The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  Caraffa’s bodyguards fell in on either side of them as they walked.

  “Now, is it necessary to explain what I require? Surely not. You will give me something, and in return I will give you something. Look, the clouds. It’s pretty, Savoy. It will make a nice part of France. So, we will see each other after the Last Supper? What a silly man is Duke Charles, with his tableaux. But how fortunate for us, eh?”

  • • •

  “I say we grab him and carve him piece by piece, until he hands her over.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Nutker,” Dismas said. “You wouldn’t get within ten yards of him. It would take a troop of cavalry to penetrate his bodyguard.”

  Markus said, “I don’t need to get close.”

  “Killing him with a crossbow bolt won’t get Magda back.”

  “Why not go to Rostang?” Dürer said.

  “For Christ’s sake, Nars. Do you suppose Rostang will be pleased to learn who we are? In the Chambéry castle dungeon at this moment are fifteen imperial pursuivants with a warrant for our heads. Do you want to be handed over to them? Do you know how they execute killers of nobles in Swabia? They wrap you in chains and lower you into a pit of starving dogs. Slowly. So you’re eaten piece by piece. It’s called Cerberus, after the dog who guards the entrance to Hell. Want to experience that? We’ve no choice. Either we give Caraffa the Shroud, or it will go very badly for Magda.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dürer said. “How did this swine know?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Nars. He knows. Perhaps it was these.”

  Dismas held up his hands.

  “A few days ago I forgot to put on my gloves. A colossal stupidity. Caraffa saw them. Someone like him would know of the various regional techniques. Of the Little Marionette. He would logically conclude that I am not a servant of a German count. And by the way, he thinks he’s met you before. In Florence. No matter. Either we procure the Shroud for him, or Magda will endure torments I would prefer not to imagine.”

  Dismas stood.

  “This is all my fault,” he said. “I’ve no right to ask any of you to risk your lives. Leave Chambéry. Now. I will surrender myself to Duke Charles. He will make them give Magda back. For the rest, it doesn’t matter.”

  It was Unks—simple, stupid Unks—who spoke.

  “She’s our Little Sister.” Which was all that needed to be said.

  “Even if we succeed and give this asshole the Shroud,” Cunrat said, “can we trust him to give her back?”

  “What choice do we have?”

  Dürer said, “It’s not much to put our hopes on.”

  Dismas considered, pacing the room.

  His eyes lit on a miniature portrait under glass, hanging on the wall of the archdeacon’s apartment. He pulled it off the nail.

  “Nars. How long would it take you to paint this?”

  “You want a copy of that?”

  “No. A miniature. Like this.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You’ve got one hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “I’m not asking for a masterpiece, Nars.”

  Dismas explained his idea. Dürer went off to his room, muttering. An hour later it was done. Dismas replaced the glass cover.

  “It’s good, Nars. Good. All right, now, get some paper. I’ll dictate.”

  Dürer wrote what Dismas spoke, occasionally looking up with an arched eyebrow.

  When it was done, Dismas said, “Now give me the ring.”

  Dürer licked his finger and unscrewed Lothar’s signet ring. Dismas rummaged through the archdeacon’s desk. He removed a small leather pouch and put the miniature and the ring inside.

  “Wait,” he said to himself. He took the miniature out of the pouch and scrawled three words on the back, then replaced it in the pouch.

  “Sword.”

  Dürer gave Dismas Lothar’s engraved sword.

  Dismas gave the pouch and sword to Markus and Unks.

  “The carriages are outside the Royal Apartments. Caraffa’s is the light blue one. Hide these inside. If you’re challenged, say you are Rostang’s servants and these are farewell gifts from the Duke himself. When you’ve done that, go to the stables. Get the horses ready.”

  Markus and Unks nodded and left.

  Dürer said, “Will Rostang go for it?”

  “We’ll find out. If Caraffa keeps his side of the bargain, then we won’t need it. If not, it’s our only hope.”

  “God save us, Dis.”

  “Let’s hope he’s in a good mood.”

  44

  The Last Supper

  Dismas and Dürer paused at the foot of the stairs to the Holy Chapel.

  “Will you be all right, Nars?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Christ, Dis. What are we doing?”

  Dismas handed him two wadded balls of flax.

  “Remember, breathe through your nose.”

  “Stop telling me this. Four times you’ve told me. What’s in the fucking wine anyway? More ladanum?”

  Dismas stuffed his own nostrils with the balls of flax. “Some extract of mushrooms.”

  “Mushrooms?” Dürer said with alarm. “God in Heaven. Are we poisoning them?”

  “No, Nars. Magda says it produces visions. Don’t worry. Just don’t drink it. And concentrate on breathing through your nose.”

  Rostang was all aflutter. He directed them to the changing room. At six o’clock all was in readiness. The room was cleared of everyone but participants.

  “Exciting, is it not? Mm!” Rostang whispered to Dismas. Rostang was participating, in the role of the Apostle Philip. The Savoyard noble who’d purchased the role had fallen off his horse en route to Chambéry this afternoon. Or so he claimed.

  His grace the Duke of Savoy emerged from behind a curtain. The twelve apostles applauded.

  Great effort had gone into his grace’s wardrobe and makeup. He looked a very plausible—if dashing—Galilean carpenter, dignified yet ethereal. Charles blushed at the applause and made a little bow.

  “Dearly beloved. Come, let us take our places.”

  Dürer had not required much makeup. His ginger ringlets and beard and fine slender face made him a fine choice for the disciple whom Jesus loved. He took his appointed seat, to the right of the Savior.

  Dismas took Judas’s seat at the end of the table, to be near the silver incense chest. The woman who did his makeup applied putty to his nose, to give it an exaggerated Semitic aspect.

  He noticed that the other disciples, most of them drawn from the gratin of Savoyard aristocracy and officialdom, looked at him with unconcealed distaste. His smile was returned with cold eyes and tight lips. No wonder Rostang had a difficult time finding people to play Judas. Dismas thought: This is what it’s like, to be a Jew among Christians.

  The large earthenware jug of wine had been set on the table. Dismas recognized the tiny red crucifix on the napkin. He picked up the jug and went around the table filling everyone’s cup. The sole “thank you” came from Duke Charles. Fitting, Dismas thought, that Jesus should be the only one at the table with manners.

  Dürer absentmindedly raised his cup to his lips. Dismas cleared his throat loudly. Dürer caught himself and only pretended to drink.

  The coals in the incense braziers glowed bright red. Dismas went to the chest, scooped out a copious amount of myrrh mixed with Paracelsus’s Papaver balls, and heaped them onto the coals. Great clouds of smoke billowed forth, wafting upward.

  “Ah, myrrh,” the Duke purred. “Of all the gifts of the magi, my favorite. Who would not rather have myrrh than gold?”

  His nose twitched.

  “Must be an old batch. Well, brethren, let us commence.”

  He raised his cup. “To him who brought us to the Upper Room.”

  Everyone drained his cup. Dismas immediately got up and went around the table, pouring refills to the brim. Again, only Jesus thanked him.

  Dismas scooped more Papaver onto the coals, causing mor
e opiated cumulus clouds to billow forth. The air inside the Upper Room grew thick.

  Presently Dismas noticed that everyone’s eyes had gone glassy. Speech became slurred. Encouraged, he kept pouring the mushroom-laced wine and filling the braziers with opium.

  The disciple James, son of Alphaeus, became transfixed by the candle in front of him. He inserted his fingertip into the flame, blackening it. Thaddeus was stroking the beard of the disciple next to him, mesmerized, remarking that it felt like his wife’s privvy parts. Bartholomew tore his unleavened bread into little pieces, which he made into balls, which he then attempted to juggle. James, son of Zebedee, thumped the table with the heel of his hand and put his ear to the spot, shushing the disciples as he listened.

  “There,” he said to Bartholomew. “Hear it?”

  Intrigued, Bartholomew himself began thumping the table. Simon the Zealot became engrossed trying to extract his tongue with his fingertips while ululating.

  Duke Charles clapped his hands together to quiet everyone. But then instead of speaking, he stared into his palms with intense curiosity.

  “Ev-ery-one,” he said. “Everyyyy onnnnne.” He rose to address his disciples.

  “Verrrily I sayyyy . . .”

  No one paid attention, being preoccupied with their own explorations of tongue extraction, fingertip immolation, and table thumping.

  Duke Charles slumped against the disciple whom Jesus loved. He looked strangely sad.

  Matthew slammed his cup down on the table hard and bellowed, “Lord!”

  “Jesus! What?” said Duke Charles with a start.

  “Am I the fucker who shall betrayyyyyy-y-y . . . ?”

  Charles stared. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Why? Who are you?”

  “Mmm-athewwww.”

  Several disciples had formed a choral group and were making sounds resembling a cross between Gregorian chant and a pack of baying hounds.

  Dismas wondered what the guards outside must be making of it.

  “Stop! Stoppppppp!” the disciple Thomas demanded. “There is himmm who is the betrayer.”

  He pointed at Dismas and hurled his cup. It struck Dismas on the forehead. The other disciples joined in. Dismas ducked a blizzard of cups, candlesticks, and bread bits. He put up his hands to protect himself.

  Charles began to giggle. “Now, now, boys.”

  Simon the Zealot had picked up the silver shroud reliquary and held it over his head, preparing to crush in Dismas’s skull.

  “N-n-n-noooo,” Charles commanded. Simon set it down on the table with a loud thunk.

  Dismas looked. A bat flitted back and forth beneath the tenting. Acting rather oddly for a bat, due to the opiated smoke.

  Several disciples shrieked and took cover beneath the table. Others hurled objects at the bat, which continued to flit erratically.

  Duke Charles leaned against Dürer’s shoulder and began to cry, saying that he didn’t want any last supper after all.

  Dürer looked at Dismas with panic. Dismas was holding a napkin against his forehead to stop the bleeding.

  Dürer mouthed, “Do something.”

  Dismas got up and went to chapel door and tapped three times. The guards opened the door slightly.

  “What’s going on in there?” the chapel guard asked.

  “Glossolalia.”

  “Eh?”

  “Speaking in tongues. Ready?”

  Dismas turned and signaled Dürer, who was now patting Charles on the back to comfort him. He pointed to the chapel door and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Behold!”

  Silence descended like a mud landslide.

  Dismas whispered to Cunrat and Nutker, “All right, lads, you’re on. Remember, waft.”

  Cunrat and Nutker squeezed through the partly opened door, dressed angelically in the white robes Magda had sewn.

  The apparition had a calming effect on the Upper Room. Charles looked up from Dürer’s moistened shoulder. Disciples stared and gasped. Andrew fainted.

  Dismas concealed himself behind Cunrat and Nutker’s bulk as they approached the table, chanting melodiously.

  “And on the third day, the Magdalene went to the tomb and, finding it empty, looked inside—and beheld two angels!”

  Cunrat and Nutker wafted angelically toward the reliquary.

  Cunrat opened the lid of the reliquary and took out the Shroud of Chambéry. He held it up dramatically, still folded, for all to behold.

  Dismas saw with alarm that Cunrat and Nutker were breathing through their mouths, as he had instructed them firmly not to do. Cunrat’s eyes were already glassy. Nutker was fumbling with difficulty inside his angel robe, where Dürer’s shroud was concealed.

  Dismas cleared his throat loudly, nearly sundering his esophagus. His ahem jolted the two angels out of their drugged trance. Nutker still fumbled for his shroud.

  Finally he got it out and was about to slip it into the reliquary when Cunrat turned toward him. His elbow caught the edge of the reliquary and knocked it off the table onto the floor. It landed with an expensive clang and clatter. Dismas shut his eyes.

  Cunrat smiled beatifically, as if knocking the reliquary off the table were part of an age-old ritual, ordained from on high. He and Nutker disappeared from view below the edge of the table.

  A moment later, they rose. Cunrat hefted the reliquary back into place atop the table. Its lid was closed, Dismas saw. Nutker was fumbling beneath his robe. The switch was made. Nutker nodded to Dismas.

  The two angels now wafted backward to the chapel door. A moment later, they were gone. It was done. Consummatum est. And thank God.

  Charles and those disciples who remained conscious stared mutely into space.

  Dismas gestured to Dürer: I’m off. Time for Judas to go about his nasty business.

  Dürer gave him a stricken look. Don’t leave me. Charles had ceased sobbing and now rested his head on Dürer’s shoulder, eyes vacant and drooping.

  Dürer would have to see it through.

  Dismas quietly made his exit, through the door to the balcony.

  He said to the guard, “I’m Judas. Have to go betray him. Might want to leave this door open. Bit stuffy in there.”

  “His grace does love his incense. Could use some out here.”

  He wrinkled his nose in the direction of the thousands camped in the plaza below.

  “Stinky lot, pilgrims.”

  45

  We Are Finished, You and I

  Dismas tried not to break into a run as he hurried to the apartment. His only thought was to get the Shroud from Cunrat and Nutker and bring it to Caraffa.

  He raced up the stairs. The tableau that greeted him now stopped him cold.

  Caraffa stood at the center of it, holding the folded Shroud. The room was filled with his men, weapons drawn.

  Nutker was on his back on the floor in a pool of blood. Cunrat was beside him, cradling his head. Nutker’s eyes were open, unseeing.

  “He wouldn’t give it to them,” Cunrat said.

  Caraffa spoke.

  “As I told you in the courtyard, Master Dismas, I don’t waste time. Certainly not arguing with scum.”

  Caraffa gestured to his men. They seized Dismas and bound his wrists behind his back, and shoved him to the ground.

  “You’ve got what you came for,” Dismas said. “Let the girl go. That was the arrangement.”

  “Yes. But I serve my master, and my master has grown fond of your sister. So our arrangement, as you put it, is no more. What a pity for you.”

  Caraffa ran his hand over his prize, stroking it, as he might a pet cat.

  “I congratulate you, Master Dismas. What a surprise will greet Duke Charles tomorrow when he opens his reliquary and finds it empty. How I would love to be there. But Paris beckons.”

  Dismas realized, He doesn’t know about the switch.

  “Are you a man of honor, signore?”

  “The ultimate honor is victory, Master Dismas. And this I have achieved.”r />
  Cunrat spat: “Dago pig.”

  One of Caraffa’s men kicked Cunrat between his legs. Cunrat rolled onto his side, groaning.

  “They lack culture, Landsknechte,” Caraffa said. “And lacking culture, they have no manners. What a pity. But no matter.”

  He continued to stroke the folded Shroud.

  “But they are good fighters. I have seen them in battle. I can see why your Cardinal Albrecht would send them with you on your mission.”

  Dismas stared.

  “Myself,” Caraffa went on, “I, too, have grown fond of Sister Hildegard. What is her real name? When one is taking one’s pleasure with a woman, it’s only decent to call her by her real name. But it might be amusing to call her ‘Sister.’ I think best I take my pleasure with her before my master takes his. I don’t want to catch his altitude sickness.”

  Dismas lunged at Caraffa’s legs, an impulsive and futile impulse. Caraffa’s men kicked him until Caraffa raised a hand to signal enough. Dismas lay on his side, writhing.

  “Ah, Count Lothar joins us! What an honor!”

  Dismas looked up and saw them seize Dürer. They tied his hands and shoved him to the floor with the others.

  Dismas sat upright. Dürer looked at him with panic.

  “I have been complimenting Master Dismas on his translation,” Caraffa said. “Now I must compliment you. No doubt you were very good in your role at the Last Supper. As you were in your previous performances.”

  Dürer stared at the Shroud in Caraffa’s hands.

  Caraffa continued: “Have we met? I feel sure.”

  Dürer glanced at Dismas.

  “No.”

  “I have a very good memory. In Florence? Or was it Venice?”

  “I would remember someone as memorable as yourself.”

  Caraffa handed the Shroud to his lieutenant and crouched, face close to Dürer’s. He reached with a finger and twisted ringlets of Dürer’s ginger hair.

  “So pretty.” With his other hand, he took out his dagger and sliced off a handful of the ringlets. “A keepsake.” He put the tip of the dagger to Dürer’s cheek.