  “Who gives a shit what our names are?” Cunrat said.

  Dismas sighed. “All right. Be Brother Cunrat, if you prefer. If you want to use your real name so they can kill you later, fine.”

  Cunrat groaned loudly. “Give me a name, then.”

  “I will be Brother Lucas,” Dismas said. He picked Cranach’s first name to annoy Dürer. “Cunrat, you will be Brother Vilfred. Nutker, Brother Cuthbert. Unks—”

  “Cuthbert?” Nutker said. “No. I don’t want Cuthbert.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s a sodomite name.”

  Dismas sighed. “He was a saint, Nutker, not a sodomite. But very well. What name do you wish?”

  “I don’t care. But not Cuthbert.”

  “Theobald, then. Is this satisfactory?” Nutker shrugged. Dismas pressed on. “Unks, Brother Sigmund. Dürer . . . hmm. You will be Brother Nars. For Saint Narcissus. Very suitable.”

  Dürer glared.

  “Don’t take offense. Narcissus was Bishop of Jerusalem in the second century. He changed water into oil. Perfect name for a painter.”

  “I have never heard of this supposed saint.”

  “Well, I would not expect a painter to know history. Now, Magda . . . you be Sister—”

  “Hildegard.”

  Dismas stared.

  “Hildegard of Bingen,” Magda said. “Sibyl of the Rhine. She was very holy. She never said naughty words.”

  • • •

  They descended the ravine and reached the road, where they joined the flow of pilgrims.

  Dismas stressed the necessity of making note of everything they passed. Any detail might prove valuable, should they have to make a hasty departure, a possibility Dismas thought quite likely, should they get that far.

  The road went through fields under cultivation by a monastery atop a hill. Dwellings became more numerous as they approached the river Leysse.

  There was a single bridge across. Its abutments and cutwater were stone; the roadway across was of heavy wooden planks laid together. Curious design.

  “Italian,” Dismas observed. “See those holes on either end of the timbers. They can be pulled up in case of attack, to stop the enemy.”

  “A drawbridge that’s not a drawbridge,” Dürer observed.

  “For monks who are not monks.”

  They came to the Porte Recluse, the city’s main gate. Here was a proper drawbridge over the moat surrounding the city walls. A throng of pilgrims had bottled up traffic. The gate guards were demanding a “transit fee” to cross into the city, causing arguments and consternation. After their week in the sylvan Bauges, the din of the crowd was jarring and discordant. And what a smell!

  Pilgrims had erected tents and lean-tos along the street by the moat. Little markets were doing brisk business, all manner of things for sale or barter: fowl, fish, game, wine, devotional articles, ointments, tonics, physics for every ailment.

  Dismas viewed with professional disdain the abundance of relicmongers hawking items of the most dubious provenance. He counted four separate complete Crowns of Thorns. Everywhere were replicas of the Shroud of Chambéry—in every size from napkin to bed linen. One was about actual size: fourteen by four feet, nailed upright between two poles. The image of Christ was atrociously done, in the most lurid and sanguinary way. The fellow standing beside it, presumably its author, was proudly pointing out various details to the crowd.

  Dismas said to Dürer, “Let’s hope you can do better.”

  Dürer sniffed. “Five guldens says he’s a Spanisher.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, all that blood. They’re mad for gore, Iberians. A Spanisher is incapable of painting a still life of fruit or flowers without putting a decapitated head on the table, oozing. Take away a Spanisher’s red paints—his massicot, sinopia, carmine, bole, cinnabar, lac, madder, solferino, vermilion, Pozzuoli, crimson—and he’ll sink a kni
fe into his veins and paint with his own blood. Never has there come a decent painter from that peninsula. They were ruled too long by the Moors. If the Moors caught you painting a portrait—chuk—off with your hand. Yet in every field—medicine, astronomy, mathematics—they were leagues ahead of us.”

  They came to the xenodochium, the charity hostel. They could afford better accommodations, but Dismas thought it congruent with their monkish imposture to lodge here. No one was delighted at the prospect. The building exuded a miasma of overflowing latrines, teeming lice, malaria, pustulating sores, stale wine, and wormy bread. Dürer flatly announced that under no circumstances would he inhabit such verminous quarters.

  Dismas remonstrated with him. He pointed out to Brother Nars that he had taken not only a vow of poverty but also of obedience. Brother Nars replied that in this case, he would defrock himself and find his own “fucking” lodging. Dismas, in no mood for one of Dürer’s tantrums, asked through gritted teeth: “Why don’t you just knock on the Duke’s door and demand rooms in his castle, commensurate with your dignity?”

  Back and forth this went, escalating, until Magda intervened, lest the two friars come to blows in public. She proposed that they make temporary camp al fresco in the public gardens, around the corner of the city wall from the Porte Recluse. Everyone thought this an agreeable alternative to quartering with leprous pilgrims, however much God might love these most wretched of the earth.

  They made a bivouac beneath the plane trees. It afforded a breeze and a pleasant view of the river. The Landsknechte took the cart and horses to find a livery and buy food and wine and learn whatever there was to be learned. Dürer, still fuming over the altercation at the xenodochium, stomped off to explore on his own.

  • • •

  Dismas and Magda sat beside each other on a blanket in the shade. But for being dressed as two religious, they might be two sweethearts enjoying a picnic.

  “Dismas?”

  “Lucas. Yes, Sister?”

  “Is there a plan?”

  “Yes. The Shroud will be displayed high up on the castle wall. From a balcony of the Holy Chapel. From the sixth hour to the ninth hour. Like the hours Christ spent on the cross. So. Brother Nars will get as close as he can, the better to observe the Shroud, and make his facsimile. On the linen we purchased in Basel.”

  “And then?”

  “Then . . . then, we will switch his copy with the Shroud. Simple. See?”

  “And how is that part to be accomplished?”

  “Ah. Well. Once Brother Nars has finished making his copy—which he will have to do very quickly, and Brother Nars is not the quickest of painters—then on the day following, when the Shroud is again displayed . . . the six of us all together will rush at the castle wall and make a human ladder. Since the wall is seventy or eighty feet high, we will stand on each other’s shoulders until the person at the top can reach the Shroud. This will be you, since you are the lightest of us. Then all you have to do is you just give a good yank—so—to pull it from the hands of the archbishop and deacons who are holding it. And give them the copy. Then . . . then we run like hell. Through the city, over the drawbridge, over the river bridge, and all the way up into the mountains. What do you think of my plan?”

  Magda stared. “It’s . . .”

  “Yes,” Dismas said. “It lacks something. Everything, really.”

  They sat in silence, fingering rosary beads for the sake of appearance.

  Magda said, “You say if a relic wants to be translated, then nothing can prevent the translation?”

  Dismas nodded. “This is the rule. But for authentic relics. The problem here is . . . well, there are many problems. The first problem is I do not believe this shroud is authentic. Second, even if it is, we have to ask, would Jesus desire for his shroud to be translated? From a duke who is called ‘Charles the Good,’ to a cardinal who should be called ‘Albrecht the Not So Good’?”

  Magda considered the problem. “If it’s a fake, as you say, why does this Albrecht want it so badly?”

  Dismas sighed. “Perhaps he has convinced himself that it is real. But mostly I think he sent me on this mission for another reason.”

  “What?”

  “To get me killed, without causing a hoo-ha with Frederick.”

  Dismas wanted to tell Magda of his resolve to spare them, but it was too pleasant beneath the plane trees.

  Presently the Landsknechte and Dürer returned, bearing an immensity of food and drink: wine, beer, sausages, bread, roasted capons. Dismas observed acerbically that such a display hardly made them resemble impoverished monks. But he was as hungry as the rest of them. They fell to their feast.

  As they ate, a great procession hove into view from the south, crossing the bridge. Cavalry, foot soldiers, attendants, carriage upon carriage, banners.

  “Is it a king?” Unks grunted, tearing off a bite of capon.

  “No,” Dürer said. “But a duke, sure. And from that direction, Italian. I can’t make out the banners. Venetian, perhaps. Whoever it is, he doesn’t travel light. I’ve seen smaller armies.”

  They watched as horse carriages rumbled over the bridge timbers.

  “Might be Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino,” Dürer said. “Not one to go without the basic comforts. Like his uncle.”

  “Who’s his uncle?”

  “The Pope.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you know,” Dürer said, “how he spends his time, this Pope?”

  “I assume, interceding with God on behalf of mankind,” Dismas said, “being the Pope.”

  Dürer snorted. “Hunting. It’s all he does. Maybe if he spent a bit more time on church business, he and Luther would have come to an understanding. His other passion is his zoo.”

  “A zoo?”

  “Did Our Lord not instruct the apostles to go forth and make zoos? Truly, Leo walks in the footsteps of the Fisherman. Even if he must step in enormous turds. His favorite is a white elephant named Hanno. Well, Leo’s a de’ Medici, isn’t he? I’ve met him. Jolly, in his way. But . . .” Dürer made a face. “They are debauched, the Italians. It’s their climate that makes them so.”

  “Titian and the Pope,” Dismas said. “What famous friends you have, Nars.”

  Dürer cut a slice of apple. “If that is Leo’s nephew Lorenzo, you peasants should feel honored. He’s a very considerable personage.”

  “Just because he’s a duke?” Nutker said.

  “Dear Nutker, he’s the ruler of Florence. And now his uncle-pope has paid for a war to procure for him the Duchy of Urbino. So you see, he’s lord of maybe one quarter of all Italy. He is advised by Machiavelli.”

  “Who is Machiavelli?” Dismas asked.

  Dürer shook his head. “What a scholar you are. Machiavelli is, well, he’s a philosopher, isn’t he? Among other things. He wrote a treatise for Lorenzo, about how a prince should rule.”

  “And how does one rule?” Dismas asked.

  “I’ve not read it. I’m too busy trying to rule Agnes. For which purpose, you need a stick, not a treatise.”

  “Ha,” Dismas said. “I’d like to see you try to rule Agnes with a stick.”

  “I think Machiavelli says to kill your enemies before they kill you.”

  Cunrat nodded. “Sound advice.”

  “Lorenzo is not well,” Dürer said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s Italian.”

  “Pox?”

  “In Italy, they call it the French pox. In France, the Italian pox.”

  “I thought you liked Italians,” Dismas said. “You are always running off to Italy.”

  “To learn, not to fornicate. Sure, I go to Italy. In art, the Italians are supreme. They have no equal. Except for one or two others.”

  Dismas grunted. “Anyone in mind?”

  “As for morals, they have—none. Nessuno. The Pope himself is a well-known sodomite.”

  “Now you sound like Luther.”

  Dürer shrugged. “It’s the truth
. They say he has a . . .” Dürer glanced at Magda. “Well, it’s hardly a topic for decent conversation. Suffice to say he is afflicted with an unpleasant consequence of unnatural venery.”

  “Yes,” Cunrat said, “I have heard of this. A fistula in his ass, from being buggered.”

  “By the elephant!” Unks said.

  The Landsknechte roared.

  The lead carriage had now halted at the Porte Recluse. There came a fanfare blast of horns.

  Dismas wiped capon grease from his chin and stood. “Let’s have a look at your distinguished personage, whoever he is.”

  The soldiers cleared a space in the crowd. Dismas and the others shouldered their way through to get a closer view, the Landsknechte plowing a path with unmonkishly sharp elbows.

  At the head of the procession they saw an attendant on horseback, holding a heraldic banner. A black eagle nesting in a ducal coronet, atop a black-and-gold battle helm. In its talons, a diamond ring. In the foreground, a gold shield adorned with a half dozen large red balls.

  “De’ Medici,” Dürer said. “Lorenzo.”

  “The red balls,” Cunrat asked, “what do they signify?”

  “No one seems to know. Some say dents on the shield from great battles. Others say pawnbroker balls. Still others say pills. De’ Medici is Italian for doctor. They were apothecaries, long ago.”

  “They did well, for apothecaries,” Magda said.

  The ducal carriage halted. From inside the Porte Recluse streamed a procession of Savoyard household attendants. The two entourages collided in a muffled crush of silk and velvet. Formalities were observed with much bowing and doffing of caps. A scrum formed by the door of the Duke’s carriage. Another round of bows. The carriage door opened and out stepped Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino.

  Magda recoiled. “Oh! Poor man!”

  An attempt had been made to conceal with greasepaint the sores on his face. The Duke blinked in the sunlight and smiled at the crowd. He gave a feeble wave with his left hand. His right hand clutched at his chest.

  The crowd gave him a cheer, which seemed to please him. Then he grimaced and clutched again at his chest. He withdrew into the carriage. The procession began to move forward, over the drawbridge and through the Porte Recluse into Chambéry.