The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud

  “Louis always wins,” de Molesmes said irritably.

  “It is a fair offer.”

  “No, it is not. You know as well as I that the Mandylion is the only authentic relic possessed by Christianity.”

  “The king’s offer is a generous one. Two sacks of gold would allow Balduino to repay his many debts.”

  “It is not enough.”

  “We are both aware, sir, that two sacks of gold, each the weight of a man, would solve many of the empire’s problems. The offer is more than generous if the emperor sells the Mandylion outright, since he would also enjoy the rents of his lands in France for the rest of his days, while if he but pawns it…well, I am not certain he would be able to repay such an amount.”

  “Yes, you are certain. You know very well he would never be able to recover the shroud. So, tell me, have you journeyed here with two sacks of gold?”

  “I have brought a document signed by Louis pledging the payment. I also have a quantity of gold as a guarantee of the king’s good faith.”

  “And what assurance can you give us that the relic will arrive safely in France?”

  “As you know, I journey with a numerous escort, and I am willing to accept in addition as many men as you think necessary to ensure the shroud’s safety. My life and my honor are pledged to see the Mandylion safe in France. If the emperor agrees, we will send a message to the king.”

  “How much gold do you have with you now?”

  “Twenty pounds in weight.”

  “I will send for you when the emperor has made his decision.”

  “I will be waiting. I confess that I will not mind lingering in Constantinople a few days more.”

  François de Charney was practicing his archery with the other Templars, as André de Saint-Rémy watched from the window of the great hall. Young de Charney, like André’s brother Robert, looked much like a Muslim. Both had insisted on the necessity of taking on that appearance in order to cross enemy territory without undue contretemps. They trusted in their Saracen squires, whom they treated as close comrades.

  After so many years in the East, the Temple had changed. Its knights had come to appreciate the values of its enemies—the Templars had not been content to engage them only in battle but also in their daily lives, and out of that had grown the mutual respect between the Templar knights and the Saracens.

  Guillaume de Sonnac had been a prudent Grand Master, and he had seen something remarkable in Robert and François, qualities that would allow them to be the perfect spies—for thus they were.

  The two knights spoke Arabic fluently, and when they were with their squires they comported themselves as true Arabs. With their skin browned by the sun and their vestments of Saracen nobility, it was difficult to see them as the Christian gentlemen they were.

  They had told André of their countless adventures in the Holy Land, of the enchantments of the desert where they had learned to live, of writings by the Greek philosophers of antiquity recovered by the wisdom of the Saracens, of the arts of medicine learned from them.

  The young men could not conceal their admiration for the enemies they had battled, which would have worried André de Saint-Rémy had he not seen with his own eyes the young men’s devotion and commitment to the honor of the Temple.

  They would remain in Constantinople until André gave them the Mandylion to take to the Grand Master. He shared with them his hesitation to allow them to journey alone with such a precious relic, but they assured him it was only in that way that the shroud would arrive safe at its destination, the Templar fortress of Saint-Jean d’Acre, where most of the Temple’s treasures were held. Of course, Saint-Rémy had to first secure the shroud of Christ, and for that he needed patience and diplomacy, not to mention cunning—all qualities that the superior of the Constantinople chapter of the Temple possessed in no small amount.

  ADDAIO ENTERED HIS HOUSE QUIETLY, TRYING NOT TO make any noise. The journey had exhausted him. Guner would be surprised when he found him in the morning. Addaio hadn’t informed anyone in Urfa he was coming back so soon.

  Bakkalbasi had stayed on in Berlin. From there he would fly to Zurich to withdraw the money they needed to pay the two men who were being hired to kill Mendib before he could be released from prison.

  Addaio had known Mendib since he was a child. He was a fine boy, friendly and intelligent. Obedient. The pastor remembered how eagerly he had embraced his mission, their last words before he submitted to the age-old sacrifice and surrendered his voice forever so that the community might prevail. But now he was a known link between them and the cathedral. A link that must be broken.

  They had managed to survive the Persians, the Byzantines, the Crusaders, the Turks. They had been living their secret lives for century upon century, carrying out the mission they had inherited.

  God’s favor should have been with them as the true Christians they were, but it was not—instead, He sent them terrible trials, and now a faithful young man had to die.

  The pastor slowly climbed the stairs and went into his room. The bed was turned down. Guner always did that, even when Addaio was away. He could not have been a more faithful friend, trying always to make Addaio’s life comfortable, sensing his wishes before he could make them known.

  Guner would never betray him—it had been stupid to think that. If he could not trust Guner, then he would never be able to bear the burden he had carried since he was barely a man.

  He heard a soft knock on the door and stepped to open it.

  “Did I wake you, Guner?”

  “I haven’t slept for days. I must know. Is Mendib to die?”

  “You got up to ask me about Mendib?”

  “Is there anything more important than the life of a man, pastor?”

  “Are you determined to torment me?”

  “That’s the last thing I want. But I can think of nothing else. Addaio, I appeal to your conscience—stop this madness.”

  “Guner, go. I need to rest.”

  Guner stared at him as if he could see into the depths of his dark soul. Then he abruptly turned and left the room. Addaio pressed his hands to his temples, trying to contain the rage and despair that pounded within him.

  “HAVE A BAD NIGHT?” GIUSEPPE ASKED ANA, WHO WAS absentmindedly chewing on a croissant in the hotel’s dining room.

  “Morning. Yes, I had a terrible night, thanks. Where’s Dottoréssa Galloni?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be down any minute. Have you seen my boss?”

  “No, I just got here.”

  Giuseppe looked around the room. The tables were all occupied. “Mind if I sit and have coffee with you?” he asked the reporter.

  “Of course not! How’s the investigation going?”

  “Slow. How about you?”

  “I’ve become a history student. I’ve read dozens of books, spent hours online, but I’ll tell you, last night I learned more listening to Sofia than from all of that combined.”

  “Yeah, Sofia explains things so well, you can see them. I’ve had that same experience with her. So, any theories yet?”

  “Nothing solid, and today my head feels like jelly. I had nightmares all night.”

  “Must have a guilty conscience.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what my mother used to say to me when I woke up from a bad dream. She’d ask me, ‘Giuseppe, what did you do today that you shouldn’t have?’ She said that nightmares were a warning from your conscience.”

  “Well, I don’t remember doing anything yesterday that would bother my conscience. Certainly nothing to merit these nightmares. Are you just a cop, or are you a historian too?”

  “Just a cop, which is enough. But I’m lucky to work in Art Crimes—I’ve learned a lot these years working with Marco.”

  “I can tell you all worship him.”

  “Yep. Your brother must have told you about him.”

  “Santiago has tremendous respect for him, and I like him too. I’ve been to dinner at his house, an
d I’ve seen him a few other times.”

  Sofia entered the dining room and spotted them.

  “What’s wrong, Ana?” she asked as she pulled out a chair.

  “I guess I look like hell if you can see it from across the room! Is it so obvious I had a rough night?”

  “You look like you’ve been to war.”

  “Ha! I was in the middle of a battle, in fact, and I saw children hacked to pieces, their mothers raped—I even smelled the black smoke from fires burning all over the city. It was awful.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Sofia, I know I’m probably pushing my luck, but if you have a minute free today and wouldn’t mind, could we talk again?”

  “I don’t know when, but sure, we can talk.”

  Marco came in, reading a note, and walked over to the table.

  “Good morning, all. Sofia, I have a message here from Padre Charny. Bolard is expecting us ten minutes from now in the cathedral.”

  “Who’s Padre Charny?” Ana asked.

  “You just had dinner with him. The dashing Padre Yves de Charny,” Sofia answered.

  “Don’t be such a snoop, Ana,” Marco added.

  “It’s my nature,” the reporter replied with a smile, then winced and pressed her hand to her head.

  Marco clearly wasn’t interested in lingering. “All right, let’s get going—everybody knows what they’re supposed to be doing. Giuseppe, you—”

  “Yeah, I’m on it. I’ll call you.”

  “Let’s go, Sofia. If we hurry we can still get there on time. Ana, have a nice day.”

  “I’ll try.”

  On the way to the cathedral Marco asked Sofia about Ana Jiménez.

  “What does she know?”

  “I don’t know. She seems like she’s kind of floundering around, but I have a feeling she’s got more than she lets on, and she’s smart. She asks question after question after question, but she doesn’t show her cards, you know? You’d think she didn’t have anything, but I’m not so sure.”

  “She’s young.”

  “But sharp.”

  “Good for her. I spoke to Europol—they’re going to give us a hand. They’ll start by securing the borders—airport, customs, train stations—at the right time. No one will get through without careful scrutiny. When we’re finished with Bolard this morning, we’ll go to carabinieri headquarters; I want you to see the plan that Giuseppe has been organizing. We won’t have many men, but I hope there’ll be enough. Not that it should be too hard to tail a guy who can’t talk.”

  “How do you think he’ll get in touch with his people when he gets out?”

  “I don’t know, but if he does in fact belong to some organization, he’ll have a contact address, someplace to go to—he’ll have to go somewhere. Trojan Horse will get us there, don’t you worry. You’ll stay at headquarters to coordinate the operation.”

  “Me? Oh no, I want to be out in the street.”

  “I have no idea what we’re going to run into, and you’re not a cop. I can’t see you racing through the streets of Turin if he takes off.”

  “You don’t know me—I can work a tail,” Sofia protested, smiling as she lapsed into “cop talk.”

  “Somebody has to stay at headquarters, and you’re the best person to anchor us there. We’ll all stay in touch with you with walkie-talkies. John Barry has talked his colleagues at the CIA into lending us some micro-cameras and other equipment—unofficially—so we can photograph the mute and track him wherever he goes. You’ll pick up the signal at headquarters—it’ll be just like you’re on the street. Giuseppe has made arrangements with the warden to get us the mute’s shoes.”

  “You’re going to put a tracking chip in them?”

  “Yes. Or try to. The problem is that all he has is tennis shoes, and it’s hard to get a device in them, but the guys from the CIA will help us out with that.”

  “Did the court permission for the operation come through yet?”

  “I should have it tomorrow at the latest.”

  They arrived at the cathedral. Padre Yves was waiting for them, to take them to the large room in which Bolard and the committee of scientists were examining the shroud. He left Sofia and Marco with them and excused himself, saying he had work that wouldn’t wait.

  Balduino had dressed in his finest robes. De Molesmes had counseled that he alert no one to the visit he was about to make to the bishop. He had also personally chosen the soldiers who would accompany Balduino as well as those who would surround the Church of St. Mary of Blachernae.

  The plan was simple. When night fell, the emperor would present himself at the bishop’s palace. He would politely request that the bishop turn over the Mandylion; if the bishop did not do so willingly, then the soldiers would enter the Church of St. Mary of Blachernae and take the shroud by force, if need be.

  De Molesmes had finally convinced Balduino not to be daunted by the bishop or his power. The giant Vlad, a man from the lands to the north, would also accompany the emperor. His mental faculties were not strong, and he would follow without hesitation any order he was given—qualities that would be useful if it became necessary to bring additional pressure on the churchman.

  Darkness had covered the city, and the only sign of life in its houses and palaces was the yellowish light of oil lamps. A pounding was heard on the gate of the bishop’s palace. The servant who hurried to open it stepped back in surprise when he found himself face-to-face with the emperor.

  The bishop’s guards rushed to the gate at the servant’s shout. Seigneur de Molesmes ordered them to kneel before the emperor.

  The imperial party strode purposefully into the palace despite Balduino’s rising terror. The resoluteness of his chancellor was all that prevented him from fleeing in panic from the interview that was to come. The soldiers of the imperial guard took up positions around the lower floors as the emperor and the chancellor ascended the stairs with Vlad.

  The bishop had been savoring a glass of Cypriot wine as he reviewed a secret letter that had arrived that day from Pope Innocent. He opened the door of his apartment, alarmed by the noise that reached him from the stairway, and was rendered speechless as Balduino, Pascal de Molesmes, and the giant confronted him.

  “What is this! What are you doing here—” the bishop exclaimed.

  “Is this the way you receive the emperor?” de Molesmes interrupted him.

  “Calm yourself, Your Excellency,” Balduino said. “I have come to visit you, as has long been my intention. I regret not having announced my arrival ahead of time, but matters of state prevented me.”

  Balduino’s smile did not calm the bishop, who remained silent as he backed away from them.

  “May we sit down?” the emperor asked.

  The bishop finally found his voice. “Yes, of course, come in, come in,” he stammered. “Your unexpected visit has surprised me, my lord. I will call my servants to bring us wine. I will have them light more lamps, and—”

  “No,” de Molesmes broke in again. “There is no need for you to do anything. The emperor honors you with his presence. Hear him.” He turned to the servants now clustered anxiously in the hall and dismissed them with reassuring words. Ordering the soldiers to stand by outside the bishop’s apartment, he then followed Balduino and the giant inside, closing the heavy doors behind him.

  The emperor took a seat in a comfortable armchair and sighed heavily. Constantinople must be saved. Pascal de Molesmes had convinced him that he had no option but to proceed.

  Now recovered from his initial alarm, and taking a seat himself, the bishop addressed the emperor in a tone that bordered perilously close to insolence:

  “What matter is of such importance that you find it necessary to disturb the peace of this house at this hour? Is it your soul that needs succor, or are you concerned by some matter at court?”

  “My good bishop, I have come as a child of the Church to seek your counsel with respect to the empire’s problems. Generally, sir, you
care for our souls, but those who have souls have bodies, too, and it is regarding earthly problems that I wish to speak to you, for if the kingdom suffers, men suffer.”

  Balduino looked toward Pascal de Molesmes for approval of his approach so far. De Molesmes, with a barely perceptible nod, signaled him to continue.

  “You know the dire straits of Constantinople as well as I. One need not be privy to the secrets of the court to know that there is no money left in the treasury and that the constant incursions of our neighbors have weakened us terribly. It has been months since our soldiers were paid all they are owed, and that is true also of my courtiers and ambassadors. I am grieved not to be able to contribute to the Church, of which I am, as you know, a loyal and faithful son.”

  At this point, Balduino fell silent, fearing that at any moment the bishop would react in anger. But while the tension in the room was palpable, the bishop simply listened—clearly weighing how to respond.

  “Although I am not in the confessional,” Balduino went on, “I wish to share with you my tribulations. I must save the empire, and the only solution is to sell the Mandylion to my uncle the king of France, may God protect him. Louis is willing to give us enough gold to pay the debts that hound us. If I deliver the Mandylion to him I will save Constantinople. And that is why, Your Excellency, as your emperor I am telling you that you must surrender the shroud to me. It will be in good Christian hands, like our own.”

  The bishop looked at Balduino fixedly and cleared his throat before speaking.

  “My lord, you come as emperor to demand a sacred relic of the Church. You say that in this way you will save Constantinople, but for how long? I cannot give you what does not belong to me; the Mandylion belongs to the Church, and thus to all Christianity. It would be a sacrilege to put such an object in your hands so that you might sell it. The faithful of Constantinople would not countenance it, for they worship the miraculous image of Christ. You have seen the devotion with which they pray to it, Friday after Friday. You must not confuse the things of earth with the things of heaven. Our interests are those of Christianity. My flock would never allow you to sell the relic or to send it to France, however well guarded it may be by good King Louis. Understand that it is not in my power to give you the Holy Shroud of our Savior.”