Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

Marco greeted the reporter warmly but he asked only Sofia and Giuseppe to have one last drink with him in the hotel bar.

"What happened, what are you doing home so early?" he asked when they sat down.

"Oh, Bonomi pissed me off. He fell all over me and made us both look like fools. I felt really uncomfortable, and when the opera was over I came back here. I mean, honestly, Marco, I don't want to be where I don't belong-I was totally out of place there, and it was embarrassing."

"What about D'Alaqua?"

"He was a total gentleman, and surprisingly enough, Cardinal Visier was too. Let's leave them alone, shall we?"

"We'll see. I don't intend to close off any line of this investigation, no matter how far-fetched it may seem. This time I'm running down every possibility."

Sofia knew he meant what he said.

Sitting on the side of the bed-the rest was covered with paper, notes, and books-Ana Jimenez turned over in her mind the conversation she'd had with Sofia.

What, she wondered, had Romanus Lecapenus, the emperor who stole the shroud from Edessa, been like? She pictured him as cruel, superstitious, power-mad.

Really, the history of the shroud had not been a happy one: wars, fires, thefts… and all for the thrill of possession and out of the conviction, rooted deep in the heart of men, that there are objects that are magical.

She was not Catholic, at least not a practicing Catholic. She'd been baptized like almost everyone else in Spain, but she couldn't remember ever having been back to Mass since her first communion.

She pushed the papers aside. She was sleepy, and as always before going to sleep, she picked up a book by Cavafy and looked absentmindedly for one of her favorite poems:

Voices, loved and idealized,

of those who have died, or of those

lest for us like the dead.

Sometimes they speak to us in dreams;

sometimes deep in thought the mind hears

them.

And with their sound for a moment return

sounds from our life's first poetry -

like music at night, distant, fading away.

She fell asleep thinking about the battle fought by the Byzantine army against the emir of Edessa. She heard the voices of the soldiers, the crackling of the burning wood, the crying of children who held tight to their mothers' hands as they frantically sought refuge. She saw a venerable old man surrounded by other old men, and a throng of the devout, on their knees, praying for a miracle that didn't happen.

Then the old man approached a small, simple wooden casket, took out a carefully folded piece of cloth, and gave it to a massive Muslim soldier who could hardly contain his emotion at taking these people's most venerated treasure.

The general leading the Byzantine army received the Mandylion from an Edessan nobleman and, victorious, rode swiftly off toward Constantinople:

Smoke obscured the walls of the city's houses, and the Byzantine soldiers who were swarming through the streets looting the city carried off their booty in large mule-drawn wagons.

Later, in the stone church that still, somehow, remained standing, beside the cross, surrounded by priests and the most faithful of the Christians, the bishop of Edessa swore-and they swore with him- that the Mandylion would one day be recovered, though it cost them their lives to do it.

Ana moaned in her sleep. She sat up with tears streaming down her face, racked with anguish.

She went to the minibar for water and opened the window to let in some cool air.

Cavafy's poem seemed to have come true, and the voices of the dead had stormed her sleep. So real had the dream been that she felt that what she had seen and heard as she slept had actually happened. She was sure that the events had unfolded just that way.

After a shower she felt better. She wasn't hungry, so she stayed awhile in her room looking through the books she'd bought for information on Balduino de Courtenay, the emperor gone begging. There was little to be found, so she went online, even though she didn't always trust what she discovered on the Internet. She was looking for information on the Templars, too, and to her surprise she came across a page supposedly posted by the Order of Knights Templar itself-an order that no longer existed. It was well known that it had been eradicated by the king of France in the fourteenth century. She called the head of IT at her newspaper and explained what she needed.

A half hour later the IT man called her back. The Web site server was in London-and the site was perfectly registered, perfectly legitimate.

c. A.D. 1250

My lord, a messenger has just arrived fromyour uncle." The emperor of Byzantium stirred at the sound of his servant's voice and then sat up slowly, blinking sleepily. As he came fully awake and realized Louis's long-awaited response was at last at hand, Balduino leapt out of bed and ordered his manservant to send the messenger in.

"You should dress, my lord," murmured Balduino's chief adviser, who had also entered the chamber. "You are the emperor, and the envoy is a nobleman from the court of France."

"Pascal, if you did not remind me, I would happily forget that I am emperor. Help me, then. Is there an ermine cape I've not yet sold or pawned?"

Pascal de Molesmes, himself a noble sent by the king of France to serve the king's disgraced nephew, remained silent.

Indeed, however, there was no ermine cape. Not long ago the emperor of Byzantium had even ordered the lead stripped from the roof tiles of his palace in order to sell it off to the Venetians, who were making enormous profits off Balduino's financial straits.

By the time the emperor was seated in the throne room, his courtiers were whispering nervously as they awaited the news from the French king.

Robert de Dijon touched his knee to the floor and bowed his head before the emperor. Balduino gestured for him to rise.

"So, my lord, what news bring you from my uncle?"

"His Majesty the king is in fierce battle in the Holy Land, attempting to liberate the sepulcher of our Lord. I bring you the good news of the conquest of Damietta. The king advances and shall conquer the lands of the Nile on his way to Jerusalem. Thus at present he cannot aid you as he would wish, for the cost of his expedition far exceeds the Crown's annual levies. He recommends that you have patience and faith in the Lord. Soon you will be called to his side as the faithful and most beloved nephew that you are, and he will aid you then in overcoming the tribulations that you now suffer."

Balduino's eyes filled with tears at the devastating message. A harsh look from Pascal de Molesmes steadied him.

"I have also brought you a letter from His Majesty."

Dijon took from his belt a document bearing the seal of the king and held it out to the emperor, who took it limply and passed it to de Molesmes. Balduino then extended his hand to the noble messenger, who bowed once more and kissed the emperor's ring. "Shall there be a reply to His Majesty's letter?" "You are returning to the Holy Land?" "First I am to journey to the court of Blanca de Castilla; I am taking her a letter from her son, my good King Louis. One of the knights who accompanies me is burning to return to the king's side to battle the infidels, and he shall bear whatever message Your Majesty might wish to send your uncle."

Balduino nodded and stood up. He left the throne room without looking back.

"What am I to do now, Pascal?" he cried to de Molesmes when they were alone.

"What you have done on other occasions, my lord." "Go to the courts of my relatives, who seem unable to grasp how vital it is that Constantinople be saved for Christianity? I do not ask these things for myself! We are the last Christian bastion between them and the Muslims-but the Venetians are an avaricious people, who are forging an alliance with the Ottomans behind my back; all the Genovese care about is the profits from their trade; and my cousins in Flanders complain of not having enough resources to help me. Lies! Am I to prostrate myself again before those princelings, beg them to help me preserve the empire? Do you think God will forgive me for pawning the crown of thorns worn by His crucified son?