The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (20 page)

The elderly man gestured to another of the men to speak.

"The Art Crimes Department knows a lot, but it doesn't know what it knows."

They all looked at him with concern and curiosity as he went on.

"They're pursuing their theory that all these 'accidents' that have happened in the Turin Cathedral over the years aren't accidents at all." He paused and looked around the room at his fellows. "They're convinced the events are tied to the shroud, that someone wants to steal or destroy it. But they can't figure out the motive. And they're still investigating COCSA, thinking they'll find their link there. As I reported earlier, their Trojan horse operation is under way, and Mendib will be set free from the Turin jail in a couple of months."

"The time has come to act," said the elderly man, a slight accent surfacing to reveal that English was not his native language.

"Mendib has to be taken care of," he went on. 'And as for the Art Crimes Department, it's time to pressure our friends to stop this Valoni. He and his people are moving in dangerous directions."

'Addaio may have reached the same conclusion, that the safety of the community requires Mendib's elimination," said the military gentleman. "Maybe we should wait to see what Addaio decides before we do anything ourselves. I'd prefer not to have his death on our conscience if we can avoid it."

"There's no reason for Mendib to die. All we have to do is make sure he reaches Urfa," said one of the other men.

"That's dicey," said another. "Once he's on the street, the Art Crimes Department will put a tail on him. They're not amateurs; they'll have a first-rate operation, and we could wind up in the position that to save his life we'll have to sacrifice many others-we're talking about dead cops and carabinieri. It looks like this last episode is going to burden our conscience however it plays out."

"Ah, yes. Our conscience!" exclaimed the elderly man. 'All too often we put it aside, telling ourselves there's no other way. Ours is a history in which death has always played a part. As has sacrifice, faith, mercy. We are human, only human, and we act in accordance with what we believe to be best. We make mistakes, we sin, we act correctly. May God have mercy on all of us."

For a moment no one spoke. The other men lowered their eyes, sorrow shadowing their faces. Finally, their master raised his eyes and sat up in his chair. 'All right, then-I'll tell you what I believe we must do, and then I'll hear your opinions."

Night had descended by the time the meeting ended. The rain was still falling all across the city.

A.D. 542-544

Eulalius, a young man is here asking to speak with you. He comes from Alexandria." The bishop finished his prayers and got to his feet with difficulty, assisted by the priest who had interrupted him.

"Tell me, Ephron, why is this visitor from Alexandria so important that you disturb my prayers?"

The priest was expecting the question, although Eulalius knew well that Ephron would summon him only on a matter of importance.

"He is a strange young man. My brother sent him."

'Abib? And what news does this strange young man bring?"

"I cannot-say. He says he will speak only to you. He is weary; for weeks he has been on the road, journeying here."

Eulalius and Ephron left the small church and made their way to a nearby house, where the bishop greeted the dark-skinned young man, whose exhaustion was evident in his eyes and parched lips.

"I come to speak to Eulalius, bishop of Edessa," the traveler said, as he drank the water Ephron offered him.

"I am Eulalius. Who are you?"

"Praise God! Eulalius, I am about to tell you an extraordinary thing, which will fill you with amazement. Can we not speak in private?"

Ephron looked at Eulalius, who nodded. The priest withdrew, leaving the two alone.

"You still have not told me your name," the bishop said, turning back to his visitor.

"John. I am called John."

"Be seated, then, John, and rest while you tell me this extraordinary thing."

"Extraordinary it is, sir. And it will be hard for you to believe me, but I trust in the help of God that I may convince you of what I have come to say."

"So-out with it."

"It is a long story. I have told you that I am called John, as was my father, and my father's father, and his grandfather and great-grandfather. I have traced my family to the fifty-seventh year of our era, when Timaeus, the leader of the first Christian community, lived in Sidon, now Alexandria. Timaeus was a friend of two disciples of our Lord Jesus Christ, Thaddeus and Josar, who lived here in Edessa. Timaeus's grandson was called John."

Eulalius listened intently, waiting for the young man to come to the heart of his tale.

"You must know that in this city there was a community of Christians under the protection of King Abgar. On Abgar's death, Maanu, the king's son, inherited the throne and persecuted the Christians of the city. He stripped them of their goods and possessions and subjected many of them to the pains of martyrdom for clinging to their faith in Jesus."

"I know the history of this city," Eulalius said impatiently.

"Then you know that Abgar, afflicted with leprosy, was cured by Jesus. Josar brought to Edessa the shroud in which the body of our Lord had been buried. When the shroud was placed upon the skin of the sick king, a miracle occurred. On the shroud there is something extraordinary: the image of our Lord and the signs of his martyrdom. As long as Abgar was alive, the shroud was an object of veneration in the city, for upon it was the face of the Christ."

"Tell me, young man, why has Abib sent you?"

"Forgive me, Eulalius, I know that I am trying your patience, but I beg you to hear me out. I myself chose to come to you and merely asked Abib to vouch for me. When Abgar sensed that he was dying, he charged his friends Thaddeus and Josar and the royal architect Marcius to protect the shroud above all else. Marcius was charged with hiding it, and not even Thaddeus and Josar, the two disciples of Jesus, ever learned where this hiding place was. Marcius cut out his tongue so that no matter what tortures Maanu inflicted upon him, he could never tell. And suffer tortures he did, Eulalius, as you must know, for they were the same tortures as the most prominent Christians of Edessa were made to suffer. But one man did know where Marcius had hidden the shroud with its image of Jesus."

Eulalius's eyes gleamed with surprise, and a shiver ran down his spine. He had heard tales of this wondrous shroud, which had vanished so long ago. The story John told was a fantastic one, yet he did not seem to be a madman.

"Marcius told Izaz, the nephew of Josar, where he had hidden the shroud. Izaz fled the city before Maanu could have him killed, and he reached Sidon, where Timaeus and his grandson, John, lived. Those were my forebears."

"He fled with the shroud?"

"No, he fled with the secret of its hiding place. Timaeus and Izaz swore that they would obey the last commands of Abgar and the disciples of Jesus: The shroud would never leave Edessa. It belonged to this city, but it was to remain hidden until they could be sure it was in no danger. They agreed that if before they died, the Christians of this city were still being persecuted, they would confide the secret to another man, and that man in turn was sworn not to reveal the secret unless he was sure that the shroud was in no danger, and so on until Christians were able to live in the city in peace. Before he died, Izaz told the secret to John, the grandson of Timaeus, and the secret passed from one John to another. Down through the generations, one man of my family has been the repository of the secret of the grave cloth in which the body of Jesus was buried."

"Great God! Are you sure of this? Is it not a fable? If it is, you deserve a severe chastisement, young man, for one does not take the name of God in vain. Tell me, where is it? Do you have it?"

John, weary, seemed not even to hear Eulalius, and he doggedly went on with his story.

'A few days ago, my father died. On his deathbed he told me the secret of the sacred shroud. It was he who told me the story of Thaddeus and Josar, and he told me also that Izaz, before he died, drew a map of Edessa so that the first John might know where to look. I have the map, and it shows the place where the royal architect, Marcius, hid the shroud of our Lord Jesus."

The young man fell silent. His feverish eyes showed the effort under which his body and spirit had labored since he had learned the secret.

"Tell me, why has your family not wished to reveal the secret of the hiding place until now?"

"My father told me that he had kept the secret so long in fear that the shroud might fall into the wrong hands and be destroyed. None of my forebears dared reveal what they knew; each left that responsibility to his successor."

John's eyes gleamed with tears. He was overcome by the rigors of his journey and the shattering events that had transformed his life in the preceding weeks. Grief at his father's death gnawed at his entrails, and he was in anguish over being the sole repository of a secret that would shake Christianity to its foundations.

"You have the map?" Eulalius asked.

"Yes," the young man answered.

"Give it to me," commanded the old bishop.

"No, I cannot. I must go with you to the place where the shroud is hidden, and we must tell no one the secret."

"But, my son, what is it you fear?"

"The shroud works miracles, sir, but many Christians died in the struggle over its possession. We must be certain that it is in no danger, and I fear I have arrived in Edessa at a bad time. My caravan met with travelers who told us that the city may soon again be under siege. For generations the men of my family have been the silent guardians of the shroud of the Christ; I must not be the one to make a grievous error and now put the shroud in danger."

The bishop nodded. The distraught young man clearly needed to rest and to pray. He would ask God to enlighten him as to what to do.

"My son, if what you say is true and the shroud of our Lord is somewhere in this city, I shall not be the man to put it in danger. You shall rest in my house, and when you have recovered from your journey we will talk, and between us we will decide what's best."

"You will tell no one what I have told you?"

"No one, my son, I promise you."

Eulalius's stern demeanor and the firmness of his response reassured John. He prayed to God that he had not made a mistake. When his dying father had told him the story, he warned him that the fate of the shroud that bore the image of Jesus lay in his hands, and he made him swear he would never reveal the secret unless he was certain the time had come for Christians to recover the shroud once more.

But he, John, had felt an overwhelming urgency to set out on his journey to Edessa. In Alexandria he had been told of the existence of Eulalius, and of his goodness, and he believed that the moment had come to give Christians back what his family, guardians of a wondrous secret, had protected for them.

But he may have acted too swiftly, he thought now, assailed by doubt. Recovering the shroud at a time when Edessa was about to face a new war would be a bold step. John feared he might have misjudged.

John was a physician, as his father had been. The older man had imparted all his own knowledge to his son, who had also studied with the finest teachers of the city. The most prominent men of Alexandria came to his house to seek out his knowledge and his skills. His life had been a happy one until the death of his father, whom he loved and respected above all men, even more than his lithe, sweet wife, Myriam, with her beautiful face and deep black eyes.

Eulalius accompanied John to a small room in which there was a bed and a rough wooden table.

"I will send something to eat and more water, so that you may refresh yourself after your journey. Rest as long as you wish."

Then the old bishop, deep in thought, made his way again to the church. There, kneeling before the cross, he hid his face between his hands and asked God to show him what to do, should the young traveler's story be true.

In one corner, mantled by shadow, Ephron watched his bishop with concern. He had never seen Eulalius troubled or overwhelmed by responsibility. He decided to seek out a caravan going to Alexandria so that he could send a letter to his brother Abib asking for information about the strange young man who seemed to have laid such a burden upon the bishop.

The moon's wan light was on the city by the time the bishop made his way home from the church. He was weary; he had hoped to hear the voice of God but had found only silence. Neither his reason nor his heart had given him the slightest enlightenment. He found Ephron waiting at the door, his noble features creased with worry.

"You must be tired. It is late," the bishop said quietly to the priest.

"I was waiting for you. Can I help you in any way?"

"I'd like you to send someone to Alexandria to ask Abib to tell us more about John."

"I have already written a letter to my brother, but it will be difficult for it to reach him. In the place of caravans they told me that the last caravan departed two days ago for Egypt and that another one will not be leaving for some time. The traders and merchants are worried. They think war with the Persians is inevitable, so a number of caravans left the city earlier than planned. Eulalius, let me ask you what this young man has told you to trouble you so."

"I cannot tell you yet. I pray God I may do so soon, for it will bring comfort to my heart. Shared burdens weigh less upon one, but I have given my word to John that I will keep his secret."

The priest lowered his eyes; he felt a twinge of pain. Eulalius had always confided in him; together they had shared the tribulations and dangers that had sometimes beset the community.