“What do you suggest, gentlemen?” he finally asked.
“The Temple is ready to purchase the Mandylion from you,” Saint-Rémy replied. “This very day you shall have enough gold to retire your most pressing debts. Genoa and Venice will leave you in peace—unless you incur more debt. Our demand is silence. You must swear upon your honor that you will tell no one—no one, not even your good chancellor—that you have sold the shroud to the Temple. No one must ever know it.”
“Why do you demand my silence?”
“You know that we prefer to act with discretion. If no one knows where the Mandylion is, there will be no disputes or confrontations between Christian and Christian. Silence is part of the price. We trust in you, in your word as a gentleman and emperor, but the bill of sale will state that you will be in the Temple’s debt for the full amount we bring you today if you reveal the terms of our agreement. We would also require the immediate repayment of all your other debts to the Temple.”
The emperor could hardly breathe from the intense pain in his chest.
“How do I know that Louis is being held prisoner?” he managed to ask.
“You know, sir, that we are men of honor and would never lie to you about such a matter.”
“When would I have the gold?”
“Now.”
Saint-Rémy knew that the temptation was too great for Balduino, especially with the fate of his chief sponsor, the king of France, in doubt. By simply saying yes, the emperor would eliminate most of his immediate worries; that very morning he could call in the Venetian and Genovese ambassadors and pay his debts to their republics.
“No one in the court will believe that the money has simply fallen from the sky.”
“Tell them the truth—tell them that the Temple has given it to you. You need not tell them why. Let them think it is a loan.”
“And if I do not agree?”
“You are free not to agree, my lord. We have made no threat against this empire, or yourself.”
They stood in silence. Balduino tried frantically to weigh his dwindling options as Saint-Rémy waited calmly.
At last the emperor fixed his gaze on the Templar and in a barely audible voice spoke but four words: “I accept your offer.”
Bartolome dos Capelos handed his superior a rolled document, and Saint-Rémy in turn extended it toward the emperor.
“This is the agreement. Read it; it contains the terms that I have spoken of. Sign it and our servants will bring the gold we have brought with us and put it where you command.”
“Were you so sure I would agree, then?” moaned Balduino.
Saint-Rémy remained silent, though his eyes never left the emperor’s. Balduino picked up a quill, affixed his mark, and sealed it with the imperial seal.
“Wait here,” he told the Templar, and sighed. “I will bring the Mandylion.”
The emperor left the room by a door hidden behind a tapestry. A few minutes later he returned with a carefully folded piece of cloth.
The Templars unfolded it enough to ensure that it was the authentic Mandylion. Then they folded it up again.
At a gesture from Saint-Rémy, the Scottish knight Roger Parker and the Portuguese Templar dos Capelos left the room and swiftly made their way to the entrance of the palace, where their servants were waiting.
Pascal de Molesmes, hovering in the antechamber, observed the coming and going of the Templars and their servants loaded down with heavy sacks. He knew it would be futile to ask what they were carrying, and he was bewildered at not having been called by the emperor. Time and again he considered entering the room with the others, but something counseled prudence. He feared provoking Balduino’s wrath, and so he waited and watched.
Two hours later, with the sacks of gold deposited in a secret compartment hidden in the tapestry-covered wall, the Templars took their leave of the emperor.
Balduino would keep his promise of silence, not simply because he had given his word as emperor but also because he feared André de Saint-Rémy. The superior of the Templar chapter in Constantinople was a pious man, devoted utterly to the cause of the Lord, but in his eyes shone the man inside, a man whose hand would not tremble if he had to defend that which he believed in or which he had vowed to do.
When de Molesmes entered the royal chamber, he found Balduino pensive but calm, as though a weight had been lifted from him.
The emperor informed him of the sad fate of his uncle the king of France and how, in view of the circumstances, he had accepted a new loan from the Templars. He would pay off the debt to the Venetians and Genovese and bide his time until good King Louis was once again at liberty.
The chancellor listened with concern, sensing that Balduino was concealing something, but he said nothing.
“Then what will you do with the Mandylion?”
“Nothing. I will keep it in a secret place and wait for Louis to be freed. Then I will decide what to do. This may have been a sign from our Lord to prevent us from sinning by selling his holy image. Call the ambassadors and tell them that we will deliver over to them the gold we owe their cities. And call in the Comte de Dijon—I will tell him of the fate of his king.”
Before the assembled knights of the chapter, André de Saint-Rémy carefully unfolded the shroud, watching the image of the full body of Christ appear. The Templars fell to their knees and, led by their superior, began to pray.
They had never seen the shroud in its entirety. In the casket in which the Mandylion was laid in St. Mary de Blachernae, all that could be seen was the face of Jesus, as though it were a painted portrait. But there before them now was the figure of Christ with the stigmata from the torments he had suffered. Lost in prayer and meditation, the knights were unaware of the hours that passed, but night was falling by the time Saint-Rémy rose and carefully folded the shroud and went with it toward his room. A few minutes later he sent for his brother Robert and the young knight François de Charney.
“Make ready for your departure as soon as possible.”
“If you allow us, sir, we could depart within a few hours, when the shadows of night will protect us,” suggested Robert.
“Will that not be dangerous?” asked the superior.
“No, it is better that we leave the house when no one can see us and the eyes of those who may be watching us are overtaken by sleep. We will tell no one that we are leaving,” de Charney put in.
“I will prepare the Mandylion against the rigors of the journey. Come for it, no matter the hour. You shall also take a letter from me, and other documents, and deliver them to Grand Master Renaud de Vichiers. You must not deviate from the road to Acre for any reason. I suggest that several brothers accompany you—perhaps Guy de Beaujeu, Bartolome dos Capelos—”
“Brother,” interrupted Robert, “I beg you allow us to go alone. It will be safer. We can lose ourselves in the woods and fields, and we will have our squires with us. If we go alone we will arouse no suspicions, but if we go with a group of brothers, then the spies will know that we are carrying something.”
“You will be carrying the most precious relic of Christianity—”
“—which we will defend with our lives,” interrupted de Charney.
“Then let it be as you say. Now leave me, I must prepare the letter. And pray, pray that God may guide you to your destination. Only He may warrant the success of your journey and your mission.”
There was no moon. Not a single star illuminated the vault of the sky. Robert de Saint-Rémy and François de Charney crept stealthily from their chambers and made their way to the apartment of André de Saint-Rémy. Silence filled the night, and inside the fortress the other knights were sleeping. On the battlements, a few Templars, with the soldiers in their service, stood guard.
Robert de Saint-Rémy gently pushed open the door of his brother and superior’s chamber. They found him on his knees praying before a crucifix on the wall.
When he became aware of the presence of the two knights, he rose and, without
a word, handed Robert a cloth sack of no more than middling size.
“Inside, in a wooden coffer, is the Mandylion. And here are the documents you are to take to the Grand Master and gold for the journey. May God be with you.”
The two brothers embraced. They did not know if they would ever see each other again.
Young de Charney and Robert de Saint-Rémy pulled on their Saracen robes and, melting into the blackness of the night, hurried to the stables, where their squires awaited them, calming the impatient horses. They gave the password to the soldiers at the gate and, abandoning the safety of the chapter’s fortress, set out on the road to Acre.
SLOWLY, MENDIB PACED BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE jail’s narrow courtyard, enjoying the sunshine that warmed the morning. He had heard enough to know that he had to remain alert, and the psychologist’s and social worker’s nervousness had aroused his suspicions further.
He had passed the medical examination, he had been observed at length by the psychologist, and the warden had even sat in on one of those exhausting sessions in which the doctor made him react to those stupid stimuli they baited him with. At last, the parole board had signed the papers for his release, and all that was lacking was the final approval by the judge—ten days at most, and he would be free.
He knew what he was to do. He was to wander through the city until he was certain he wasn’t being followed, and then he was to go to the Parco Carrara. He was to go there for several days, observe the community’s contact Arslan from a distance, and not drop the note to set a meeting until he was sure that no one was watching.
He feared for his life. That policeman who’d visited him had not seemed to be bluffing—he’d threatened to do everything in his power to see that Mendib spent the rest of his life in prison. Then suddenly, the way was cleared for his release. The carabinieri, he thought, were preparing some trap.
They may think that if I’m released I’ll lead them to my contacts. That’s it, that’s what they want, and I’m just the bait. I have to be careful.
He continued to pace back and forth, back and forth, without realizing that he was being observed. Tall, dark-skinned, their faces blank and stupid from their time in jail, the two Bajerai brothers studied him surreptitiously through one of the windows that opened onto the courtyard as they talked quietly about the murder they would soon commit.
In the warden’s office, Marco Valoni was in the midst of an argument.
“I know it’s unlikely that anything will happen, but we can’t leave that to chance. We have to ensure his safety for the rest of the time he’s here,” he insisted to the warden and the head guard.
“Signor Valoni, the mute barely exists for the other inmates—he’s of no interest to anyone. He doesn’t speak, he has no friends, he communicates with none of them. No one will do him any harm, I assure you,” the guard replied.
“We can’t run that risk. Think about it—we don’t know who we’re dealing with. He may be some poor jerk, or he may not be. We haven’t made much noise about releasing him, but it’s enough to be heard by those who may be listening. Someone has to answer to me for his safety here.”
“But Marco,” the warden argued, “we haven’t had any paybacks in this jail or killings among the prisoners—nothing like that—in years. I just don’t share your concern here.”
“I don’t care. I am concerned. I want to talk to the capos here. Signor Genari, as head guard, I’m sure you know who they are.”
Genari shrugged his shoulders. There was no way to convince this guy not to go sticking his nose into jail politics. The cop actually thought that he was going to tell him which prisoners gave the orders inside, as though Genari could do that without risking his own neck.
Marco picked up on Genari’s reservations and rephrased his request.
“Look, Genari, there has to be one prisoner inside that the others respect, defer to, you know. Let’s talk to him.”
The warden shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Genari maintained a stubborn silence. Finally, he intervened. “Genari, you know this prison better than anyone—which one of the men fits the bill? Get him in here.”
Genari stood up and walked out of the office. He knew he couldn’t stonewall longer without arousing the suspicions of both the warden and this son of a bitch from Rome. His jail ran like a Swiss watch—there were unwritten laws that everyone followed, and now Valoni wanted to know who pulled the strings.
He sent one of the guards for the capo, Frasquello. At that hour he’d be on his cell phone, giving his sons instructions for running the drug-smuggling operation that had sent him to prison—a snitch had paid the price for that, but that was another story.
Frasquello swaggered into Genari’s little office, looking pissed.
“What do you want? What the fuck is so fucking important?”
“There’s a cop who wants to talk to you.”
“I don’t talk to cops.”
“Well, you’re going to have to talk to this one, because if you don’t, he’ll turn this prison inside out.”
“There’s nothing in it for me—talking to some fucking cop. If he’s got a problem, he can solve it himself. Leave me out of it.”
“No! I’m not leaving you out of it!” shouted Genari. “You’re coming with me to see this guy, and you’re going to talk to him. The sooner this shit is over the better, so let’s go.”
“What’s he after? What does he want with me? I don’t know any cop, and I don’t want to know one. Just leave me the fuck alone.”
The capo made a move to leave the office, but before he could open the door Genari had him against the wall, his arm twisted behind his back.
“Turn me loose, you fuck! Are you crazy? You’re a dead man!”
Just then the office door opened. Marco stood there, staring hard at both men.
“Turn him loose!” he ordered Genari.
Genari released his grip on Frasquello, who turned around slowly, measuring the newcomer.
“I decided I’d come down myself. Looks like I got here just in time. Sit down,” he ordered Frasquello.
The capo didn’t move. Genari shoved him into a chair.
“I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I know my rights, and I don’t have to talk to any fucking cop,” the capo spat. “I’ll call my lawyer.”
“You won’t call anybody, and you’ll listen to me and do what I tell you, because if you don’t you’ll be transferred to a place where your good friend Genari won’t be looking after you.”
“You can’t threaten me.”
“I’m not threatening you.”
For no more than a few seconds, Frasquello considered that.
“Fuck it, what do you want?”
“Well, now that you’re being reasonable, I’ll tell you: There’s a man here in this prison I want protected.”
“Tell Genari—he’s the boss. I’m just an inmate.”
“I’m telling you because you’re the one who’s going to make sure nothing happens to him.”
“Oh, yeah? And how am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Supposing I agree, what’s in it for me?”
“Some…perks here inside.”
“Ha! That’s funny, cop. My friend Genari already takes care of that. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
“All right, I’ll look over your file and see if there’s some way to reduce your sentence for cooperating.”
“That’s not enough—I need a guarantee.”
“I’m not guaranteeing anything. I’ll speak with the warden and recommend that the parole board take your behavior into account. But that’s it.”
“No deal.”
“If there’s no deal, then you’re going to start losing some of the accommodations you’ve gotten used to. Your cell will be turned upside down every other day, and you’ll follow the rules. Genari will be transferred, and then we’ll move you too. To a place you won’t find nearly
as comfortable.”
“Who’s the man?”
“Will you do it?”
“Tell me who we’re talking about.”
“A guy that doesn’t talk.”
Frasquello began to laugh. “You want me to protect that poor jerk? Nobody pays him any attention, cop, nobody cares about him. You know why? Because he’s nobody.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to him in the next week.”
“Who’d be wanting to hurt him?”
“I don’t know. But you need to keep it from happening.”
“What do you care about him?”
“That’s none of your business. Just do what you need to do and you’ll continue to enjoy your little vacation at the state’s expense.”
“Okay. I’ll babysit the son of a bitch.”
Marco left the office, relieved. The capo was no fool. He’d do it.
Now came the tricky part—getting hold of the tennis shoes the mute wore, the only shoes he owned, and planting the transmitter. The warden had promised he’d send a guard to get the shoes in the next few days. He wasn’t sure what excuse he’d make, but he’d get it done. John Barry was sending a colleague to Turin—an expert in microtransmitters who was able, John said, to slip a microphone into a fingernail. Well, Marco would see whether he was as good as he was reported to be.
The duc de Valant had requested an audience with the chancellor. He arrived at the appointed hour in the company of a richly dressed young merchant.
“Tell me, my lord,” the chancellor asked, “what is this urgent matter that you wish to discuss with the emperor?”
“My dear de Molesmes, I bid you attend this gentleman, who honors me with his friendship. He is a respected merchant in the city of Edessa.”
Pascal de Molesmes, with a bored expression but out of courtesy to the duke, listened to the young merchant, who with no courtly flourishes went directly to the reason for his journey to Constantinople.
“I know of the empire’s financial difficulties, and I come with an offer for the emperor.”