I had been in Turin briefly years ago because it had a world-class museum of Egyptology—a citadel of paganism, for sure, in the same city where a church chapel held the most precious icon in Christendom.
In those days I had no special interest in the Shroud, though I would have seen it had it been on display. I had simply come into town to spend a few days examining the important Egyptian collection and to exchange shoptalk with the museum curators.
The Shroud is kept in the Chapel of the Holy Shroud—Cappella della Santa Sindone, part of the Renaissance Duomo di San Giovanni Battista—Basilica of Saint John the Baptist.
I’d seen the cathedral from the outside and had read that it had been built around the time Christopher Columbus was blundering into the Americas on his way to China or wherever he thought he was headed.
When I was in Turin back then, I’d heard the story of a “miracle” concerning the Shroud. Well, if not a miracle, at the very least an act of supreme courage.
It happened in 1997 when a fire—possibly arson—broke out in the chapel where the Shroud was stored. With fire raging, a courageous city fireman, Mario Trematore, used a sledgehammer to smash the layers of bulletproof glass protecting the relic. He hammered away with debris crashing down from the ceiling and other firefighters spraying hoses at him to keep off the flames.
He finally broke through, grabbed the silver box holding the Shroud, and rushed outside. Asked how he managed to break through the bulletproof glass during the daring rescue, he said that God gave him the strength.
I’d had a pleasant visit to the city on the earlier occasion, but now, besides being lured here for reasons I couldn’t yet fathom, there was also an unfortunate coincidence about the region that ignited sour memories in me: Piedmont was also the name of the family-owned museum I worked at before my career crashed and burned.
The Piedmont family fortune had originally come from vineyards in the surrounding region before the riches were enlarged by immigrants to America.
The fact that so much hell in my life was connected to the word “Piedmont” was not lost on me as I returned to this city.
Despite all the information I had gathered and all the conclusions I’d reached, I felt completely lost. I wished I had gotten more information from Victorio. And I still had no idea of what Lipton was up to.
I knew one thing: I was not going to Turin of my own volition. I was being led there to play a role in whatever grand scheme of things was taking place.
My head was still buzzing with conspiracy theories, but some things were reasonably clear. I hoped.
Nevsky wanted evidence that the Image was the Shroud. Rather than telling me precisely that, I had been pushed in the right direction.
The only logical reason for being sent off to reach my own conclusions was that it would lend credence to Nevsky’s claim that the Image was the Shroud. He could point to the fact that an “independent” conclusion had been drawn by an expert.
There was, of course, a big, fat flaw in the theory. The part about the “expert” did not compute even though I am an expert on authenticating historical objects.
Viewing the Image and the Shroud as being simply historical “artifacts,” I could authenticate them in terms of placing them in a historical context by using documents of the era and relying upon the results of scientific tests, but that begs the question—the real “authentication” of religious objects is a matter of faith, not evidence.
But what would my word be worth? There couldn’t be a worse pair in the field of art to provide an expert opinion about a sacred icon than Lipton and me.
Lipton was a wanted man, out of police custody only because he’d been presumed dead. Once the biggest name in antiquities, he was now notorious as the biggest trader in looted art in modern times.
As for me, well, I like to characterize my own situation as a fall from grace in the haughty world of art … but at best, my reputation for having been even inadvertently involved with looted artifacts would not sell well to the religious community. Not to mention that the scandal that triggered my fall revolved around the provenance of an artifact.
In other words … Nevsky must have had a reason for choosing the two of us, and it wasn’t based upon how credible our opinions would be considered by the rest of the world.
I needed to find Nevsky’s real reason because I was presently up to my neck in whatever machinations Lipton, Nevsky, and the rest of the gang had going.
Like Damocles, who had a sword held up by a single piece of horse’s hair hanging over his head, I had pretty much reached the conclusion that I was in dire jeopardy. I just didn’t know why.
Or who was hanging back in the shadows with a pair of scissors to cut the strand of hair.
Again, I felt all alone. I silently wished my mysterious knight from the carnival was with me. Or, at the least, that Yuri would confess his never-dying love for me and use his gun to kill off whoever wanted me dead.
Not a very nice thought, but if it was a matter of someone getting killed, the people wanting me dead were my favorites to go first.
I was still on the train bemoaning my situation when I saw a story about the Shroud in a Turin newspaper that made my eyes pop open.
Victorio had left out a very critical piece of information.
The Looting of Italian Art … by American Museums
In 2008, the government of Italy exhibited at the Presidential Palace in Rome seventy art objects that had been “repatriated” from American museums after years of demands for their return.
Some of the antiquities are over two thousand years old.
The items were recovered from some of America’s most notable museums, including the Getty Museum in Los Angeles, Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and the Princeton University Art Museum.
Museum officials generally assert that the items were bought in good faith from dealers without realizing that they were looted from archeological sites in Italy.
Other countries are making similar demands for the return of antiquities illegally smuggled out.
44
Tired of playing any more hide-and-seek games, I checked into a hotel across from the train station so I’d be easy to find if the station had been watched.
I called Victorio as soon as I had freshened up. He told me to take a taxi to the cathedral and meet him in front of the chapel in an hour.
I didn’t mention I’d read a startling piece of information in a newspaper on the train and that he had misled me by omitting a critical fact about the Shroud. I hoped it wasn’t deliberate, that he would have gotten around to it if we had hung out together longer.
I spotted Victorio pacing near the front of the chapel as my taxi pulled up. After I got out, he walked slowly toward me, still grim and looking like he was trying to control the dread he felt.
He struck me as also pretending he was in a parade as he was being marched to a lynching.
I had wondered long and hard about what he had done that exposed him to blackmail from Lipton. With all the clergy sex scandals, molestation of an altar boy or girl was the first act that occurred to me, though he wasn’t wearing a sign that said “pervert.” I had no idea how Lipton would know, anyway—I doubted that he had many connections with religious people unless they were devil worshippers.
Another possibility might be Victorio’s sexual preference.
Lipton was gay; I didn’t know if Victorio was gay, but even if he was, it wasn’t illegal in Italy, though I didn’t know what the church’s attitude was toward gays. Or if lay brothers were treated differently than priests in regard to sexual preference.
In other words, I didn’t know what Lipton had on Victorio except that the lay brother looked ready to throw himself into the Po River with a barbell strapped to his feet.
I did know that Victorio had not volunteered that key piece of information I discovered on the train.
“You didn’t tell me Nevsky was coming to Turin to vie
w the Shroud,” I said.
He reacted as if I had slapped his face. “I—I thought you knew,” he stammered.
“I didn’t know and I think it’s a pretty critical piece of information. Lipton hired me to claim that the Shroud was stolen from the Eastern Church—at a time when Nevsky’s a guest of the Vatican to view it. Something is very wrong in that scenario.”
“The Shroud is only exhibited to the public on rare occasions,” Victorio said, “but extremely important people are granted permission to see it on an informal basis. Nevsky and a newly consecrated cardinal from Africa are coming to view it in two days. Preparations for the viewing are already being made.”
“Is Nevsky in Turin now?”
“I don’t believe so. We’ve been told that he won’t arrive until tomorrow. The viewing won’t be for two days.”
I didn’t think it was a coincidence that I was lured to Turin at about the same time Nevsky was to make an appearance.
“Why are you so concerned about Nevsky viewing the Shroud?” he asked. “Do you know him?”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Victorio might not know of my connection to the Russian patriarch. Had I mentioned Nevsky to Victorio during our discussion in Venice? I realized I might have only referred to him as a “wealthy collector” rather than by name.
“I met him briefly,” I said. “Are you aware of a connection between Nevsky and Lipton?”
He shook his head. “No.”
My lie detector radar went off.
From the moment I had mentioned Nevsky’s name, something had changed in Victorio’s voice and mannerisms. When I put his name together with Lipton’s he had tightened up. But again, I couldn’t force a confrontation. He would just walk away.
“Victorio, if we’re going to find our way out of this mess, we need to team up. The only way we’re going to accomplish that is by being completely honest with each other.”
He shook his head. He appeared ready to burst into tears. “I no longer know what to think.”
I changed tack. “Tell me about the viewing by Nevsky.”
“Nevsky is an important religious figure, but not one that is favored by the Vatican. He is not only the leader of another sect, but it’s known that he has radical political ambitions.”
“But the Church will still let him see the Shroud?”
“Yes, but the viewing was approved only after months of negotiations. And was timed for the visit of the cardinal so that it would send a message to Nevsky that the Church would not bend over backwards to accommodate him.”
He raised his eyebrows and gave me an inquiring look. “The patriarch would have hardly known back then that you would also be in the city at the time of the viewing.”
“Unless it was planned that way. It’s pretty obvious that Lipton steered me to Turin. And Nevsky’s appearance has to fit in somewhere; it can’t just be a coincidence.” I decided it was time he told me what Lipton had on him. “What does Lipton—”
He shook his head and walked away, gesturing me to follow.
My demand apparently had bad timing.
“We enter over here,” he said. “The window of opportunity will be open only for a couple of minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
He gave me a look of surprise. “I thought you understood, that it’s what you wanted.”
“What?”
“To see the Shroud, of course.”
I caught my breath.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asked.
“Victorio, I’d love to see the Shroud. I just didn’t expect it.”
“I have gotten special permission for the viewing. And you aren’t even a cardinal.”
He smothered a giggle with his hand.
I had been running around from city to city and country to country talking to people about the Shroud as if it were just a piece of cloth—something you could go into a store and buy. Or a museum to see.
Now the realization hit me.
The Shroud of Turin.
The linen burial cloth that Jesus had been wrapped in after death.
The covering he had left behind after his Resurrection and Ascension.
The most sacred religious object on the planet … it was scheduled for public viewing only once about every couple of decades unless you were a world-class dignitary.
And I was to see it.
I was never very pious when it came to religious observance, but it suddenly struck me that I was about to view the most sacred single icon in the faith that my parents had raised me in.
I followed him like a lamb.
When we entered the chapel, I noticed that the name tag on his blazer identified him as a member of the security staff.
He saw me looking at the ID tag on his coat and he shook his head.
“Nothing too glamorous. I’m not a policeman; I don’t carry a weapon. I’m just an usher to herd guests on special occasions. Just here to make sure that no one gets too close to anything they are not supposed to.”
Because he said he was a writer, I had assumed that he worked with press releases or other publicity.
We entered the chapel and he took my arm to steer me away from the public area.
“There’s an entrance only used by staff and visiting VIPs.”
Ah … I was a VIP now.
“How did you get me admitted?” I asked.
“It’s not for public view at this time. As you must know from the article you read, this special viewing is reserved for a prince of the Catholic Church and one of the Eastern Church.” He looked around to make sure he wasn’t heard. “When these rare viewings occur, a small number of special people are invited for a viewing.”
“Define special.”
His voice went even lower. “People who have been generous with the church, especially the financial burden of the chapel and protection of the Shroud, certain people whose position in government aid the church’s missions, foreign dignitaries like Nevsky…”
“What category do I fall into?”
He grinned. “You are a pious, wealthy American woman who is thinking about making a significant financial contribution to the maintenance of the Shroud.”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. That’ll work.” If they passed the collection plate, I could throw in a few dollars. And skip a meal to make up for it.
“We have to be very quiet when we enter,” he said. “Nuns are preparing the sacred cloth for display.”
As he lead me down a hallway and we came to an unmarked door, the realization that I was about to see not just the most sacred and significant icon in all Christendom, but a two-thousand-year-old artifact hit me.
I was a lover of antiquities. More than anything—food, money, or even sex—ancient artifacts touched my soul. And this was for certain one of a kind, making it the rarest of the rare.
He used a code to open the door and we entered a large, high-ceilinged, rather shadowy chamber. The group of nuns preparing the Shroud were gathered around a long, wide table at the other end of the room.
Before us were displays of “negative” photo images of the Shroud.
“This is the famous photograph taken by Secondo Pia in 1898,” he whispered. “Pia was a lawyer and pioneer photographer who was given permission to photograph the Shroud during an exhibition of it. In those days photographers didn’t use film but big, square photographic plates. Taking the picture would create what is called a negative image on the back of the plate. From that image, an actual photograph would be printed. Pia took the picture and said that he nearly dropped and broke the plate when he turned it over and saw the image.”
I could see why.
Also on display was a natural-light image. It showed only the faint outline of a figure of a prone man, but the negative image displayed next to it was startling—it reflected the features we had come to identify with Jesus.
“This is the first photo in history ever taken of the Shroud.”
I noticed that when Victorio talke
d about the Shroud, his tone was one of reverence, even wonderment. My gut instinct was that no matter what worldly troubles plagued him and brought Lipton into his life to slowly “kill” him, Victorio truly loved and revered the image of his Savior.
“As you can see,” Victorio said, “the image on the Shroud is much clearer on the negative than in natural light.”
“It’s amazing.”
I wasn’t exaggerating. Amazing was an understatement.
I felt strange. Not a particularly pious person, my last religious experience occurred at about age ten when my parents stopped taking me to church after I started playing hooky from Sunday school. My mother and father were the type that believed in God, but were not big on organized religion. They went to church to rear me in the doctrines of their faith … and gave up the indoctrination when they discovered that I was more interested in pagan Greek vases than statues of the Holy Mother.
Yet, I felt something the moment I entered the sanctuary of the Shroud. Something I had never felt before: fear of God.
I was one of those “faithful during crisis” types—I got pious when things were going completely to hell and I needed a lifeline. That old battlefield expression about there being no atheists in the foxhole really applied to me.
But in this quiet, serene chapel, I felt something beyond a need for a lifeline—I felt a presence that frightened me. As if someone was peeking into my soul.
My many sins and transgressions started spinning in my head.
“These are exhibits of holy relics,” Victorio said.
He brought me out of Dante’s Inferno.
After the pictures were other exhibits—the vestment of a martyred saint, a sliver of the True Cross, a small gold statue of Saint George and the dragon.
As we approached the Shroud itself, Victorio whispered aloud the legend on the cover that was customarily draped over the Shroud’s resting place but was now displayed on the wall.
“Tuam Sindonem veneramur, Domine, et tuam recolimus Passionem. We revere Your Holy Shroud, oh Lord, and through it we meditate on Your Passion.”
The Shroud Page 25
