Sofia squeezed Marco’s arm. She didn’t want him to feel alone; she wanted him to know she believed in him. She admired him, almost venerated him, for his integrity and because, behind the unsentimental, tough-guy image he cultivated, she knew there was a sensitive man always ready to listen, a humble man always willing to recognize when others knew more than he, yet a man sure enough of himself never to forgo his authority.
When they argued over the authenticity of a work of art, Marco never imposed his own opinion, he always let the members of his team give theirs, and Sofia knew he deferred especially to hers. A few years back he had started calling her dottoréssa, in tribute to her academic record: a Ph.D. in the history of art, an undergraduate degree in ancient languages, a degree in Italian philology. She spoke English, French, Spanish, and Greek fluently and had also studied Arabic, which she could read and generally communicate in.
Marco looked at her out of the corner of his eye, comforted by her presence. As much as he respected her academic achievements and relied on her considerable professional expertise, he couldn’t help feeling it was a shame that a woman like her hadn’t found the right man. She was very attractive—beautiful, really. Blond, blue-eyed, slender, funny, and intelligent—extremely intelligent—although she herself didn’t seem aware of how exceptional she was. Paola was always on the lookout for somebody for Sofia, but so far her efforts had all failed; the men were either threatened or overwhelmed by Sofia’s intelligence. Marco couldn’t understand how a woman like that could maintain a stable relationship with Pietro, who seemed well out of her league, but Paola had told him to stay out of it, that Sofia was obviously comfortable with it.
Pietro had been the last person to come on board the team. He’d been in the department for ten years. He was a good investigator, meticulous, painstaking, and untrusting by nature—which meant nothing escaped him, however small and seemingly unimportant. He had worked in Homicide for many years but had asked for a transfer—sick, he said, of the blood. Whatever—he’d made a good impression when the guys upstairs sent him in for the interview and opened a position for him on the team in response to Marco’s chronic complaints that he was understaffed.
Marco got up, and Sofia followed. They skirted the main altar and entered the sacristy, where they found a priest, one of the young men who worked in the episcopal offices, coming in at another door.
“Ah, Signor Valoni, I was looking for you! The cardinal would like to see you in his office. The armored van will be coming for the shroud in about a half hour. One of your men—Antonino, I think—called to tell us. The cardinal says he won’t rest easy until he knows the shroud is safe in the bank, even though one can’t take a step without bumping into one of the carabinieri you’ve sent.”
“Thank you, padre. The shroud will be guarded until it enters the vault, and I will be in the armored van personally to make sure it arrives safely.”
“His Eminence has asked that Padre Yves accompany the shroud to the bank, as the Church’s representative and to ensure that everything possible is done for its safety.”
“That’s fine, padre, no problem with me.”
The cardinal seemed nervous when Marco and Sofia entered his office.
“Signor Valoni! Come in, come in! And Dottoréssa Galloni! Please, have a seat.”
“Your Eminence,” said Marco, “Dottoréssa Galloni and I will be riding with the shroud to the bank. I understand that Padre Yves will be coming with us.”
“Yes, yes, but that wasn’t why I wanted to speak with you. I wanted you to know that the Vatican is very concerned about this matter, this fire. Monsignor Aubry has stressed that the pope himself is troubled, and the monsignor has asked me to keep him informed of all new developments so he can report them directly to the Holy Father. So, Signor Valoni, I must insist that you keep me up-to-date as to how your investigation is proceeding. You may of course count on our absolute discretion.”
“Your Eminence, we don’t know anything yet—the only thing we have is a body in the morgue. A man of about thirty, unidentified, without a tongue. We don’t know whether he’s Italian or Swedish or what. We’re working around the clock to develop more leads.”
“Of course, of course…I’ll give you my private number, in my residence, and my cellular number, so you can get in touch with me twenty-four hours a day should you discover anything of importance. I’d like to know every step you’re taking.”
The cardinal wrote out his telephone numbers on a card, which Marco slipped into his shirt pocket. He had no intention of keeping the cardinal informed of the blind alleys his investigation was taking him down, so that the cardinal, in turn, could report to Monsignor Aubry, who could report to the Under-Secretary of State, who could report to the Secretary of State, who could report to God knew who—and then there was the pope.
But he didn’t say that to the cardinal. He just nodded.
“When the shroud is safely in the armored vault at the bank, Signor Valoni, I want you and Padre Yves to call me immediately.”
Marco raised a questioning eyebrow. The cardinal was treating him as though he worked for him, not the Art Crimes Department. He decided, though, that he’d let the episcopal impertinence pass. He stood up, and Sofia followed suit.
“If you’ll excuse us, Your Eminence; the armored car must be almost here.”
THE THREE MEN WERE LYING ON COTS, RESTING, EACH lost in his own thoughts. They had failed, and they had to leave Turin in the next few days. The city had become dangerous for them.
Their brother had died in the fire, and the autopsy would surely reveal that he had no tongue. None of them did. Trying to go back into the cathedral at this point would be suicide; their contact had told them that the carabinieri were everywhere, interrogating everyone, and that he wouldn’t rest easy until they were out of the city.
They would go, but for at least a couple of days, until the carabinieri loosened the noose and the media rushed off to some new catastrophe, they would stay hidden in their underground retreat.
The basement was humid, musty; it smelled of mold and mildew, and there was barely room to walk. Their contact had left them food and water for three or four days. He’d told them that he wouldn’t be back until he could be sure the danger had passed. Two days had gone by, and it seemed an eternity.
Thousands of miles from that basement, in New York, in a glass and steel tower, in an office completely soundproofed and equipped with state-of-the-art security measures, seven elegantly dressed men were celebrating the failure of the group in Turin with a glass of the finest burgundy.
More than triumph, they felt relief. They had reviewed in detail the information they received. Events had veered perilously close to disaster and they had resolved to take different measures if—when—the need arose again.
The men ranged in age from fifty to seventy. The oldest raised his hand slightly and the others fell silent, expectant.
“My sole remaining concern is what we’re being told about this detective, the director of the Art Crimes Department. It appears he’s not going to let go of the matter very readily this time and may be looking beyond the immediate incident.”
“We’ll double our security measures and be sure that our men continue to blend flawlessly into the background. I’ve spoken with Paul. He’ll try to keep abreast of what this Valoni is doing, but it won’t be easy. Anything untoward could expose him to scrutiny. In my opinion, master, we should stay back, keep low, do nothing—just watch.” The speaker was tall, athletic, in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and sculpted features that might have belonged to a Roman emperor.
The man whom he had addressed surveyed the others.
“Anyone else?”
Everyone concurred; for the moment they would simply observe from a distance as Valoni went about his work, and their contact, Paul, would be instructed not to press too hard for information. They went on to set a date for their next meeting and to change the code keys they would use until then.
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They were preparing to leave when one of them, his accent French-inflected, asked the question on all their minds:
“Will they try again?”
The master shook his head. “No, not immediately. There’s too much risk. This group will try to get out of Italy, then contact Addaio. Even if they’re lucky and make it back to him, it will take time. Addaio will be in no hurry to send a new team.”
“The last time it was two years,” recalled the man with the Roman face.
“And we will still be there waiting for them, as we’ve always been,” his master replied.
Josar followed Jesus wheresoever he went. Jesus’ companions had become accustomed to Josar’s presence and would often invite him to share a moment of quiet brotherhood with them. It was through these companions that Josar learned that Jesus knew he was to die. He also learned that, despite their counsel that the Nazarene should flee, Jesus insisted that he would remain, to do as his Father had bidden him.
It was difficult to comprehend why the Father would wish the Son to die, but Jesus would speak of it with such serenity that it seemed thus was it indeed meant to be.
Whenever Jesus saw Josar, he would make some gesture of friendship toward him. One day, addressing him, he had said:
“Josar, I must do as I am bidden to do. That is why I have been sent here by my Father. And in just that way, you, Josar, also have a mission you must fulfill. That is why you are here—you shall speak of what I am, of what you have seen, and I shall be near you when I am no longer among you.”
Josar had been puzzled by these words, but he had not had the courage to ask for explanation or to contradict the master.
In recent days, the rumors had grown more persistent. The priests wanted the Romans to solve the problem of Jesus of Nazareth, while Pilate, the governor, was attempting in turn to incite the Jews to judge the man who was one of them. It was only a matter of time before one or the other acted.
Jesus had gone off into the desert, as he was wont to do. On this occasion he had fasted, preparing himself, he said, to carry out the will of his Father.
One morning Josar was awakened by the owner of the house in which he was lodging.
“The Nazarene has been arrested.”
Josar leapt up from his bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Seizing a jug of water from a corner of his chamber, he splashed his face. Then he took up his cloak and hurried to the temple. There he found one of the companions of Jesus standing among the multitude gathered there, listening in fear.
“What has happened, Judas?”
Judas began to weep, and he drew harshly away from Josar, but Josar caught him and held him, his hand upon his shoulder.
“What has happened? Tell me. Why do you flee me?”
Judas, his eyes bathed in tears, tried again to free himself from Josar’s grasp, but he could not, and at last he answered him:
“He has been taken. The Romans have taken him away, they are to crucify him, and I…”
Tears coursed down his cheeks, as though he were a child. But Josar, strangely, was unmoved by his grief, and he continued to hold Judas tight so that he might not escape him.
“I…Josar, I have betrayed him. I have betrayed the best of men. For thirty pieces of silver I have delivered him up to the Romans.”
Wrathfully, Josar pushed him away and began to run blindly, unsure where to go. At last, in the courtyard before the temple, he came upon a man he had seen from time to time listening to Jesus preach.
“Where is he?” Josar asked, his voice faint.
“The Nazarene? He is to be crucified. Pilate will do as the priests have asked.”
“But what is he accused of?”
“Of blasphemy, they say, for he has called himself the Messiah.”
“But Jesus has never blasphemed, has never spoken of himself as the Messiah. He is the best of men.”
“Take care, my friend, for you are one of those who have followed him, and someone might still denounce you.”
“You followed him as well.”
“Indeed, and that is why I give you this counsel. No man or woman who has followed the Nazarene is safe.”
“Tell me, at least, where I may find him, where he has been taken.”
“They have him. You cannot reach him. He is to die on Friday, before the sun has set.”
On the face of Jesus was the agony of torture. Upon his head they had placed a crown of thorns, and it cut into his flesh. Blood flowed down his face, and his beard was wet with it.
Josar had counted each lash as the Roman soldiers scourged Jesus. One hundred twenty.
Now, as he bore on his torn back the heavy wooden cross on which he was to be crucified, its weight drove him to his knees on the stones of the road, as it had over and over again along that endless way.
Josar took a step forward to support him, to catch him, but a soldier shoved him back. Jesus looked at him in silent gratitude.
He followed Jesus to the top of the hill where he was to be crucified with two thieves. Tears blinded Josar’s eyes when he saw a soldier lay Jesus on the cross and take his right hand by the wrist and nail him to the wood. Then he did the same with the left hand, but the nail did not penetrate the wrist at first, as it had the right. The soldier tried twice more before the nail found the wood.
He nailed the two feet together, with a single nail, left foot crossed over the right.
Time seemed eternal, and Josar prayed to God that Jesus might die soon. He watched him suffer, struggling for breath.
John, the most beloved of the disciples, wept in silence at his master’s torment. Nor could Josar contain his tears.
As the spring day gave way to evening, and black storm clouds filled the sky, a soldier stepped forward. He thrust his spear into Jesus’ side, and from the wound came forth blood and water.
Jesus had died, and Josar gave thanks to God for that.
By the time Jesus’ body was taken down from the cross, there was little time to prepare it as the Jewish laws required. Josar knew that all labors, even the clothing of a body in the death shroud, must be halted at sunset.
And because they were in the time of Passover, the body had to be buried that same day.
Josar, his eyes blurred by tears, watched motionlessly as the body was prepared and Joseph of Arimathea lay Jesus’ body upon the fine linen grave cloth.
Josar did not sleep that night, nor did he find rest the day following. The pain in his heart was terrible indeed.
On the third day after the crucifixion of Jesus, Josar made his way to the place where the body had been laid. There he found Mary, the mother of Jesus, and John, and other followers of Jesus, and all were exclaiming that the master’s body had disappeared. In the tomb, upon the stone where the body had been laid, was the shroud that Joseph of Arimathea had laid it in, though none of those present dared touch it. Jewish law forbade contact with unclean objects, and a dead man’s shroud was unclean.
Josar took it in his hands. He was not a Jew, nor was he bound by the Jews’ laws. He held the cloth tight against his breast, and he felt himself filled with peace. He felt the master; embracing that simple piece of cloth was like embracing Jesus himself. At that moment he realized what he was to do. He would return to Edessa and present the shroud of Jesus to his king, Abgar, and the shroud would cure him. Now he understood what the master had said.
He went out of the tomb and breathed the cool air, and then, with the shroud folded under his arm, he sought out the road to the inn. He would leave Jerusalem as soon as he was able.
In Edessa, the midday heat drove the inhabitants into their houses until the cool of evening. In the palace, the queen laid moist cloths on the fevered forehead of Abgar, and she calmed him by assuring him that the sickness had not yet begun to eat away his skin.
Ania, the dancing girl, filled with desolation, had been banished to a place outside the city. But Abgar had not wanted her left to her own fate, and so he sent victuals to the cave where
she had taken refuge. That morning one of his men, while leaving a sack of grain and a goatskin of fresh water near the cave, had seen her. He told the king that Ania’s once beautiful visage was now a hideous, misshapen thing, its flesh dropping away. Abgar would hear no more and had taken refuge in his chambers, where, seized with horror, he was overcome by a fever and delirium.
The queen herself cared for him and would let no one else approach him. Some of the king’s enemies had begun to conspire to overthrow him, and the tension increased as the days passed. The worst thing was that no news had come of Josar, who had remained with the Nazarene. Abgar was fearful that Josar had abandoned him, but the queen struggled to keep the king’s hope alive, urging him not to allow his faith to falter. Just then, however, her own faith was weak.
“My lady! My lady! Josar is here!”
A slave girl had run into the chamber where Abgar, fanned by the queen, was lying drowsily upon his bed.
“Josar! Where?”
The queen rushed out of the king’s chamber and ran quickly through the palace, to the astonishment of the palace soldiers and courtiers, until she found Josar. The faithful friend, still covered by the dust of the road, stretched out his hands to her.
“Josar, have you brought him? Where is the Nazarene?”
“My lady, the king shall be healed.”
“But where is he, Josar? Tell me where the Jew is.”
The queen’s voice betrayed the desperation she had so long contained.
“Take me to Abgar, my lady.”
Josar’s voice was firm and resolute, and all who looked upon the scene were struck by his strength. Without a word more, the queen turned and led him to the chamber in which the king lay.
The king’s eyes were fixed on the door, and when he saw Josar he breathed deep with relief.