The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (12 page)

Despite Abgar's plea that they save their lives, Thaddeus and Josar had made the decision to remain in Edessa. They would share the fate of their Christian brothers and sisters. Neither of them wished to leave the shroud behind, though they would never know where Marcius had hidden it.

They met in the temple that evening with many other Christians of the city. They prayed together for Abgar, asking God's mercy for their king.

That morning, Josar had carefully rolled up the grave cloth and hidden it in the bottom of a basket, as Marcius had counseled him. Before the sun had risen to its zenith, Josar went to the market, the basket Over his arm, and wandered among the merchants' stalls, conversing with the tradesmen. At the hour they had agreed upon, he spied one of Marcius's servants buying fruit from an old man; Josar went up to the youth, who was carrying a basket like Josar's, and greeted him warmly. Then, stealthily and with great care, they exchanged baskets. No one noticed the exchange, and Maanu's spies saw nothing suspicious in the fact that Josar was greeting one of his fellow Christians.

Nor was the overseer suspicious when Marcius, high on a scaffolding, picked up an apple from the fruit basket he had carried with him and bit into it distractedly from time to time as he went along the wall, testing the wall's firmness, tapping to find dangerous hollow spaces among the fired bricks. Marcius had always enjoyed masonry and even today liked to lay bricks- what did it matter to the overseer if he spent his strength in the noonday sun when all about him were drowsy with the heat and the buzzing of the flies?

Marcius refreshed himself with the cool water that one of his servants had brought to his bedchamber. Resting from the heat of the day, the royal architect removed his dusty tunic and put on a clean one. He sensed that the days of his life were numbered. The moment Abgar died, Maanu would attempt to learn where the shroud was hidden so that he might destroy it. He would torture anyone he believed might know where it was hidden, and Marcius was among the friends of the king whom Maanu would suspect of sharing the secret. That was why he had come to a decision, about which he would tell Thaddeus and Josar that very night-a decision he would carry out the instant he learned Izaz was safe.

Accompanied by his two young servants, he made his way to the temple, where he knew his comrades would be praying. When he arrived, he took a place at a little distance from the others, where the community of the faithful would not see him. Though they were all Christians and loyal to one another, Maanu's money was plentiful, and it might persuade one of them to betray him.

Izaz glimpsed the architect standing in the shadows. Taking advantage of the moment when Thaddeus and Josar asked him to help distribute the bread and wine among the worshippers, he approached Marcius, who gave him a small, tightly rolled scroll of parchment, which Izaz tucked into the folds of his tunic. Then he signaled to a huge man who appeared to be awaiting a sign and slipped quietly out of the temple. Outside, followed by the enormous man, Izaz hurried toward the place of the caravans.

Senin's caravan had been readied for its departure from Edessa. Harran, the man charged by Senin with leading the caravan to Sidon, was waiting impatiently. He showed Izaz and the colossus, who was called Obodas, the place reserved for them and gave the order to depart.

Izaz did not unroll the parchment until the sun was well up in the sky the following morning. He read the two lines whereon the architect had written in clear characters the hiding place of the Holy Shroud. He then tore the parchment into tiny pieces and slowly scattered the pieces across the desert as they marched on.

Obodas watched over him attentively, keeping his eye ever alert to their surroundings. He had orders from Senin to protect the young man's life with his own if need be.

Three nights later, Harran and Obodas thought they were far enough from Edessa to take a brief respite from their journey and send a messenger to the house of Senin. It would take him three days to arrive, and by then Izaz would be safe.

Abgar was dying. The queen sent for Thaddeus and Josar, to tell them that within hours, perhaps minutes, the king's life would be at its end. He no longer recognized even her.

It had been ten days since Abgar called his friends into that same room to speak to them; they had conversed together until the blackest darkness of the night. Now the king was nearly lifeless; he did not open his eyes, and only a faint haze on the mirror held beneath his nose indicated that he was still alive.

Maanu, impatiently awaiting the king's death, had not set foot outside the palace. The queen would not allow him to enter the royal chambers, but that was of no importance. He would learn of his father's death, because he had promised a young slave girl her freedom if she told him everything that took place in Abgar's chamber.

The queen knew she was being spied upon, so when Josar and Thaddeus arrived she sent all the servants out of the chamber, and the friends conversed in whispers. She smiled with relief when she learned that the shroud was safe. She promised to inform them immediately when Abgar died; she would send the scribe Ticius, who was a Christian and a loyal servant. The three old friends made their farewells with emotion, for they knew that they would never see one another again in this life, and the queen asked Thaddeus and Josar to pray that God might give her strength to face the death that her son surely intended for her.

Josar, his eyes filled with tears, could not bear to say good-bye to the queen. She was no longer the beautiful woman of many years ago, but her eyes were bright with intelligence and energy, and her regal bearing remained unbowed. Conscious of the devotion the old scribe Josar bore her, she squeezed his hand and embraced him, so that he might feel that she knew how much he had loved her and to show that she loved him as the most loyal of her friends.

For three days more, Abgar lay dying. On the third day, the palace was dark, and the night outside black, and only the queen was watching over him. He opened his eyes and smiled at her in gratitude, his gaze filled with tenderness and love. Then he expired, at peace with himself and God. The queen clutched her husband's hand. Then she softly closed his eyes and kissed his lips.

She allowed herself only a few moments to pray, asking that God take Abgar into His keeping. Then, stealthily, she slipped through the dark corridors of the palace until she came to a nearby apartment where for some days now the royal scribe Ticius had been staying.

He was asleep, but he awoke when he felt the queen's hand upon his shoulder. Neither spoke a word. Then, under the cover of night and darkness, the queen returned to the royal bedchamber, while Ticius crept carefully out of the palace and made his way to the house of Josar.

The sun had not yet risen when Josar, filled with desolation, heard from Ticius the news of the king's death. He, too, had only moments for prayer. He had to send a message to Marcius, as the royal architect had bidden. Their plan depended on it. And he had to advise Thaddeus, for the life of them both, he was certain, had come to an end.

"ALL RIGHT, MARCO, SPIT IT OUT-WHAT'S on your mind?"

Santiago Jimenez's direct question took Marco by surprise.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Jesus, aren't we supposed to be detectives?"

Paola smiled. Marco had asked her to invite John Barry, the U.S. cultural attache, and Santiago Jimenez, Europol's representative in Rome, to dinner at their house. John had come with his wife, Lisa. Santiago was single, so his companion was always a surprise-and never the same girl twice. This time he'd come with his sister Ana, a vivacious young woman, a journalist who was in Rome covering a summit of the heads of state of the European Union. Now, after several convivial courses, they were all relaxing around the table with dessert and coffee.

'All right, then, you know that there's been another accident at the cathedral in Turin," Marco began. He took his time, summing up the case for them, oudining in general the relevant history and the fantastic similarities among the incidents, thoughtfully responding to their comments and questions.

"The history of the shroud is interesting-the way it's appeared and disappeared over the centuries, the dangers it's been exposed to-but it's hard to imagine someone would be so determined to destroy it or steal it," Lisa mused as the conversation began to wind down, her interest as an archaeologist sparked. "It's been in the cathedral at Turin since the House of Savoy deposited it there. As I recall, the story is that the cardinal of Milan, Carlos Borromeo, promised to walk from Milan to Chambery, where the shroud was at the time, to pray that the plague that lay on his city be lifted. The Savoys, who owned the shroud, were moved by his piety and decided to move it halfway, to Turin, to keep the cardinal from having to walk so far. And it's still there today. So think about it-obviously, if there've been so many accidents in the cathedral, and you don't believe they're unrelated, and you've got to admit that it can't have been the same individual who set the fire two weeks ago
and
over a hundred years ago, then-"

"Lisa, slow down," John scolded her. "Let Marco finish."

"Yes, but what I can't figure out is what's behind it- I can't see any motive. It may just be some fanatic who wants to destroy the shroud."

'A fanatic could have caused the accidents over the last ten, fifteen, twenty years, but a hundred years ago?" Ana took up the argument. "It's a great story, though. I'd love to write it."

'Ana! You're not here as a reporter!" Her brother glared at her across the table.

"It's okay, Santiago, it's okay. I'm sure we can count on Ana to keep this off the record and strictly confidential. Right, Ana?" Marco smiled at the journalist, but his meaning was clear. 'And, John, Lisa's gone to the heart of it. I'm asking you and Santiago to help me think about this, to find some plausible explanation for this mystery. I don't know whether my people and I are too close to this thing-I'd appreciate some outside eyes. I've prepared a report that details all the unexplained events that have happened in the cathedral or in relation to the shroud over the last hundred years. I know I'm presuming on our friendship and that you're both up to your ears in work, but it would be a great favor to me if you'd read it and let me know what you think."

"I'll be glad to give you a hand," the Spaniard said warmly. "Plus, you know you're welcome to take a look at the Europol files on- the shroud anytime you want."

"Thanks, Santiago."

"Of course I'll take a look, too, Marco, and give you my honest opinion. You know you can count on my help in anything you need, officially and unofficially," promised John.

"I'd like to read it, too, if I could," Santiago's sister interjected.

'Ana, you're not a cop, you don't have anything to do with this. Marco can't give you an official, confidential report."

"I'm sorry, Ana-" Marco began.

"Your loss, chief," Ana interrupted. "Let me give you a reporter's tip, though. My intuition tells me that if there is something, you've got to go at-whatever it is from the history angle, not the police angle. But it's your case."

As they walked to his car, Ana gave Santiago a playful hug. "You know, big brother, I think I'll stick around a few days longer."

"Ana, Marco is a friend of mine. Besides, I'd be in deep shit professionally if anybody found out that my sister was publishing stories on police cases that she could know about only through me. It would ruin my career-it's that simple. I don't care how great the story is."

"Oh, come on, don't be so melodramatic. I won't write a line, I promise."

"You won't? You'll keep this all totally off the record?"

"I promise I will, take it easy. I respect my sources when they tell me something off the record-I wouldn't last long if I didn't."

"I don't know why you decided to be a goddamn reporter!"

"Yeah, right, being a cop is a real step up!"

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink at the new 'in' place, so you can tell your friends all about it when you get back to Barcelona."

'All right, but I'm not taking it as a bribe, and I hope you'll let me in on what's in that report. I honestly think I could help, and I promise I'd do it without saying anything to anybody or writing a word of it. It's just that I love this kind of story. You know I do. There's something fascinating here. I can feel it."

'Ana, I can't let you mess around in an investigation that belongs to the Art Crimes Department, not to me-I'd be in deep trouble, I told you."

"But nobody would ever find out, I swear. Trust me. I'm sick of writing about politics, and sniffing out government scandals. I know I've been lucky and done well, but I still haven't come across the big story, and this could be it."

"How can this be your big story if you're not going to say or write a word?"

"Look, I'll make you a deal. You let me investigate on my own, without saying anything to anybody. I'll tell you what I find out-if, that is, I find out anything. If in the end I come across a lead, or whatever, that helps Marco close the case, then I'll expect permission to let me tell the story, or at least part of it. But nothing before the case is closed."

"No way."

"Why not?"

"Which part don't you get? This thing doesn't belong to me, and I won't-can't-make deals, with you or anybody. Jesus, why did I ever take you to Marco's house with me?"

"Take it easy, Santiago. I love you and I'd never do anything to hurt you. I love what I do, but you come first. I never put my job before people, ever. Much less in your case."

"I want to trust you, Ana, I do. I don't have a choice. But you're leaving tomorrow, back to Spain. You're out of here."

ZAFARIN LET HIS EYES WANDER OVER THE heavily trafficked highway. The truck driver taking him to Urfa seemed to be as mute as he was-he'd hardly spoken a word to him since they left Istanbul.