Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

He told me what had befallen him on leaving Constantinople.

'They set upon me,' he said, 'and beat me insensible. When I awoke I was bound, and soon I was passed over to Nicholas Querini's ship. Querini, whom I counted as a neighbour and an acquaintance in Venice, gloated over me, and tormented me with insinuations and threats until we came to his fortress.'

There he had been starved and tortured by a man who fitted the description of Facio. They had hung him by the wrist from the ceiling, and flogged him, and doused him with icy water.

'They wanted the letter,' he said. 'The pope's letter. I said I did not have it, for I did not. Bravery had nothing to do with it: I told them the truth. They left me there, for some other man was coming to put me to the question, someone they promised was far more terrible and merciless than they’

'Dardi’ I told him. And I recounted what had taken place in the Pharos Chapel, how Letice had killed Dardi and how we had struggled to heave his fat carcass out of the window. The Captain took some grim amusement at that. I knew he was all but overcome with curiosity as to what I had brought out of the chapel, but we could not be open about that. My oilskin pack was locked in a chest in the master’s private hold, and I had bought the only key from him. As we waited for night to fall and the others to go to sleep, I told him about the girl, and how I trusted her despite myself.

'She is hungry’ said the Captain. 'Someone or something will be consumed before she is whole again – take care it is not you’

'She has had her chances’ I answered. 'I do not think it will be me’

That night – it was the night before we came to Cerigo, and the seas were running high and fierce – we stole into the master's hold. The ship was pitching madly, but we were both used to such things, and when I had hung our lantern from the ceiling I took out the key, opened the chest I had bought, and pulled out my pack. The Captain watched, rapt and lupine, as I undid the ties and pulled out the contents one piece at a time. First, the broken spearhead.

'The Spear of Longinus’ I intoned, holding it out. There were two pieces, and Baldwin's list only mentioned a spear set in an icon – so I took this one.'

You did well’ said the Captain softly, turning the lozenge of metal over in his hands. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight with it’ I told him, reaching into the pack again. What would that have done, to shed blood with the holy Lance?'

The Captain shook his head and began to wrap the spearhead up again. We are in a realm that even I had never quite dared to imagine’ he said. 'As to their power – their metaphysical power, I mean – they have none. But as things, as gross matter, they can change the world. What is next?'

Next were the Sandals, which the Captain examined with an amused look upon his scabbed and bruised face. 'Dear oh dear’ he muttered. 'Could they not have done better than this?' But he nodded when I produced the authenticating papers. 'They are official, then: marvellous. We shall copy these, of course, and then go into the cobblers trade. Do you think Gilles would care to turn sandal-maker?'

I laughed, for it was a merry thought, and we had need of such. 'Now this’ I said, 'requires a deal of care.' I opened the flat golden case that held the Robe of the Virgin. 'The Maphorion of the Theotokos? I said. The Captain held out his hands, and I placed the case on them and opened it. He bent his head towards the faded cloth.

'This accords with all that I have read’ he whispered, carefully examining the folds. 'It is… I feel strange saying this, but did you know, Patch, that this is the talisman of Constantinople? The Virgin's veil protected the city. Emperors carried it as a standard into battle. What will happen to the city now that it is gone?'

I could not quite tell if he were serious, so I said, with care, 'The city's talismans have failed her, sir. But you do not mean that I should have left it be?'

'No, no’ he said. 'Nevertheless it is strange that you and I are here in this reeking ship's hold with the very thing that once girded the Empire of Rome itself with… with magic' 'I hesitate to show you what is left’ I said, 'if we are going to talk of magic. For there is something that I do not understand. Perhaps we should wait’

'I am sorry, Patch,' said the Captain. 'I am not quite myself yet. You know that I have no belief in magic, nor in miracles. No, it is their power over the minds and hearts of men that I find strange and terrible, and this thing…' he handed back the robe, 'has kept an empire in its thrall. Now, what is it you have to show me?'

I said nothing, but took out the plain wooden box and set it on top of the chest. Opening it, I held my breath, reached in, and took hold of the uppermost two corners of the cloth that lay folded within. As I lifted, the watery, shimmering face I had beheld in the Pharos Chapel slowly rose into view from the shadows of the box. The Captain gasped.

‘I think this is the Mandylion of Edessa,' I said, and my words fell flat and lifeless about me. The Captain had bent forward and was gazing at the cloth, mouth open. For an instant I thought that he too had been stroked by the hand of God, but then he tore his gaze away.

'How did you find this?' he hissed. I told him. And as there did not seem any point in avoiding it, I also told him of Mesarites, and his great and marvellous scheme to heal the wounds of Christendom.

'Stand up,' said the Captain, suddenly. I was surprised, and made to lower the cloth back into its box, but the Captain stopped me. 'No, keep hold of it. Raise it up.' Obediently I stood, and drew the cloth up with me until it hung before me, the face – if face it was – level with my own. But no, it was not the face. I was looking at the imprint or the stain of hair, and only then did I understand that the cloth I held was folded over, and I held the fold between my fingers. I was looking at the terribly faint image of a man's back. It was translucent, the cloth, and even in the dim lantern-glow I could see the Captain behind it, examining every inch.

What is it? What do you see?' I demanded, when I could bear it no longer. The dark suggestion of eyes in the face was beginning to oppress me.

You are right’ said the Captain at last. 'This is the Mandylion. I wish I could have talked with Mesarites, for we might have understood each other despite..He did not finish, and did not need to. The heretic and the schismatic contemplating a thing I could find no name for: what strange discourse would have been born from such a meeting?

What is it?' I asked again. It is not a painting’ I offered, 'but is it woven into the cloth? It frightened me when I found it, and I did not want to take it’

'But you did’ said the Captain, 'and perhaps you will never do so great a thing again. Here’ he added, and took hold of the cloth himself. 'Let me hold it for you.'

I went round into the light and stood where the Captain had been, facing the cloth. I licked my dry lips and forced myself to stare. It was a piece of yellowed flax that I beheld, about a yard's width, and upon it was painted – I had to say painted, for I could find no other explanation that I could give words to – the image of a naked man with hair that curled to his shoulders and a full beard, his hands crossed modestly over his shame. There were dark stains on the cloth, darker than the image itself, around the head, in the side and upon the left wrist. I instinctively looked down, but the feet were still folded.

'De Clari was right’ muttered the Captain. 'And Mesarites – of course, Mesarites. If only he… no matter. "The Shroud in which Our Lord had been wrapped, which every Friday raised itself upright so one could see the figure of Our Lord on it" – that is what de Clari wrote of what he found in 1204’ 'This must be it’ I stammered. 'Does that mean..’ 'That it is real? How can it be? But I cannot tell how it was done. It is not paint’