The Shroud

by Harold Robbins

  “I’ve been told that. But how did the tradition expand from a picture of a face to a full body impression on a long, rectangular cloth?”

  “Some only saw it folded.”

  That was basically what the Orthodox priest told me, but again, I wanted it confirmed. It was folded so that it took up less room and could be stored in a small space in the city wall.

  “You realize that the Shroud is mentioned in the most important writing of all?” he asked.

  “The Bible,” I said. “But there is other evidence, too, the same kind that proves Homer wrote the Odyssey and the Iliad, that wonders of the ancient world like the Statue of Zeus and Colossus of Rhodes existed, and that Jesus performed miracles.”

  I was on a roll, so I continued.

  “Just as those great creations were mentioned in the writings of their times and for centuries thereafter, we know from historical documents that the Image made its way from the tomb of Jesus to Urfa and then Constantinople over a period of many centuries. Vatican archives state that it was seized by French knights in Constantinople during pillaging of the city and made its way to Venice. That evidence should also be added to the list.”

  He nodded. “You have left out the most convincing evidence of all.”

  “Faith?”

  He tapped his chest. “What we Christians feel when we see the Lord’s sacred cloth.” He paused and stared at me.

  I saw the black fires that roared in Nevsky’s and Karina’s eyes—the fires of a true believer who only knew one truth—the one he subscribed to.

  “Victorio, the way art experts like me work when we’re hired to find, appraise, and authenticate antiquities for collectors and museums is the same way we would evaluate the Image. We look to historical documents and scientific tests.

  “I’ve authenticated hundreds of antiquities in my time on less evidence than that linking the Image of Edessa to the Shroud of Turin.”

  I threw my hands up in exasperation. “I admit I’m really frustrated. It seems to me that what I’ve stepped into is a thousand-year-old controversy between two great religious organizations and that everything about the Image, the Shroud, whatever you want to call it, has been deliberately blurred.”

  His countenance had changed. His pale skin suddenly started turning scarlet. What I saw was rising anger. Perhaps because he considered whatever was coming down to be an assault on the sacred cloth.

  I could only imagine the torment that was going on inside of him.

  The Shroud of Turin was the most important Christian relic, the only known relic intimately connected to Jesus himself. And here I was implying that there was some skullduggery about it.

  I decided to push the envelope.

  “It seems so obvious that the Image is the Shroud. So, why doesn’t everyone just say it? Why…?”

  “Why doesn’t the Catholic Church return it to the patriarch of Constantinople?” he asked. “That’s the question you’re really asking, isn’t it? That’s what you have come to Venice to find out.”

  His face was inflamed, but I had a feeling that his knees were shaking.

  I felt my face flush, too, from the heat in the place. And my legs were shaking. Whatever was scaring the hell out of the lay brother was taking a bite out of my courage, too.

  He turned from me and left the coffee bar, leaving me standing alone, holding a cup of sugary, muddy espresso.

  37

  I had to move fast to catch up with him outside, matching his long strides for a few moments until he slowed his pace and we stopped looking like we were in a race.

  I didn’t say anything. I’ve been driven myself by emotions I couldn’t control and it was best not to say anything until he was ready.

  He stopped when we reached a canal and stood on the edge and stared down at the dark waters.

  “It’s not a question of which church holds it,” he said.

  I assumed “it” was the Shroud.

  “It should be in the safest place possible,” he said.

  He finally looked at me.

  “What would have happened to it if it had not been brought out of Constantinople by Christian knights?”

  “It would be in a mosque in Istanbul.”

  “Exactly. It would have become a prize of war of the Ottoman Empire when they conquered Constantinople. And all Christendom would be deprived of the great pleasure and duty to view and protect the sacred cloth.”

  He started walking again and I kept up with him as he continued what seemed to be a silent argument with himself. He was trying to justify something and I wasn’t quite sure what it was.

  He stopped abruptly and faced me.

  “As with all matters that concern our Lord, there is both passion and tragedy. The tragedy of the sacred cloth is that we cannot simply enjoy it in peace. After two thousand years, after being hidden from those who would have destroyed it, the Shroud remains an enigma and is subjected to questions and accusations.”

  “You’re referring to the controversy over whether it is the actual Shroud mentioned in the Bible?”

  “Yes. Have you ever seen the Shroud? Not just a picture of it, but the actual cloth itself?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Having seen it myself, having felt its holy aura, I find it impossible to understand how anyone could doubt that it isn’t the sacred cloth that covered our Lord’s body and absorbed his own blood from crucifixion wounds.”

  We walked slowly in the direction of the piazza.

  Brother Ferrera was a man being ripped inside by powerful emotions. Both his passion and anger about the Shroud were tearing at him.

  The passion was easy to understand—he believed it had touched the body of Jesus and had absorbed some of his essence.

  The anger was puzzling.

  Perhaps he was angry that some people cast doubt on the Shroud. But some people cast doubt on Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, and all the rest of the “isms.”

  He would have to go around being angry 24/7 at the billions of people who didn’t share his faith.

  It couldn’t just be the fact that people were divided over the authenticity of the Shroud. Something else was bottled up in this man, ready to burst out when the cork was popped … but getting the cork out wasn’t going to be easy, at least not for me, because I had to tread lightly.

  Not knowing how much to push, I kept my mouth shut. For all of a minute, of course, before I lost patience.

  I tried to sum up what I knew in the hopes it would stimulate him to reveal more of what he was keeping back.

  “If the Image of Edessa is a full-length shroud of Christ,” I said, “then it’s the Shroud of Turin. If it’s the Shroud of Turin, it really doesn’t belong to the Catholic Church, but to the patriarchate of Constantinople.”

  I tried to give him a gentle touch on his arm to soften my words, but he jerked his arm away from me.

  “Victorio … I’m not suggesting it be sent back, I’m just telling you what I heard from an Orthodox priest in Istanbul. It’s true that if the Crusaders hadn’t stolen the cloth in Constantinople, it would have fallen into the hands of a different religion. But if it was sent back now, religion probably wouldn’t play a role. Turkey is a modern country.”

  Bad strategy. I was talking myself into a hole, for sure.

  The last thing he wanted to do was go on the record that the Shroud cared for by his organization and the church he worked for should be returned to the Orthodox Church in Istanbul because it was stolen.

  But, not able to keep my mouth shut, I locked eyes with him again for a knockout punch.

  “Is that what is bothering you? That the Shroud really belongs to the patriarchate of Constantinople?”

  “I’m not saying that. Others say those things.”

  He had panic in his voice, as if I had accused him of being sacrilegious.

  “You said Lipton was killing you slowly,” I said. “What did you mean?”

  The panic spread to his face
and eyes.

  I squeezed his arm above the wrist and spoke softly. “Victorio, you can try to deal with this alone or have an ally. I came to Venice to find answers to Lipton’s scheme. I don’t have a choice—whatever he’s up to, he’s managed to entangle me in it. I suspect you’re in the same situation. Lipton has done something to ensnare you, too.”

  He avoided my eyes.

  “You were at the archives. What were you looking for in the historical records when you already know so much?” I asked.

  “Absolute proof that the Shroud isn’t the Image.”

  Isn’t the Image?

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand. I thought you believed that it was—”

  “I told you other people believe that.”

  He was backpedaling, but I shut my mouth because he seemed ready to bolt again.

  I tried a more neutral approach.

  “I think we both agree that there are good reasons why so many people have reached the conclusion that the Shroud is the same cloth as the Image.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if the Shroud is the Image or not, those are just words that describe the sacred cloth.” He shot me a look. “It’s just that … if I could find the irrefutable proof that it isn’t the Shroud, it would prevent problems.”

  He had me totally puzzled.

  “What problems?”

  He turned and left me again, almost running.

  I groaned. I should have worn my running shoes.

  This guy needed a few stiff shots of something stronger than holy wine along with a pill bottle to combat panic attacks.

  I followed after him, forcing myself not to run.

  I didn’t know what to make of him. He had great zeal for the holy relic. He was angry that anyone doubted that the Shroud was the burial cloth of Christ. He pretty much confirmed the case that the Shroud was the Image.

  Yet, he wanted to prove it wasn’t?

  It made exactly no sense.

  He stopped and waited for me to catch up. I could see he was in agony. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

  “You think I am mad, but you must understand. Even though I haven’t taken the vows of a priest, I have committed my heart and soul to my Lord Jesus Christ and his church on earth.”

  “Of course.”

  That was the best I could come up with as a listening response. I had to let him work out his torment. Each time I tried to approach it, he flew off like a startled bird.

  I knew the symptoms and the source well, having been through panic and anger myself.

  Lipton had the ability to snare people and then set them off in blind terror as if they were trying to outrace a flesh-eating disease. But I just couldn’t get a handle on what stranglehold he had on the Catholic brother.

  He blew his nose and got himself under control.

  “I had a good life before Satan’s disciple came out of the Inferno to torment me. I have been loyal and faithful to the church, you understand, always doing my job, always faithful.”

  “I’m sure you have been,” I murmured.

  “But he won’t rest until he destroys me.”

  “We can beat him, Victorio. I’ve battled the bastard before and beat him. We can do it together.”

  “You don’t understand; he’s not human. He truly is one of Satan’s demons.”

  “He’s a crook,” I said. “He’s on the run from the police and has lost most of his money. If we unite, we can beat him.”

  He shook his head frantically. “It’s gone too far.”

  “What has? What does Lipton have on—”

  “I must get back to Turin.”

  He turned to leave and I snapped, “Wait! You can’t just leave me like this. We need each other’s help.”

  He hesitated, wavering on a brink. “Come to Turin. Call me at the church when you get there. There are more mysteries and answers there. More than you will ever imagine.”

  He fled. Fast. Literally running again.

  I shook my head and walked away. I didn’t have the mental energy to tackle him.

  My interlude with Brother Ferrera had left me more perplexed than enlightened.

  38

  I opened the door to my hotel room and was about to step in when I spotted a piece of paper under my door.

  I stared down at it, tempted to kick it back out and slam the door. I was tired of games and I knew the source of the message was a man who was a true game master.

  Wishing I was on another planet, one with warm sand and blue water, I picked it up and unfolded it.

  Zattere.

  It contained only one word, but I knew who had written it.

  Lipton, of course.

  I recognized his arrogant, bold scrawl. I doubt if it was written with the same pen he used before he crashed and burned—a diamond-clustered Princess Di memorial pen he had paid two hundred thousand dollars for at a London charity auction.

  I admired the pen once, in his office, as he signed a contract selling a Greek vase to the museum I represented. It had had limited sentimental value for him—he offered to give it to me, if I raised my museum’s offer another million.

  Where I come from, they called that a bribe. To Lipton, it was just business as usual.

  I got only one small satisfaction out of the memory—by now, Lipton had no doubt sold the pen off for a fraction of its value after he fled the inferno ravaging his gallery. It wasn’t hard to imagine that it was now being used by some rich sheik to count oil wells.

  The note caught me by surprise, but I wasn’t surprised that he found me. I just shouldn’t have been so optimistic that my own schemes would work when he was so much better at it.

  I had to practice being devious—he was a natural at the game.

  It occurred to me that because I’d had to use my passport to register at a hotel, he only needed to call around until he found the one where I was staying.

  I didn’t even attempt the same trick on him, for a good reason—there was no possibility he was using a passport in his own name. With the computerized international tracking that came on the heels of the age of terrorism, alarms would have been going off at Interpol as soon as he crossed into Italy.

  Zattere was a popular waterfront promenade district of cafés, small shops, and the little guesthouses called pensioni where you could get a no-frills room and share the bathroom at the end of the hall. There would be hair in the shower drain from the last person who showered and a little mold in the corners, but if you didn’t have rubber thongs, throwing a towel on the shower floor to step on took care of the problem.

  I knew the district because it was where I’d stayed when I came to Italy as a poor student rather than a curator with an expense account paid by a very rich museum.

  Not as overwhelmed by tourists as the San Marco Piazza area, Zattere was still in Venice, which meant it wasn’t cheap and wasn’t uncrowded.

  It would be an easy ride in a water taxi from my hotel—but I sat down on the bed and stared at the note as if I could divine something from it that wasn’t immediately revealed in the one scrawled word.

  I had come to Venice to find out more about Lipton’s scheme.

  His note meant he had tracked me down, but I now had the opportunity to get information. I didn’t want to go—but I would, of course. Lipton had been manipulating me for so long I no longer had free will.

  Like Pavlov’s dog, I obeyed the command.

  Now I was confronted with the reality of dealing face-to-face with the murderous lying bastard.

  39

  Early evening had come and the old-fashioned streetlamps glowed with shadowy gray penumbras when I stepped from a water taxi onto a dock at Zattere.

  Fog that had been barely noticeable in the bright lights around the piazza and the Schiavoni carnival celebrations turned the Zattere wharf gloomy.

  Other than the charming streetlamps and the light from several small cafés in sight, there was little light and not many people
on the street.

  Most people, tourists as well as locals, would be at the Piazza San Marco, where fantastically costumed carnival queens or princesses or whatever they were called would be paraded across the square.

  If I had any sense I’d be back there with the rest of the world rather than on a mostly dark, half-deserted canal side street that looked like a scene from a gothic novel.

  No Lipton in sight and I started walking slowly along the canal. I had taken only a few steps when Satan’s disciple materialized out of the shadows.

  “Madison, my dear, how nice to see you.”

  The man was a terrific actor. He approached me like we were old friends who had bumped into each other at the mall instead of him making life miserable for me in a foreign land. Bastard. He acted as if he hadn’t tried to kill me lately.

  I half expected him to be wearing a costume or at least a mask, but he was in street clothes.

  I smiled. “Henri.”

  He gallantly took my arm as a classy, old-fashioned gentleman would do. Except he was none of the above.

  I once thought of him as arrogant and a hard sell, the type who didn’t mind painting the other side into a corner with outrageous demands because he had the best supply of antiquities—contraband ones, of course—in the trade.

  Tonight, he was pushing gently. But that only made him more deceptive and dangerous.

  “Don’t you just love being back in Venice?” he asked. He waved his arms in a grand gesture to indicate everything in the gray, gloomy night. “In this city there’s music in the air even when there are no bands playing. Magic is everywhere. One wouldn’t be surprised to bump into Michelangelo carrying one of his sculptures to the house of a patron nobleman, or da Vinci sitting at a café, sketching a flying machine.”

  He gave me a look as if he were sharing a confidence. “You know, of course, that Leonardo wrote backwards, out of fear that a priest might report him to the Inquisition for heretic ideas. Can you imagine torturing a da Vinci or Galileo because they had ideas that stirred our imagination?”

  He continued chatting and I mumbled something indicating that I couldn’t imagine torturing them.