The Fifth Gospel(57)

            “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: