The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  Dürer said to Magda. “The fever has passed. He is himself. Alas.”

  36

  Did It Do the Trick?

  Past midnight the following day, one of Rostang’s men arrived at the apartment with a message for Sister Hildegard from Caraffa. It said, simply and commandingly, “Come.”

  Dismas told Rostang’s man to wait outside. It was only himself and Magda in the apartment. Dürer and the Landsknechte had gone out to see about things he needed to make his shroud.

  Magda sighed then nodded with resignation. “I must go.”

  “No.”

  “How can I refuse?”

  “You weren’t there in the chapel when he grabbed at the Shroud. He’s mad. There’s no telling what he might do.”

  “I’m a nun. How will it look if I don’t go?”

  “You’re not his nun. You are under no obligation to an Italian duke.”

  But Magda was already gathering up her habit and apothecary things.

  “He’s sick,” she said. “He may even be dying right now. If you’re concerned he’s going to rape me, don’t fear. He wouldn’t have the strength.”

  “He had strength enough in the chapel to play tug-of-war with an archdeacon and two bishops.”

  “Dismas. He wants a nurse, not a whore.”

  “Rostang says he’s attacked five of the servant girls. Five.”

  “I can take care of myself.” She pulled a short dagger from underneath her robe.

  “Magda. Please.”

  “If you’re so sure they’re here to steal the Shroud, don’t you want to find out what we can? Maybe he will say something in his delirium.”

  “And if Caraffa hears him tell you? Do you think he’d hesitate for one moment to cut your throat? The man was suckled by tarantulas.”

  Magda went to the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the time. It’s half-midnight, by the clock. At half-one, come to Urbino’s bedchamber. Ask to see Caraffa, outside the bedchamber. Keep him distracted for as long as you can. When I’m alone with Urbino, I’ll give him extra ladanum. Maybe that will loosen his tongue.”

  It was pointless to protest. She was going.

  Magda smoothed her scapular and slung the beaded rosary from her belt.

  She took Dismas’s face in her hands and kissed him. A long kiss that Dismas wanted to go on even longer.

  “What a nun I am!” she said and was out the door.

  Dismas went to the open window. He saw her emerge into the square below and follow Rostang’s servant across it and then up the cobbled ramp to the castle.

  He prayed for her safety.

  And remember, Lord, that she is named Magda, for the Magdalene, she to whom you first appeared after you rose from the dead.

  Dismas was overwhelmed by weariness. He tried to keep awake by sitting upright, but he kept nodding off. He lay on the hard floor. That would keep him awake, sure.

  And fell asleep.

  He dreamed.

  Mary Magdalene was going to the tomb at dawn on the third day, carrying small pots of oils and spices to anoint the body. She arrived at the tomb and saw the large stone rolled back from the entrance. Saw the Roman soldiers standing guard over the tomb, slumbering. Went into the tomb and beheld the empty Shroud. She went to pick it up. It was blank. White as bone. No image of Jesus was on it.

  Dismas awoke from his dream, gasping and upright, drenched in sweat. He ran to the window to see what the time was. A quarter past one o’clock. Thank Christ, he hadn’t overslept.

  He thought about his strange dream, about the blankness of the Shroud. Why would he dream such a thing? He tried to make sense of it.

  There was a Bible in the archdeacon’s study. It was on a stand, with four mirrored candleholders. He lit the candles. Their light fell on the vellum. It was a splendid Bible, exquisitely illuminated by monks now long dead.

  As he turned the pages, Dismas rebuked himself for having gone so long without so much as a glance at holy scripture. He had no Greek, but his Latin was good enough to understand at least the straightforward stuff.

  He thumbed through the thick, lushly illustrated pages and read, in one after another of the Gospels, the passages having to do with that morning in the tomb.

  None—not one—had anything to say about the Shroud bearing the image of Jesus. How, then, could the Shroud of Chambéry be real? If Christ had left his image on his Shroud, surely Matthew or Mark or Luke or John would have found this worthy of mention. It was hardly a minor detail.

  He blew out the four candles and went back to the other room and paced.

  So the Shroud must be fake. Then he remembered the strange episode of the day before, when he fainted after hearing the voice say, This day you shall be with me in Paradise. Wasn’t that the Shroud, communicating with him? How was he to make sense of this?

  Now he was seized by great anxiety at the thought of Magda in the clutches of the lunatical and poxy Urbino. He went to the window. Almost a quarter to two. He must hasten. He rushed out the door, forgetting his gloves.

  • • •

  He ran so fast he was panting and out of breath by the time he reached the ducal bedchamber in the royal apartments.

  The two guards standing outside the door regarded him with curiosity. A footman went into the bedchamber to inform the majordomo that a sweaty, wheezing German had arrived, craving an audience.

  Dismas tried to peer inside but it was dark and the angle was wrong. But no female shrieks came from within.

  A moment later the door opened and majordomo Caraffa emerged, looking surprised, and not especially pleased.

  “Master Rufus.”

  “Signore.” Dismas bowed. “Forgive . . . out of . . . breath . . . It’s a . . . mountain, this castle.”

  “Is there an urgency?”

  “No, no.”

  It only now occurred to Dismas that in his headlong dash to rescue Magda from these evil Italian clutches he had neglected to confect a pretext for presenting himself at the Duke’s bedchamber at such an hour, and in such a deoxygenated state.

  Think, he commanded his brain.

  “It’s only that my master is concerned,” he said. “For your master.”

  Caraffa stared.

  “He sent me to inquire. After your master’s health. Your summons to Sister Hildegard was urgent.”

  “The needs of a duke are always urgent,” Caraffa said. “Perhaps this is less so in your country, with your nobles.”

  “Ah.” Dismas grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. My master can be a Tatar when it comes to his needs, let me tell you. Oh, yes.”

  “Inform your count that his grace is better. Now I say to you good night.” Caraffa turned to go.

  “Ah?” Dismas said. “So he’s all well, then?”

  “As I said.”

  “God be praised. We were worried. After that business in the chapel.”

  Caraffa turned slowly, took a step closer to Dismas, putting his face right in his.

  “What concern is that of yours?”

  “Well, signore, I was there. I saw.”

  “And what did you see, Master Rufus?”

  “Why, the power of the Shroud.”

  “Yes. It is something, this relic.”

  Dismas said in a tone both collegial and conspiratorial, “So? Did it do the trick?”

  Caraffa frowned. “How do you mean?”

  Dismas whispered, “Did it cure the old boy?”

  Caraffa’s eyes glazed with rage.

  “Old boy? Do you speak of his grace, the Duke of Urbino, Lorenzo de’—”

  “Ah,” Dismas said jauntily, “you don’t have to play the nose-up-the-arse with me. We’re just the same, you and I. Lickspittles to a pair of nobs.”

  The veins on Caraffa’s neck bulged, as if vipers were slithering up from under his collar. Dismas kept on. “Well? Did it cure the old boy’s pox?”

  “Stronza!”

  “St
ronza?” Dismas said. “Ah, yes—Dago for ‘cunt’?” Dismas gave the outraged majordomo a thump on the shoulder. “Come, come, none of that. We’re all friends here, sure. Sure, your master’s got a dose, and no small one. No wonder he grabbed ahold of the Shroud. Still, a bit nasty. Let’s hope it came out in the wash, eh? But don’t be coy. Did it cure him?”

  Caraffa’s hand was on the hilt of his dagger. Dismas prepared to deflect the thrust. They were eyeball to eyeball.

  Then suddenly Caraffa relaxed. He smiled. He was staring at Dismas’s hands. Dismas realized they were gloveless, and silently cursed.

  He said, “If your master’s well, I’ll escort Sister Hildegard back.”

  Caraffa disappeared into the ducal bedchambers. A moment later the doors opened and out came Magda.

  Neither spoke until they were back in the apartment.

  “Anything?” Dismas asked.

  “When Caraffa left to speak with you, I gave Urbino three drops of the ladanum. I said to him how wonderful is the Shroud and wouldn’t it be wonderful to own it? He said nothing.”

  “They’re going for it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I tried to provoke Caraffa to attack me. He didn’t. And he wanted to, sure. Oh, yes.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “Killing the servant of a fellow guest would be bad manners. It would compromise their plan. If they had no designs on the Shroud, Caraffa would have struck. At the least, given me a slash on the face to teach me manners.”

  “A strange way to get information.”

  “It was all I could think of at the time.” Dismas held out his gloveless hands. “I screwed up, Magda. He saw these.” He smiled gamely. “Well, maybe he’ll think I have the stigmata and be more respectful.”

  37

  Consummatum Est

  Dismas and Magda awoke the next morning to the sound of the apartment door banging open and the loud mutter of Landsknechte curses.

  He wandered groggily into the foyer in his nightshirt. Nutker and Unks staggered in, holding armloads of firewood, which they dumped without ceremony onto the floor, making a great clatter. What must the archdeacon’s neighbors be thinking?

  “What’s all this?”

  “Ask his majesty Count fucking Lothar,” Unks said sourly.

  The two Landsknechte lumbered out. Shortly Dismas heard another clumping of feet on the stairs, and again came Nutker and Unks bearing another cargo of firewood, which they deposited with similar contempt.

  “It’s spring,” Dismas said. “It’s not that cold. Why do we need so much firewood?”

  “Ask his royal highness.”

  The lads were perspiring heavily. They wiped their faces with a shared cloth, which seemed odd to Dismas.

  Dürer appeared, roused from his lair by the commotion. He was wearing his painter apron.

  “More,” he said to Nutker and Unks. “At least three more loads. And don’t forget the water. Four buckets.”

  This elicited such blistering profanities Dismas thought the framed Madonna on the wall might blush.

  “Come,” Dürer said to Dismas. “And bring some of that wood.”

  Dismas followed Dürer into the kitchen. Dürer had sealed it off, nailing curtains and bed linens over the doors.

  Dismas looked. There were bowls and pots and vials, a fruit press, various instruments including a clyster syringe. What on earth was Dürer planning to do with that? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  The archdeacon’s copper bathing tub was there, in front of a full-sized mirror leaning against the wall. Nailed to the wall beside the mirror was a large sketch Dürer had made of the Shroud. Dismas marveled at its precision.

  In the center of the room was a long narrow table on which lay the linen they had purchased in Basel; half of it overlapped the edge and lapped onto the floor in folds.

  The stove was going, with two large pots of boiling water from which rose vapors with a familiar scent. Myrrh.

  “It’s going to get steamy in here,” Dürer said. “Best strip down. But first go and tell Magda we are ready to begin. And find out where the hell is Cunrat. It’s been over two hours. Landsknechte. All they care about is fornicating and drinking.”

  Dismas went to fetch Magda.

  He told her, “He’s turned the archdeacon’s kitchen into I don’t know what. An alchemist’s den.”

  Presently there came another clumping of feet in the stairwell and a torrent of curses. Cunrat entered groaningly, carrying a large wooden bucket covered over with a damp cloth.

  “What’s that?”

  “For Painter, him who can’t be troubled to fetch his own fucking supplies,” Cunrat growled, setting it down with a clatter. He stretched backward, massaging his lumbar area.

  “I’m not a damned porter.”

  Dismas went to the bucket and pulled back the cloth. He recoiled.

  “Jesus. Where did you get this? The slaughterhouse?”

  Cunrat wiped sweat from his brow with the same cloth Dismas had seen the others use.

  “Painter made some arrangement with a barber. A barber on the fucking outskirts of town.” Cunrat grunted reflectively. “I’ve spilled a lot of blood. But till now I never had to carry it about like a damned milkmaid. Tell him if he wants more, he can fetch it himself.”

  Dürer appeared.

  “Finally. What took you so long? Did you stop along the way to have a screw with some slut?”

  “Don’t start with me, Painter,” Cunrat said. “Or you’ll be painting with your own blood.”

  Dürer drew back the cloth on the bucket.

  “As I thought. Half congealed. Well, hurry up, man. Bring it in, bring it in.”

  “Let me,” Dismas said, lest Cunrat make good on his threat to spill Dürer’s blood.

  Nutker and Unks now grunted in through the door, each carrying two great buckets of water slopping over their brims. They set them down and leaned against the wall, gasping and wheezing.

  “Fucking hell,” said Nutker. “That’s it. No more.”

  “Listen to you,” Dürer said. “You’d think you’d never done an honest day’s work.”

  “Call this honest?” Cunrat said.

  Sensing mutiny aborning, Dismas went to his room and came back with a gold ducat. He gave it to Cunrat.

  “Go on. Replenish your fluids.”

  Dürer said, “Give me the sweat rag.”

  The Landsknechte handed it over. Dürer held the dripping rag by the corner.

  “All right, let’s get started.” He went off to the kitchen.

  “What’s he want with our sweat?” Cunrat asked Dismas.

  “Artist.” Dismas shrugged. “Go on, lads, before he gives you another job. See you later.”

  “Maybe you’ll see us. But we may not see you, for sure, we won’t be sober.”

  Dismas and Magda followed Dürer into the kitchen. Dürer had the sweat rag in the fruit press and was turning the vise handle. Landsknechte perspiration flowed from the spout into a small bowl. Dismas winced.

  Dürer and Magda held a discussion over the bucket of blood.

  Dürer said, “Look, how it’s thickened, already. Good-for-nothing Landsknechte.”

  He ladled some blood into a bowl.

  “The blue vial,” he said to Magda.

  Magda passed it to him.

  Dürer uncorked it and poured an amount of yellowish, syrupy liquid into the bowl.

  “Stir. Gently.”

  “What’s that?” Dismas said.

  “Viper venom. Two ducats, this cost. But nothing works better.”

  Magda said, “Paracelsus speaks of a leech whose saliva is also effective.”

  “What is the purpose?” Dismas asked.

  “To arrest the congealing,” Magda said.

  Dismas shuddered.

  “Blood. Viper venom,” he said. “Landsknechte sweat. What else? Unicorn tears? Liver of raven? If anyone comes in here, we will be arrested as witches and burn
ed. And who’d blame them?”

  Dürer gave Dismas the menial job of keeping the stove going and the water pots boiling. He and Magda went about their business.

  Dismas watched. Painter and apothecary spoke in a shared vocabulary that mostly eluded him. But this was fine, since he found the whole business frankly disgusting.

  There was a basket of eggs on one of the tables. Magda cracked them and carefully separated the yolks into a bowl. She whisked them, adding drops from another vial.

  “If that’s breakfast,” Dismas said, “none for me. I have no appetite.”

  Dürer muttered, “You know nothing of art.”

  “If this is art, I am content to know nothing.”

  “It’s called tempera.”

  Dürer added a quantity of Landsknechte sweat to the bowl containing the blood, then other liquids from more vials. Now he stripped off his clothes and stood naked.

  “Nars,” Dismas said. “Some decency, for Magda’s sake.”

  “Ready?” Dürer said to Magda.

  She nodded and handed him a paintbrush with short, stubby bristles, and held out the bowl with the yolk mixture.

  Dürer positioned himself in front of the mirror.

  Dismas said, “As I suspected. A self-portrait.”

  Dürer dipped a brush into the egg yolk and went to work. He started at the forehead, dabbing here and there. Using another, thicker brush, he traced a line on the right side of his chest, below the rib cage. Then dabbed at the wrists and feet.

  “Clyster,” he instructed Magda.

  Magda dipped the tip of the syringe into the bowl of blood and drew back the plunger, filling the chamber.

  Dürer stepped into the archdeacon’s copper bathtub in front of the mirror. He took the syringe from Magda and began at the forehead, squirting the yolked areas with precise bursts of blood from the syringe. The blood adhered.

  Next he squirted the line on his chest. Switching hands, he did his wrists and feet.

  He regarded himself in the mirror. It was remarkable. Dürer eerily resembled Christ with his five wounds.

  “Mister,” Dürer instructed Magda.

  It was the kind that ladies used to spray themselves with perfumes. Magda filled it from a second bowl containing Landsknechte sweat and a small amount of blood.