The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  “Now,” Dürer said, closing his eyes.

  Magda misted his body entirely from head to foot, leaving an oily, reddish film.

  He opened his eyes and examined himself in the mirror. “More on the face. And the beard,” he instructed.

  Satisfied, Dürer pointed to the table.

  Magda picked up the two coins.

  “Sesterci,” Dürer said. “He was a good fellow, Joseph of Arimathea, but aurei or solidae would have been an extravagance.”

  “Where did you get those?” Dismas asked.

  “Basel. Stop talking and help Magda.”

  He stepped out of the tub and went to the table. He lay down upon the linen on his back. He placed the two coins over his eyes and crossed his arms over his groin.

  “Fold it over me. Don’t pull. Let it settle naturally. Make sure it covers all the way to the toes.”

  Magda and Dismas each took a corner and together lifted the linen off the floor. They covered Dürer. The linen settled and clung to his moistened body.

  “And now?” Dismas said. “Are we to wait three days for you to rise from the dead?”

  “Dismas,” Magda scolded. “Some respect.”

  From beneath the shroud, Dürer murmured, “Keep the pots boiling. The room must be filled with steam.”

  Dürer remained still for three hours. The linen saturated, clinging to his body. The bloody wounds began to show through. His face appeared: forehead, eyes, beard, nose. Neither Dismas nor Magda spoke.

  At length Dürer said, “Well?”

  “Yes,” Magda said.

  “All right, then. Peel it off me. Slowly.”

  When this was done, Dürer rose stiffly from the table.

  “Christ, I’m stiff,” he said.

  He examined his work. He said to Magda, “Now the back.”

  Magda whisked a fresh batch of yolk while Dürer busied himself preparing another bowl of blood and viper venom and Landsknechte sweat. Dismas thought he might be sick from the smell and the vapors.

  It took Magda over an hour to trace the scourge marks on his back where the flagrum had torn the flesh. How could a man have survived this? Toward the end, she broke down and wept, but quickly regained her composure.

  When this was finished, Dürer did the soles of his feet, which he coated entirely with thick blood. Magda then sprayed him all over with the syringe, then with the mister. She and Dismas helped Dürer position himself on the linen.

  Dismas tended his stove. Dürer remained so still that Dismas had the strange illusion of keeping vigil over a corpse.

  After three hours Dürer said, “Enough.”

  They pulled back the linen and helped him to his feet. They stood, the three of them, and looked. No one spoke.

  Dürer rubbed his neck. “Consummatum est.”

  It is finished. The last words he spoke on the cross.

  Why not? Dismas thought. It was a bit late in the game to be fretting about blasphemy. Dürer said he wanted a bath and then a drink. Many drinks.

  38

  At the Bibulous Bishop

  They all needed a drink, so together they went to a tavern in the southern quarter, away from the castle precinct. Its name, the Bibulous Bishop, struck Dismas as cheeky, Chambéry being a center of pilgrimage. But it was just what was needed after their hours of strange, grim toil—noise and bustle.

  Dürer purred with self-satisfaction over his triumph of mimesis. Such preening was well familiar to Dismas, but tonight he inclined to let Nars have a wallow. He had created something unusual, extraordinary.

  The three of them sat at a corner table and recounted moments of their day in the warm afterglow of labor well and truly done.

  “Dismas! Good God, is it you?”

  Dismas looked up.

  Christ—Markus, whom he’d last seen in Mainz. It seemed a century ago. What was he doing here?

  Dismas stood and embraced his old friend, trying frantically to think how to explain his own presence here.

  Markus clapped Dismas on the shoulders and looked him up and down.

  “You look like an old man. Where’s your cane?”

  “Within reach, if I need to crack you over the head with it.”

  “What are you doing in Chambéry? Ah, of course. On a bone hunt. Come to steal the Shroud of Chambéry?”

  Dismas smiled thinly. “There’s no fooling you. But shh, not so loud or everyone will know.”

  “My silence will cost you a drink. Or two.”

  Dismas turned to Magda and Dürer.

  “These . . .” Magda was not wearing her nun’s outfit, nor was Dürer dressed as the Count of Schramberg. Dismas’s mind went blank. It had been a long day. Magda and Dürer would have to invent their own lies.

  “Sorry, I’m not good with names.” Dismas said to Markus, “We only just met.”

  Magda and Dürer stared.

  Dismas said to them, “Here is my friend Markus. We were soldiers together. Reiselaufers. Long ago. He’s a Swiss, like me. So. Well. How . . . jolly, yes? Good to meet you. Come, Markus. Let’s not bore these two with lies about our bravery. Let’s find a table where we can bore each other.”

  But Markus was going nowhere, having fixed his eyes on the lovely Magda.

  “No,” he said. “We will sit together. If the lady does not mind?”

  “No.” Magda shrugged. “Of course.”

  “Excellent. Well, you know my name. What is yours?”

  He addressed himself exclusively to Magda, showing no interest in Dürer.

  “Hildegard.”

  “A beautiful name! Hildegard of Bingen. Sibyl of the Rhine.”

  Dürer waited to be asked for his name. For once Dismas felt sympathy for Nars. A moment ago he was in narcissist Eden, basking in plaudits for his artistic feat. Now he was demoted to mute bystander while a scruffy ex-Reiselaufer set about trying to hustle Magda into the nearest bed.

  If only Magda had worn her nun’s habit. But nuns did not frequent taverns. Dismas thought best to keep the conversation focused on Markus. What was he doing here?

  “Now then,” Dismas said, filling Markus’s glass. “Last I saw you, you were headed back to the Valais to find yourself a nice milkmaid with big . . . What happened to all that?”

  “It was all right for a time. But so dull. Hildegard, tell me, where are you from? What part of the world produces such beauty?”

  “Too kind.”

  Dürer interjected, “It is true. Switzerland is dull. Nothing of interest has happened there since Hannibal crossed the Alps with his elephants. And he was not Swiss himself.”

  Dismas recognized the look on Markus’s face. He had seen it many times. What usually followed was a lightning blow of his fist. Magda saw it coming, too, and put a protective arm on Dürer’s shoulder.

  “Here is my husband. Heinrich.”

  Markus did not hide his disappointment. “Ah. Well, what a lucky fellow you are, Heinrich.”

  Dürer now put his hand around Magda’s waist and grinned triumphantly.

  “Yes. Am I not?”

  “Heinrich is a painter,” Magda said. “Of houses.”

  “Houses?” Markus said. His expression was clear. Why would such a fetching woman settle for a laborer?

  “Drink up, drink up,” Dismas said, filling everyone’s glass. “So, Markus. The cantons did not provide sufficient drama to contain you. No surprise. But what’s here for you in Chambéry? And don’t tell me you’re here on pilgrimage. The last time we were together, you used a church for target practice.”

  “I’m on my way to Spain.”

  “Spain? I thought you hated Spanishers, after Cerignola.”

  “I abominate them. They stink of garlic and fish. And they lisp, which I find unpleasant. You cannot trust them. Always they are making the sign of the cross and then trying to cut your throat. You can predict that a Spanisher will cut your throat because always he will first make a sign of the cross. No, I don’t like them. But they have made a path acros
s the sea. Sure, you’ve heard of the discoveries? Gold. Mountains of it. Silver. Emeralds. Rubies. Pearls.” Markus’s voice lowered in wonder. “They have found a city made entirely of gold.”

  “Well. That is something.”

  “Dismas! A city made of gold? Are you so Swiss this does not excite you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dismas said, summoning a show of enthusiasm. “Yes. A whole city, you say? Good heavens.”

  “The streets are cobbled in gold. Cobbles this size. So I will go to Spain and I will find a ship. I hate ships. I get sick. But a city made of gold is worth a few buckets of puke.”

  “What a pleasant image,” Dürer said.

  “Three or four cobblestones and I’ll be rich. Perhaps I will stay there. To protect the savages—from the missionaries.” Markus chuckled. “There’s a noble calling. Maybe I will find a beautiful savage woman. They say the women are . . .” He smiled at Magda. “They say the women are beautiful. But sure, they could not be as beautiful as some women here.”

  “It’s a good plan, Markus,” Dismas said. “Let’s drink to it. Drink up, drink up. When do you leave Chambéry? Soon, sure, with all that gold waiting for you.” He made it sound as though Markus’s gold cobblestones were being pried up by malodorous, lisping, throat-slitting Spanishers even as he spoke. Not a moment to lose!

  “I will stay until Friday. They’re displaying the Shroud from the castle walls. Might as well see it, since I am here. You’re the expert on this crap. Is it real, or just another piece of nonsense?”

  Dismas shrugged. “With relics, you never really know.”

  “What are you doing here, then?”

  “Me? Like you. Passing through. Italy. Did you come over the Bauges, like we—like I did?”

  “No. By way of Eggs.”

  “Eggs?”

  “The spa town, on the lake, north of here.”

  “Ah, Aix. Yes. The mineral baths. Did you have a nice mineral bath?”

  “Yes. I met some interesting fellows there. Hunters.”

  “Ah? Yes?” Dismas said, relieved that the conversation had taken a dull turn. “Hunters. Stag? Boar?”

  “Man hunters. From your part of the world. Imperial irregulars. Pursuivants.”

  Dismas stared. “Oh?”

  “Some noble—a count—got himself murdered in the Black Forest. Nephew or some such to the new Emperor, Charles.”

  Dismas’s mouth went dry despite the quantity of wine he’d poured into it.

  “Listen to this,” Markus went on. “He goes missing. With his entire retinue. A dozen men. Search party goes out to find them. Nothing. It’s like the earth has swallowed them up. God knows, things happen in the Black Forest. Still.

  “So they’re on their way back to Rottweil. They camp in the forest in this nice spot. Clearing, with a pond and so forth. So they’re making a fire and gathering up wood. And they find this piece of paper, in a crease in the cliff. It’s a drawing. A good drawing, of right where they are. But in this drawing there are crosses, like the ones on graves. They think, Fucking hell, what’s this? Forgive my language, lady.

  “They dig where the grave markers are. And what do you think? They find the bodies of the Count and his people. It’s like the killers wanted them to find the graves.”

  Dismas swallowed. “Well,” he said, “that is peculiar. Yes.” He glanced at Dürer. Dürer had gone pale. Dismas went on: “But it’s a long way from the Black Forest to Aix. How did these hunters know to . . . I mean, are they following a . . . trail of some kind?”

  “A very long way,” Markus snorted. “But it seems these killers are imbeciles. They left a trail blind Homer could follow. They looted the Count and his men. They’ve been hawking the spoils in every town they pass. Either they are stupid, or they want to be followed.”

  “Hm. Did they say where they were going? After Aix?”

  “They think maybe they went through the Bauges. You said you came through the Bauges?”

  The door to the tavern swung open. In stumbled Cunrat, Nutker, and Unks. They were so drunk they had to hold on to each other to remain upright. Dismas’s gold ducat had purchased many drinks.

  They looked about the tavern—clearly the latest in a series of taverns—and spotted their comrades. They waved and began to make their way toward them.

  In an effort to head them off, Dismas announced, “Oof, I’ve got to piss!” and stood up. But rising so suddenly, combined with the amount of wine, made him light-headed. He flumped back into his seat.

  “Masher Rufus!” Cunrat hailed, wobbling. “Masher Roo-fuss! Ash your shervice.” He saluted, slapping himself on the forehead.

  Markus regarded the three inebriates.

  “Why does he call you Master Rufus?”

  Dismas whispered into Markus’s ear, “Just some drunks. Don’t make a scene. They look a bit rough.”

  Markus snorted. “Rough? Let me handle this.”

  “Markus—”

  “You there, Ignatz,” Markus said to Cunrat. “Off with you. Quickly, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Cunrat stared, hanging on to Nutker, whose head drooped.

  “Who do you call Ignatz?” Cunrat said.

  “You. Go on. And take these other two Ignatzes with you.”

  “Now, now,” Dismas said merrily. “No need for names. No need for names. We’re all good Germans here.”

  “You’re Swiss, like me,” Markus pointed out.

  “Germanic.”

  Dismas addressed himself to the Landsknechte.

  “Greetings, good fellows. We have not had the pleasure of meeting. Have we?”

  The Landsknechte stared, pie-eyed, weaving. They looked at Markus, then at Dismas, then at each other.

  “Ahhh,” Cunrat said. He smiled and attempted to tap the tip of his forefinger against his nose, poked himself in the eye. “Yesssh! We have not met!” He turned to Nutker and Unks. “Ishn’t that right, lads? Shhhh!”

  “No,” Nutker said, shaking his head like a St. Bernard trying to shed snow. “Never . . .”

  Unks, incapable of speech, nodded and shook his head, to ensure every possibility was covered.

  Dismas rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a demi-teston. He put it in Cunrat’s palm.

  “Allow us to buy you and your friends a drink. Why don’t you take this over to the—”

  “Noooo!” Cunrat said, knocking the coin out of Dismas’s hand. “Nooo! We will buy you a drink!”

  “Many drinks,” Nutker affirmed, staggering sideways.

  “Drinks for you, Masher Roofiss . . . Dishmuss. And for Shister Hiltuh-de-gart . . . And his imperial mashesty, Count Loothor of Schramp.”

  Cunrat attempted a ceremonious bow, but so doing, pitched forward onto the table, making a chaos of overturned mugs and candlesticks and such. He remained facedown upon the table, surrendering to unconsciousness long postponed.

  39

  Pursuivants

  Markus listened in tranquility to Dismas’s account of the events that had brought him to Chambéry. Dismas apologized for trying to deceive him, saying it was only a desire to spare an old and much-loved friend from becoming entangled in a machination whose success was very far from certain.

  Markus accepted all this without protest. It was only when Dismas told him that the Shroud had spoken to him, asking him to translate it so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of Urbino, that Markus expressed an opinion.

  “What a lot of shit.”

  “I’m only telling you what I heard and saw. I don’t ask you to believe it.”

  “Those bastards in Mainz hung you from meat hooks in a dungeon. That scrambles a man’s brain. You’ll heal. Whether you live that long is another matter.”

  “It’s perfectly straightforward. The saint—or in this case, Jesus himself—communicates through the relic. Not by words, but—”

  “Enough, Dismas.”

  “You’ve become very cynical, I must say. You didn’t used to be. You weren’t cynical a
t Rocca d’Arazzo when you took that lance in your gut. As I recall, you were quite pious. Never heard such fervent paternosters. But then, blessed are the wounded.”

  Markus groaned. “What a sanctimonious fart you are. Don’t give me the Sermon on the Mount. Something’s been speaking to you, sure, but not Jesus. The moon, more like.”

  Dismas sniffed.

  “There is no point in arguing if you are not susceptible to reason. Embrace your cynicism. Hug it.”

  The first glow of dawn lightened the sky over the Bauges. Dismas and Markus sat in the public gardens. They’d gone there after hauling the inebriated Landsknechte back to the archdeacon’s apartment. Magda and Dürer stayed there with them so Dismas could have time alone with Markus to explain the strange situation into which he had wandered.

  “Do you really want to be part of this?” Dismas said.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because we will likely die.”

  “Better to die with a friend than stinking Spanishers.”

  “Why do you smile?”

  “Well, if you’re killed, and the rest of us make it, Magda will need protection.”

  Dismas chuckled. “You’re a friend, sure.”

  Markus shrugged. “You’d do the same.”

  • • •

  Dürer dipped a quill in the inkpot. Dismas dictated:

  “To his most exalted honor Lothar, Count Schramberg . . . be advised, your worship, that a French courier has been intercepted by agents of His Imperial Highness Charles V, by the grace of God, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Castile, Leon—”

  “Wait,” Dürer said. “Why do we need all this? It’s a dispatch, not his fucking pedigree going back to Charlemagne.”

  “Just write, Nars.

  “. . . Defensor Fidei, et cetera . . . at Württemberg. This dispatch was deciphered and found to contain information pertaining to a most heinous and insidious French plot . . .”

  When Dismas finished his dictation, Dürer said, “How do I sign it? ‘Kisses from Godpapa Charles’?”

  “It’s not from the Emperor, Nars. But how good that you find amusing the fact that an imperial force is on its way here to arrest us. Because you left a drawing of the graves. Will you also be amused when they put hot pincers to your flesh? On your way to be broken on the wheel? From the bottom?”