The Fifth Gospel (25 page)

Boia was just beginning to clamp down on John Paul's outreach to the Orthodox, and Michael fit into his plans as a type of priest known as a Quasimodo—a man sent out to frighten the villagers, to create ugly misunderstandings and ruin the clockwork of diplomacy. The Quasimodo is the valve of dissent in a bureaucracy where no one can outwardly defy the pope. Michael got into shouting matches with Orthodox bishops, uttered public slurs, made an art of the bombshell interview. To Simon, this was the deepest betrayal. My brother could never accept that faith sometimes lends itself to wild changes of heart, and that a man who turns his back on one thing will often repent by becoming its opposite. Get behind me, Satan.

The Michael I remember is different. In a world of uptight Roman priests in cassocks, he was a young American in a short-sleeved priest shirt with a cheap tab collar. He wore a digital watch and Nike high-tops in priestly black. Two years before the radiocarbon fiasco, he brought Simon and me to the Spanish Steps for the opening of Rome's first McDonald's. He scandalized the Italians by drinking Coca-Cola at breakfast. I never understood, until I met Michael, the possibility of being successfully different. Of being happily and completely unassimilated. I am saddened to think that the Secretariat took that wonderful golem and shaped him into something worse than an ordinary bureaucrat. At the bottom of my father's sadness I always sensed the unanswered conviction that the world would someday budge. That it would meet him in the middle. I never knew why Michael had his change of heart, but I suspected it was my father's fault for infecting him with too
much optimism. A Greek has twenty-five centuries of painful history to keep his dreams in check, but there's nothing more dangerous than to give an American hope.

The phone begins to ring, and I turn to grab it. Only then do I notice there's a man standing at the next street corner, watching me.

I step back. But the man raises a hand in the air.

Agent Martelli. I didn't even notice him follow me here from the Casa. Michael was right. My idea of safe isn't safe enough.

I pick up the receiver. “Michael?”

“Are you alone?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“Before we do this, I need to be clear. If you tell anyone that I talked to you, these people will find me again.”

I think of the photograph from Ugo's apartment. “I understand. I just want to keep my son safe.”

He lowers his voice and drops a long breath into the receiver. “Hard to believe you got a kid of your own. You were seven when I started working with your father.”

Not
with
, I think.
For
. But there's something touching about the way he says it. When my father took him home for the first time, to introduce him to the rest of us, Michael brought a gift for me, a Bible embossed with my name. He thought, mistakenly, that Greek Catholics celebrated first communion at age seven, as Romans do.

“You name him after your dad?” he asks.

“No, after Simon.”

This strangles the warmth out of him. The conversation turns.

“Well, down to business,” he says. “What I wanted to tell you is, I met that curator. The one who was killed.”

I'm caught off guard. “Ugo?”

“He came to visit your brother at the nunciature. I only talked to him once or twice, but the people who broke my nose thought I knew him. They threatened me. They wanted to know what he was working on.”

“That's . . . impossible.”

The silence bristles, as if he mistakes this for skepticism.

I ask, “What did they say to you?”

“That he was working on an exhibit about the Holy Shroud. Is that true?”

“It is.”

Michael goes quiet. Maybe he's surprised to hear that the Shroud really has been resurrected after so many years. Or maybe, like anyone reading the newspapers this summer, he imagined Ugo's exhibit was on the Diatessaron.

“What did they say about it?” I ask.

“That Nogara was hiding something he found, and they wanted to know what it was.”

“He wasn't hiding anything. What did you tell them?”

“To ask your brother. He was the one who would know.”

My teeth are clenched. “You told them about Simon?”

“He and Nogara were thick as thieves.”

“Michael, I worked with Ugo myself. Simon doesn't know anything. Who were the people who did this to you?”

“Priests.”

“
Priests?
”

It never seriously entered my mind that a cleric could've done this.

“Romans,” he says, “not beards. Since I'm sure that'll be your next question. They must've followed me from the nunciature.”

Everything is slipping through my fingers. The motive I've been trying to piece together. The logic of what happened at Castel Gandolfo. Even in Rome, almost no one knew what Ugo was planning. I don't know how this could've begun among priests one thousand miles away.

“Did they catch anyone?” I ask.

“The Secretariat did some kind of investigation, but it went nowhere.”

I'd assumed the break-in and murder were committed by the same person, if they were related at all. Now I wonder if two or more people were working in coordination. The facts even hint at this, since so little time elapsed between the attacks.

“How could they have known where to find you?” I ask.

Michael hesitates. “Probably the same way they knew where to find
you
. By threatening someone until he told them where to look.”

“What do you mean?”

In a dryer voice, he says, “I think you know what I mean.”

A shadow passes over me. “
You told them where I live?
”

“Alex, look—”

“My son could've been killed!”

“
I
could've been killed!” he roars.

“So you let them hunt down Simon? You even told them where to find him?”

“Like hell. They already knew about your brother. His little weekend trips were how they got on Nogara's scent in the first place.”

I feel sick. The logic of this conversation is clearer now. There's a reason Michael called back after hanging up on me the first time. He feels guilty. He was the one who reported Simon for missing work. Who created a paper trail that anyone could follow.

“Keep Simon out of this,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. My father always said Michael was prone to fits of emotion. “He was just helping Ugo.”

It doesn't seem to occur to him that he probably brought this on himself. By ratting on Simon, he made himself a reference point for anyone trying to hunt down Ugo.

But Michael howls, “Helping Nogara? That's what Simon told you he was doing?” He gives a scornful laugh. “What a pro, that guy. He's got a real future. Alex, your brother's been lying to you. Lying to everyone. He's been doing some work on the side, inviting a few of his Eastern friends to Italy for the Shroud exhibit.”

I'm taken aback. “That's not true. Why on earth would you think that?”

“Look,” Michael grunts, clearing his throat, “I said more than I wanted to. Go talk to your brother. Get
him
to answer some questions.”

I'm too unnerved to respond.

“And,” he adds, “keep your son safe. My impression is, these people won't quit until they have what they want.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “Thanks. For calling me back.”

“Yeah. Well. You have my number?”

“I do.”

“If Simon tells you anything, drop a line. I'm owed some answers, too.”

I say nothing.

“And hey. Call if you need anything.”

He must truly believe Simon can't be counted on.

“Michael, we're going to be fine.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I hope so, too.”

C
HAPTER
11

T
HE FIRST THING
Leo says when I get back to the Casa is, “Your uncle wasn't kidding around.” He points toward the door. “They sent a replacement cop as soon as Martelli tailed you out.”

In the hall, the two gendarmes are conferring with a nun from downstairs.

I step out. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Martelli answers. “This is Agent Fontana. He'll be the night shift.”

But the nun looks me up and down. “Father, we can't have every visitor bringing a pair of bodyguards. You're safe here without them.”

“My situation isn't the same as the other guests',” I tell her.

“I've been told about the situation,” she says. “We've taken every precaution.”

I don't know what to say. But Martelli does.

“Take it up with our commander, Sister. We stay until our orders change.”

BACK IN THE ROOM,
Leo is hurriedly collecting the dishes he brought over.

“Sofia just texted,” he says. “We've got the hospital walk-through in an hour. How'd your call go?”

“Fine.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I want to tell him more. But I made Michael a promise. “Not right now.”

“Then I'll be back in the morning,” he says. “You need anything before that, just call.”

I thank him, then lock the bolt after he leaves, padding into the bedroom to sit down beside Peter.

He sleeps like a furnace. His forehead is pink, bangs dark with sweat. His mouth is open in a tight oval, all his energy concentrated in the act of breathing. He's exhausted. I've underestimated how much this is affecting him.

I think of what Michael said on the phone: that the men who attacked him were priests. It seems absurd. Violence by clergy is always aimed at other denominations, other faiths. The Christmas brawl in Bethlehem last year was between Armenians and Greeks. Catholic priests in Turkey have been victims of brutality before, but always at the hands of Muslims.

And yet Catholic priests would've had much better odds of getting past security here and at Castel Gandolfo. Much better odds of entering my apartment building unnoticed. Turin priests, in particular, might've noticed the Shroud had been moved from its chapel and might've gone hunting for answers. The most revealing thing Michael said was that the priests who attacked him were looking for information about Ugo's exhibit, because they claimed Ugo was hiding something. There's a simple way to rule that out: Ugo's research journal.

The entries begin with something he taped inside the front cover. A letter sent to all Vatican Museums curators.

IN VIEW OF THE IMPORTANCE OF MUSEUM TICKET INCOME TO THE ECONOMY OF THE CITY-STATE, HIS EMINENCE REQUESTS THAT ALL CURATORIAL STAFF SUBMIT PROPOSALS FOR THREE NEW EXHIBITS, INCLUDING BUDGET REQUIREMENTS, TO THE OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR, COPYING HIS EMINENCE, WITHIN SIXTY DAYS.

The letter is dated eighteen months ago. After it, Ugo's diary begins with a handwritten list titled “Exhibit Ideas.” It mentions early medieval manuscripts. Late antique Christian graffiti. The evolution of Jesus
portraiture in the Byzantine Empire. Nowhere does it mention the Holy Shroud. Only two weeks later does he come across an initial scientific study questioning the radiocarbon tests. His reaction is three underlined words at the bottom of the page:
Resurrect the Shroud?

On the following page is the relic itself, quickly sketched but with the wounds circled and the corresponding gospel verses noted: beating, scourging, crown of thorns, spear wound. One week later, Ugo proposes the exhibit to Uncle Lucio in person. Their meeting seems to have a galvanic effect on Ugo's research. My uncle, the world's most inexperienced motivational speaker, has somehow inspired Ugo. Diary entries grow longer. More scientific. Then, overnight, something odd happens.

Without explanation, Ugo devotes two pages to titles of other books.
The Gospel of Thomas
.
The Gospel of Philip
.
The Secret Book of James
. These are noncanonical texts, not recognized as scripture by Christians. Though he gives no reason for their inclusion here, I can read between the lines. Just as my uncle is showing interest in Ugo's idea, the biblical gospels have brought him to a dead end. Their Shroud references lead nowhere. So Ugo is casting a wider net, trying to follow the Shroud out of Jerusalem in 33 AD by any road possible. For ten days, no entries follow. Then, in astonishment, I find this:

Today I was put in touch with an Orthodox scholar who claims to know where the Shroud was brought after the Crucifixion.
He says there is an ancient tradition about a mystical, Shroudlike image in a Byzantine city called Edessa. Despite my skepticism, I am meeting tomorrow with the priest who put us in touch. Can't say no, since he's H.E.'s nephew.

His Eminence's nephew.

Simon.

My eyes rise from the pages. An unpleasant, antic feeling buzzes through me like a fly trapped on the inside of a window. Something is wrong.

There's an unmistakable description in the next entry.

He's the quintessential Secretariat
priest: handsome, blue-eyed, elegant. Very tall and thin. He acts so solicitous about my exhibit
that I know he has some private investment in it. He wants to have dinner tomorrow. I see no way out of it.

The unlikely first meeting of two future friends.

Yet on my first visit to Ugo's apartment, he and Simon told the story of how a Vatican curator collapsed in the Turkish desert and was saved by a young embassy priest. The entry in this diary is nine months older than that.

Ugo and Simon lied to me about how they met.

I put the book on my chest, feeling rattled. They had no reason to hide anything from me.

And yet there was always something awkward about the story they told me. Simon seemed to recoil from it even as Ugo told it. The details were real enough—Ugo's sunburn, his broken glasses—but if their encounter in the desert really happened, it may not have been their first meeting. So why the selective memory? What could they have felt they needed to dance around?

I reopen the diary. In the next entry, the whole logic of Ugo's exhibit surfaces for the first time.

The disciples discovered the S
hroud and carried it to Edessa, whose king had once invited Jesus to visit him.

Ugo, however, is full of doubts.

Don't these Orthodox recognize a medieval legend? They really believe our most precious relic was kept for centuries in a second-rate Byzantine border town?

The irony of this question seems to have escaped him. More than a thousand years later, it was in a no-name French village that the Shroud first surfaced in western Europe. Like its maker, the relic was never in a hurry to visit the great cities.

But Ugo continues:

Had dinner again with Andreou.
Confronted him with my suspicions. No surprise: it's political. He didn't even bother to deny it. He doesn't
care where the Shroud came from. Only how we got our hands on it. If the relic
's past can be brought to light, he says, it will be a rallying cry for all Christians. A stepping-stone in our relations with other Churches.

I'm stung. These few sentences conjure the essence of Simon: the familiar agenda; the lack of guile; the breathless assurance that the future of Christianity could be at stake. My brother comes off as utterly candid—which makes it harder to understand how he and Ugo both withheld this information from me for months.
A
stepping-stone in our relations with other Churches
. Surely Simon was referring to the Orthodox, in which case Michael may have been right. Simon might've found it irresistible to finish the work our father left behind sixteen years ago in Turin.

Then there's this:

He doesn't care where the Shroud came from. Only how we got our hands on it.

Michael Black said the priests who attacked him believed Ugo had found something. They wanted to know what it was. I fan the pages forward, searching for entries from around the time of Ugo's final e-mail to me.

They come near the end, where his notes are shorter and less personal. The Diatessaron seems to preoccupy him. Then, one week before the e-mail, a familiar diagram appears. The caduceus of entwined gospel verses. Below it is the disturbing hint I've been looking for.

Fr. Simon must've told Fr.
Alex the news. They both refuse to answer me. I'm all alone now. I suppose they're happy to have the exhibit end with the Crusades.

Nothing is written in the diary after these words. The pages are blank. But that final word—
Crusades
—is enough. In the context of the Diatessaron, I can think of only one thing it might mean.

The Shroud appeared in western Europe for the first time right after the Crusades, surfacing inexplicably in medieval France. Where had it
come from? The answer was right under Ugo's nose: Edessa. The city he believed, from the beginning, the Shroud and Diatessaron had both called home. For centuries, Eastern Christians and Muslims had battled over control of Edessa—but at the end of the First Crusade, something unprecedented happened: the city fell into the hands of Catholic knights from the West. Edessa became Christianity's first crusader state. The experiment lasted less than fifty years before Muslims retook it, but in the meantime those Catholic knights would've packed up everything valuable and sent it home—which means the Diatessaron and the Shroud might've been shipmates on the trip west. If Ugo found records of the Diatessaron's arrival in our library, then he might've found records of a relic that came west in the same shipment. In which case, the explanation for the Shroud's sudden appearance in medieval France would be tidy: it came back from Edessa during the Crusades.

Yet even as I feel the thrill of this possibility—an elegant solution to one of the cloth's most puzzling mysteries—something inside me rattles. A new and darker problem, which Ugo may not even have understood when he made his discovery.

If he was able to prove that the Shroud came west after the Crusades, then he was stepping onto an ancient religious battlefield. Catholics and Orthodox were united back when Muslims first took Edessa from Christendom—but by the Crusades we had split. This means we lost the Shroud together, but the knights who retook Edessa were Catholic, so the Shroud ended up in Catholic France. The Orthodox claim to ownership of the Shroud is just as strong as ours—yet the Orthodox ended up with nothing.

This is the first time since Ugo died that I feel the reason for his death might be devastatingly familiar. Relics are a flashpoint in Church relations. John Paul has tried to placate the Orthodox more than once by returning saints' bones that Catholics allegedly stole. But if I'm right about Ugo's discovery, then it could've created a custody battle around our greatest relic and fed the long-standing Orthodox grudge that Catholics are bullies, that we go where we don't belong and take what isn't ours. The missionaries who converted Orthodox into Eastern Catholics were only following in the footsteps of these Crusaders who brought home the Shroud and Diatessaron—all of them just tentacles of the great, hungry mouth that is Rome. Some Catholics would certainly have
opposed publicizing a discovery like this. Especially mounting it in the pope's museums.

Maybe there was a reason Ugo told me a very different story: he claimed the Diatessaron came to the Vatican from a collection of cursed manuscripts in an Egyptian monastery. I wonder now if that tale—like the one about his first meeting with Simon in the desert—was meant to keep me at arm's length, off the scent of a difficult truth he wasn't sure I could accept.

I close Ugo's diary and fold it into my cassock. Down in the small hotel courtyard, an Eastern Catholic priest is sitting alone on a bench. Three Roman priests bustle past in conversation, paying him no more attention than the potted plants. I watch him for a moment, then close the window. Remembering the way Ugo's apartment was broken into, I lock the shutters. I turn on Radio Uno for the rebroadcast of yesterday's Supercoppa soccer match. Then, wedging myself into the toothpick of space Peter has left on one side of the bed, I close my eyes and listen, trying to drift away on the current of familiar voices and rhythms. Trying to pacify the feeling that everything is suddenly foreign. That, in my own home, I have become a stranger in a strange land.

IN THE BLACK OF
night, I'm wakened by screaming.

Peter is rigid. Upright. Staring at something in the darkness.

“What?” I shout. “What's wrong?”

There's a noise. I don't understand what it is.

“He's here!” Peter screams. “He's here!”

I pull him to my chest for protection. I fling my other arm into the murk.