The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud

  Guner would never abandon Addaio. He, too, had made a vow of chastity and obedience, and his family—his parents while they lived and now his brothers and sisters and their children—enjoyed the financial comfort that Addaio granted them and the status they enjoyed within the community.

  He had served Addaio for forty years, and he had come to know him as well as he knew himself. That was why he feared him, despite the trust that had long been between them.

  “Do you think there is a traitor among us?” Addaio asked him now.

  “There may be.”

  “Do you suspect anyone in particular?”

  “No.”

  “And if you did, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, I would not, not unless I was sure. I would not want someone condemned solely on suspicion.”

  Addaio looked at Guner fixedly. He envied Guner’s goodness, his equanimity, and it struck him not for the first time that his servant would be a better pastor than he was—those who had chosen him had made a mistake; his lineage had weighed too heavily on them. They had chosen him because of the absurd yet age-old habit of showering the descendants of great men with honors and privileges, even when they were unworthy.

  Guner’s had been a humble family of country people whose forebears, like Addaio’s own, had followed their faith in secret.

  What if he resigned? What if he called the council together and recommended that they choose Guner as their pastor? No, he thought, they would never do it, they would think he had gone mad. And in fact, he felt that he was going mad in this impossible role, struggling constantly against his own nature, trying to tame his sinful wrath, speaking the certainties that the faithful demanded, and protecting the secrets of the community above all else.

  He remembered every detail of the terrible day his father, racked with emotion, had accompanied him to this house in which the former pastor Addaio had then lived, and left him there.

  His father, a prominent man in Urfa and a clandestine militant of the True Faith, had told Addaio from the time he was a child that if he behaved himself, if he lived well and purely, one day he might succeed the older Addaio. Addaio had always resisted the idea, assuring his parents that it was the last thing he wanted. The wonder and color of the world filled him with joy: running through gardens filled with fruits and vegetables, swimming in the river, exchanging looks and winks with the teenage girls in whom life was beginning to awaken, as it was in him.

  He had especially liked the daughter of one of their neighbors, sweet Rania, a girl with almond eyes and long dark hair. He dreamed of her in the darkness of his room.

  But his father had different plans for him. Barely out of adolescence, he was ordered to go to live in the house of old Addaio and to make his vows in preparation for the mission for which, people said, God had chosen him. The community had decided for him that he would be Addaio.

  His only friend in those painful years was Guner, who never betrayed him when he escaped to go and hide near Rania’s house, hoping to see her even from a distance.

  Like him, Guner was a prisoner of the wishes of his parents, whom he honored with his obedience. The poor country people had found for their son, and thus for their entire family, a better destiny than working in the fields from sunup to sundown. Addaio’s mother and father, believing the boy worthy, had honored him and his whole family when they accepted his service on behalf of their chosen son.

  And so the two men had submitted to the will of their parents, and of their community, and of all those who had come before them, and had ceased forever to be themselves.

  John found Obodas digging in the garden, absorbed in his labor.

  “Where is Timaeus?”

  “With Izaz. They are talking. You know that Timaeus is teaching him so that someday he may be a good leader of the community.”

  Obodas wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and followed John into the house.

  “I bring news,” John began, as Timaeus and Izaz greeted him. “Harran has arrived with a caravan.”

  “Harran! Excellent! Where is he?” asked Izaz, jumping to his feet.

  “Wait, Izaz. The caravan does not belong to Senin, though Harran is traveling with it.” John stopped, his face twisted with emotion.

  “What is it? Speak, John, for God’s sake!”

  “Yes, I must tell you, though it is hard…. Harran is blind. When he returned to Edessa, Maanu ordered the guardsmen to tear out his eyes. His master, Senin, has been murdered and his body thrown to the carrion-eaters in the desert.

  “Harran swore that he knew nothing about you, that he had left you in Tyre, on the docks, and that by now you should be in Greece, but that enraged Maanu even more.”

  Izaz began to weep. It was for his sake that these good men had suffered. Timaeus put his arm around him to comfort him.

  “We must go to him and bring him here. We will help him. He will stay with us if he wishes.”

  “I begged him to come with me, but he refused. He wanted you to know of his blindness before he came. He insists that he will not burden you with his keeping.”

  Izaz, accompanied by Obodas and John, hurried to the place of the caravans. One of the guides told them where they might find Harran and what had happened.

  “The leader of the caravan is a relative of Harran. That is why he consented to bring him here. Harran has no one in Edessa: His wife and children have been murdered, and his master, Senin, was tortured and killed in the plaza before all those who wished to witness the spectacle of his suffering. Maanu has cruelly punished all the friends of Abgar.”

  “But Harran was not a friend of Abgar.”

  “Senin was, and Senin refused to reveal the hiding place of the shroud of Jesus with which Abgar was healed. Maanu destroyed Senin’s house, burned all his possessions, and built a huge pyre on which he sacrificed his livestock. He tortured and tormented his servants—some had their arms cut off, others, their legs, and Harran had his eyes gouged out, the eyes that had guided Senin’s caravans across the desert. Harran should be glad to be alive.”

  They found Harran sitting on the ground outside one of the tents, and Izaz pulled him up and embraced him.

  “Harran, my good friend!”

  “Izaz? Is it you?”

  “Yes, Harran, yes—I have come for you. You must come with me. We will care for you, and you will want for nothing.”

  Timaeus greeted Harran warmly. He asked John to take Harran into his house while another room was built onto the little house he shared with Izaz and Obodas.

  Harran was comforted to know that he would have a place among friends and that he would not have to wander about the city, begging for alms. His voice quivering, he told them that Maanu had ordered all the Christians’ houses burned, even the nobles who had professed their faith in Jesus. He had shown no mercy, even to women and children and the aged. The blood of innocents had stained the snowy marble of the city’s streets, which even now reeked with the smell of death.

  Obodas, his voice breaking, asked about his family, his father and mother, who were servants of Senin and, like him, Christians.

  “They are dead. I am sorry, Obodas.”

  Tears bathed the giant’s face, and the words of Timaeus and Izaz were no comfort to him.

  At last Izaz asked the question he had feared to ask, of the fates of Thaddeus and his uncle Josar.

  “Josar was murdered in the plaza, like Senin. Maanu wanted the death of nobles to serve as a warning to the people, so that they might know that he would show Christians no mercy, no matter their estate. Josar made no sound. Maanu went to witness his torture personally and forced the queen to witness it as well. The queen entreated him—she fell to her knees and begged for your uncle’s life, but the king simply smiled to see her suffer. I know naught of Thaddeus. I fear it was the same.”

  Izaz struggled to contain his tears. They all had reason to be overwhelmed by sorrow and despair. They had all been sinned against and had lo
st those who were precious to them. He felt a knot in his stomach turning slowly to a burning desire for vengeance.

  Old Timaeus observed the struggle taking place in the young man’s heart—the same struggle occurring in the heart of Obodas.

  “Vengeance is not the answer,” he murmured to them. “I know that you both would be comforted if Maanu was punished, if you could see him die a long and agonizing death. I assure you that he will be punished, because he will have to account to God for the terrible things he has done.”

  “Do you not say, Timaeus, that God is infinite mercy?” Obodas threw at him, weeping.

  “But infinite justice as well.”

  “And the queen—does she still live?” Izaz asked Harran, fearing the reply.

  “After the death of your uncle, no one saw her again. Some servants in the palace say that she died of grief and that Maanu had her body taken into the desert and thrown to the carrion-eaters there. Others say that the king had her killed. No one has seen her. I am sorry, Izaz…sorry to bear such grievous news.”

  “My friend, the messenger is not to blame for the news he brings,” Timaeus said. “Let us pray together and ask God to help us bear our pain at the loss of our loved ones and to take the anger from our hearts.”

  THE NIGHT WAS FILLED WITH THE FRAGRANCE OF FLOWERS. Rome sparkled at the feet of John and Lisa Barry’s guests, who were chatting with one another in small groups on the broad terrace that overlooked the city.

  Lisa was nervous. John had blown up when, on his return from Washington, she told him that she’d decided to give a party for Mary and James and that she’d invited Marco and Paola. He knew exactly what she was doing and had accused her of disloyalty to her sister.

  “Are you going to tell Mary what’s going on? No, of course not, because you can’t—you absolutely cannot. Marco is our friend, and I’m willing to help him in any way I can, but that doesn’t mean involving my family, much less letting you fool around in his investigation. You’re my wife, Lisa, and I have no secrets from you, but that’s it. Don’t stick your nose in my work—I don’t mess with yours. I can’t believe you’d use your own sister this way—and for what? What the hell do you care about a fire in a cathedral?”

  It was the first serious argument they’d had in years, and she had to admit John was right. She’d gotten carried away and acted frivolously, and now she was filled with guilt.

  Mary had had no objections to the guest list Lisa sent her by e-mail. Nor had her niece, Gina, objected when she saw the name Marco Valoni and his wife, Paola. She knew they were good friends of her aunt and uncle. She’d met them two or three times; they were very nice, and both of them were interesting to talk to. She had, however, asked who this Dottoréssa Galloni was that was coming with the Valonis. Her aunt explained that she was a scholar who worked in the Art Crimes Department and a close friend of Marco and Paola. That had been enough for Gina.

  Waiters passed among the guests with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. “I feel kind of out of place,” Marco whispered to Paola and Sofia when they arrived. The crowd was impressive, even considering the circles in which the Stuarts moved. The guests included two government ministers, a cardinal, several high-ranking diplomats, among them the U.S. ambassador to Italy, and a number of important businessmen, not to mention the half dozen professors that were friends of Lisa’s and the handful of archaeologists Gina had invited.

  “Yeah, me too,” replied Paola, “but we’re here, and there’s no turning back now.”

  Sofia scanned the party for Umberto D’Alaqua. She saw him across the terrace, talking to a beautiful, sophisticated-looking blond woman who resembled Lisa slightly. They were laughing, clearly comfortable in each other’s company.

  “Hey, there! Welcome! Paola, you look wonderful. And you, I imagine, are Dottoréssa Galloni. A pleasure to meet you.” John knew his discomfort would not be lost on Marco. He’d been on edge about this ever since he’d found out about Lisa’s little game and had subtly tried to encourage Marco to decline the invitation—gently, with not a false note, but he’d tried nevertheless. Marco, for his part, asked himself why.

  Lisa came over, smiling. Like John, she seemed tense. Marco wondered if he was getting paranoid. But no, Lisa’s smile was just a bit stiff, and John’s eyes, usually so warm, seemed uneasy. Gina also came to greet them, and then her aunt began to take them around to introduce them to the other guests.

  John took note of Sofia’s effect on the men. Most were eyeing her surreptitiously, or not so surreptitiously, even the cardinal. Dressed in a white Armani tunic, her blond hair long and loose, with no jewelry but diamond studs in her ears and a Cartier tank watch, she was unquestionably the most beautiful woman there that night. In short order she was taking an enthusiastic part in the conversation among a group of ambassadors, a minister, businessmen, and bankers.

  They were analyzing the war in Iraq, and the minister turned and asked her opinion.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve been against it from the start,” Sofia said. “In my opinion, Saddam Hussein was not a threat to anyone except his own people.”

  Hers was the only dissenting opinion, so it added a definite spark to the conversation. She piled one argument on another against the war, gave a succinct lecture on the history of the region, and soon had her interlocutors viewing her with well-merited respect.

  Meanwhile, Marco and Paola were conversing with two of Gina’s archaeologist friends, who felt as out of place as they did.

  Sofia kept her eye on the blond woman conversing so animatedly with D’Alaqua. When she saw John approach her friends, she seized the moment to excuse herself and join them.

  “Thank you so much for inviting me, Signor Barry.”

  “We’re delighted you could come with Marco and Paola….”

  The blond woman turned with a smile and waved.

  Barry returned the greeting. “My sister-in-law. Mary Stuart,” he explained.

  “She looks so much like Lisa,” Marco said. “Would you introduce us?”

  Sofia lowered her head. She knew that Marco was making his move. Just then, Lisa came over.

  “Darling,” Barry said, “Marco wants to meet Mary and James.”

  “Oh, of course!”

  Lisa escorted them over to where her sister and her husband were conversing with D’Alaqua and three other couples. Sofia’s eyes were fixed on D’Alaqua, but he hardly seemed to notice. Perhaps he didn’t even remember her.

  “Mary, I’d like you to meet two of our best friends, Marco and Paola Valoni, and Dottoréssa Sofia Galloni, who works with Marco.”

  The blond woman gave them a big smile. “A pleasure,” she said, then courteously included them in the group and introduced them to the others. D’Alaqua politely nodded and smiled indifferently.

  Mary turned to her sister. “Are they archaeologists too?”

  “No, Marco is director of the Art Crimes Department, Paola teaches art history at the university, and Sofia, as I said, works with Marco.”

  “Art Crimes Department? What’s that?”

  Marco spoke up. “We’re a special office devoted to investigating crimes involving precious objects and Italy’s cultural heritage—art thefts, forgeries, smuggling….”

  “Oh! How interesting!” Mary responded politely. “We were just talking about that painting auctioned recently in New York—a Christ by El Greco. I’m trying to get Umberto to admit that he’s the person who bought it.”

  “Unfortunately not, as I’ve told Mary,” D’Alaqua said, with a slight smile. Then he turned to Sofia, his tone perfectly natural and polite, but distant.

  “How is your investigation going, Dottoréssa Galloni?”

  Mary and the rest of the group looked at him, puzzled.

  “You two know each other?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, I met Dottoréssa Galloni in Turin a few weeks ago. You’ve all heard of the fire in the cathedral, I’m sure. The Art Crimes Department was—perhaps still is, Dottoréssa Ga
lloni?—investigating it.”

  “And what do you have to do with it?” Mary asked.

  “Well, it was COCSA that was doing the repair work in the cathedral. Dottoréssa Galloni was looking into certain suspicions she and her colleagues had about the incident.”

  Marco was struck by D’Alaqua’s extraordinary self-possession. He projected absolute innocence without ever acknowledging in the slightest that it might be in question.

  “Tell me, Dottoréssa Galloni, what was suspicious?” asked one of the women in the group, a princess who appeared in all the society and fashion magazines. “I thought it was a simple accident.”

  Sofia gave D’Alaqua a wounded look. With one brief comment he’d made her feel awkward, clumsy, as though she’d crashed the party. Paola and Marco looked uncomfortable too.

  “When an accident takes place in a site where there are cultural treasures of this magnitude—like the cathedral, in this case—it’s our responsibility to consider all the possibilities,” Sofia responded.

  “And have you reached any conclusions?” the princess asked.

  Sofia looked at Marco, who cleared his throat to indicate that he’d take it from here.

  “Our job is more routine than it might appear, principéssa. Italy has an extraordinary inventory of art of all kinds, as you know, and our job is to preserve it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Lisa interrupted the princess, calling on a waiter to serve another round of drinks, and most of the group began to drift toward the buffet. John took advantage of the break to take Marco gently by the elbow and lead him to another cluster of guests; Paola followed. But Sofia stood firmly where she was, never taking her eyes off D’Alaqua.

  “Sofia,” said Lisa, trying to move her away, “I want you to meet Professor Rosso. He’s head of the excavations at Herculaneum.”

  “What is your specialty, Dottoréssa Galloni?” asked Mary.

  “I have a Ph.D. in the history of art, and I did my undergraduate work in Italian philology and dead languages—Aramaic, Latin, that sort of thing. I speak English, French, Spanish, Greek, and pretty good Arabic.”