The Shroud of Mar-Saba

Prologue

Cathedral of the Holy Cross, Barcelona, Spain

The air was heavy now. Heavier than he had ever known it. So heavy it was difficult for him to breath. Michael lay flat on his back, above him the ceiling of the ancient church spun first in clock-wise then counter-clockwise circles. The only sound was the muffled thud-thud-thudding of his heart in his ears. He forced his mind to focus on his surroundings. Someone lay on the floor next to him, a woman, face-down and unmoving. Someone else, a man, was sitting on the floor to his right, clutching his leg, blood seeping between his fingers. Another man stood above them all. A tall thin man with dark hair. He had something in his hand. What was it? A phone? A radio?

No, it was a gun.

Michael tried to sit up. A jagged shard of pain raced through his right side. A pain so acute and immediate that it forced him once again to his back. He placed a hand to his side, felt the sharp edge of a rib extending against the skin and the stickiness of a fluid. He held his hand up. It was covered in blood.

He’d been shot.

But by whom and why?

The man standing above him knelt down close to Michael’s ear and whispered something. Something indiscernible but the tone was clear. His voice was like the sound of a snake, low, hissing and full of venom.

But what was he saying?

What was he saying?

Michael looked into the face of the man-snake and cringed. The man’s eyes were dull and distant, filled with…nothing. They were blank, lifeless orbs.

Again the man spoke. The words were faint and far-away, like an echo heard from a great distance. Slowly though the words came nearer, clearer.

I always win, Michael, he said. I told you that. Always.

The man pressed the gun to Michael’s forehead and smiled.

It was all over in a matter of seconds.

1

Paris, France, six weeks earlier

Michael Shaw positioned his feet shoulder-width apart, the toe of his right foot in line with the heel. His head extended over his shoulders, his shoulders over his hips, knees slightly bent. A perfect boxer’s stance. One that came naturally since his Golden Glove days at Marciano’s in Boston. At six feet, one-eighty, Michael still carried the physique of a boxer but not the face. The only evidence of his years in the ring was a nose that was slightly askew, having been broken twice, and two missing teeth that had been surgically replaced. There were no tell-tale scars above the eyes as with most boxers.

He stepped forward, jab, jab, jab, cross, upper-cut, cross, jab, jab, head bobbing, shoulders weaving. Again, jab, jab, jab, cross, upper-cut, cross, jab, jab. The skin of his chest and back glistened with sweat. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders and hips turned together in perfect unison with each blow, again, again and again, almost as if punishing the 70-pound heavy bag in front of him.

The man behind the bag, holding on for dear life was Remy Cerdan. Owner of Remy’s Gym. Not bad for an old man, Remy laughed.

Michael threw a hard straight left then followed with a haymaker hook, grunting with the effort. It nearly picked Remy off the ground.

Forty-two is old? Michael asked between punches.

Well, Remy said, it’s not thirty-two.

Michael landed a pair of one-two combinations, boom, boom – boom, boom, then dropped his gloves to his side. He smiled a smile like that of a small boy.

That’s what I like about you, Remy, Michael said. You know to motivate a guy.

Remy shrugged. What can I say, it’s a gift.

Michael Shaw had been a regular at Remy’s for over five years now. Almost as long as he’d been in Paris. He tried several other gyms, but there were too many mirrors and not enough sweat for him. He preferred them more Spartan-like. No hot tubs or juice bars, just weights and a sauna. Plus a couple heavy bags.

He continued his workout.

My cousin was asking about you yesterday, Remy volunteered.

Michael smiled.

She’s a nice girl, Remy added. Pretty. Dresses good. Nice teeth.

Michael smile grew wider.

She wondered if you were going to call again.

What did you tell her?

Remy shrugged. I told her you got a phone. Call him.

The woman in question was Remy’s cousin twice-removed. Remy was instrumental in setting up the first, and possibly last, date between her and Michael. Not that the date didn’t go well. As far as Remy knew, it went very well. Michael said he enjoyed it. His cousin said she had a splendid time.

So why you don’t like her? Remy asked.

I do like her, Michael replied truthfully. She seemed very nice.

And funny?

Michael thought a moment. Yes and funny.

Plus she has her own apartment now.

Michael wasn’t sure what that had to do with the conversation so he said nothing. Instead he continued to focus on relaxing his shoulders with each blow. Relaxed muscles were the key to speed and speed was the key to boxing. He learned that in the ring the hard way. Quick hands and balance are essential. Most amateurs mistakenly believe power is the most critical skill. Not so. Power is good as long as your blows connect, but power requires a tense body, and a tense body tires quickly. The best boxers are the ones who learn to pace themselves over twelve rounds instead of burning themselves out in three. Michael believed the same could be said about life in general.

You’re not a priest no more, right? Remy said.

Michael didn’t answer.

I mean, it’s been what, five years now? Remy continued. I think that means you can have a little fun now and then.

Michael’s next jab missed the bag and grazed Remy’s ear. Remy’s eyes went wide.

You don’t think priests have fun? Michael asked.

Remy winked. Not the kind of fun my cousin has in mind.

Michael shook his head. He was used to other people playing matchmaker for him. His sister, his mother, two aunts, and his landlady whom he hardly knew. But not Remy. Remy was a former welter-weight champion of France, and men like him have better things to do than play matchmaker. Even if was for a funny relative with good teeth.

I like her, Michael said. It’s just that I like to take things slow.

Slow? Remy chuckled. No, a snail is slow. A turtle, he’s slow. You, my friend, you’re not slow – you hardly move at all.

Michael removed his gloves, draped a towel around his neck and headed for the showers. Tell you what, you shave that little soul-patch of yours and I’ll call her.

Remy touched the scraggly patch of hair just below his bottom lip. I can’t shave this. Elaina loves me this way. She says it makes me look sexy.

Michael disappeared into the locker room. Of all the words he might choose to describe Remy, sexy was not one of them.

You’re not getting any younger, you know! Remy shouted. My cousin, she’s a nice girl.

Michael took off his shoes and trunks.

OK, Remy shouted. Maybe she’ll call you.

Michael walked into the old-fashioned sauna and shut the door. Finally… peace and quiet. A rare commodity these days. He poured water over the heated stones and waited as steam hissed and rose up in a delicate plume, filling the small room with a fine opaque mist. He chose a corner in which to sit, leaned heavily against the wall and closed his eyes. Soon the heat and steam and absolute quiet enveloped him like a coat from the cold, temporarily shutting out all the talk of the priesthood, desperate cousins, and life in general.

This was the part of his day he lived for.

The part where the muscles were tired but the mind was clear, the body weary, the thoughts alert. Over the past few weeks, achieving this combination had become increasingly difficult. Over the past few weeks, clarity of mind and thoughts were anything but his.

With his shirt off, the two scars on Michael’s stomach were easily visible. Instinctively he touched the five-inch vertical one just below the sternum. It was a habit he’d developed over the years, touching it without realizing it. Force of habit. A survival instinct perhaps. A reminder that the knife that left its mark had nearly taken his life. The other scar, the small one just below the naval, was the result of a .22-caliber that went through and through. No real harm done there, but an inch one way or the other might have been tragic.

Just what kind of priest were you? Remy asked the first time he saw Michael with his shirt off.

Michael smiled at the question he’d head a hundred times before. The kind who forgets to duck, he said.

Remy just nodded and asked no more questions. He figured if he was supposed to know, Michael would tell him. Remy was right. And even if he had told him, Remy wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

In fact, sometimes Michael found it hard to believe himself.

2

Near Masada, Israel (The Judean Wilderness)

Nava surveyed the rock terrace carefully. One false step and the result would be a plummet of nine-hundred feet into the unforgiving nahal or ravine below. So far in her career she had avoided major injury. After witnessing the death of her father two years earlier she had grown more careful in her archeological digs. Today was the rare exception. Today she violated one of her own steadfast rules: never go alone. But there was a method to her madness: today was Saturday, the Sabbath, and her crew had the day off. No need to drag them out here to satisfy her curiosity.

Her watch told her it was almost 5:00 pm. The sun would be setting soon, which meant there was another hour at best to explore the cave below her. But this was a vertical cave. A cave formed by nature on the side of a sheer cliff with access only from above. In archeological circles, vertical caves were called widow-makers. They were rated on a scale from one to five; five being the most difficult to reach. Nava rated this one as a three, possibly four.

From where she stood, the opening appeared to be no more than a tiny fissure in the rock, possibly large enough for a human body to slip through, but no more. What, if anything, was on the other side was the question. She knew of course inside she was likely to find either sand vipers or scorpions. Two poisonous creatures that inhabited the area. Be that as it may, her experience also told her this was exactly the type of cave she was looking for; not a place where a human might live, but a place where one might hide something of great value.

She took a deep breath, checked her GPS for coordinates and wrote them down in a notebook. There was always tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she could come back with two of her engineers, venture safely into the rocks below then leave with a clear conscious, knowing there was nothing inside but dust.

On the other hand, her grant from the Hebrew University was dwindling by the minute. She could ill-afford to spend the time and money it would require for her crew to travel back here without due cause. Just because she wanted to continue searching was no reason to search. There had to be compelling evidence for potential artifacts, and that evidence simply did not exist. Furthermore, tomorrow they were scheduled to move north to Qumran.

Nava and her team had spent the last thirty days searching these cliffs along the Dead Sea, digging for artifacts three thousand years and older. From the time before King David these caves had been home to countless generations of people: Canaanites, Amorites, Hittites and Jebusites, each possessing the land long before the Hebrews arrived.

She knew there was little chances of finding anything of archeological value here. For two thousand years the name Masada has attracted the curious as well as the adventurous from around the world. The reason for this interest is its remarkable history. Following the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 AD, a large band of displaced Jews fled the city and took up residence in a fort build by Herod the Great on the mountaintop of Masada. Not to be denied, the Romans soon laid siege to the Jewish outpost. The courageous men and women inside withstood the onslaught for three years but finally, the city fell. Upon entering its gates, however, the Romans were stunned to discover that of its 960 inhabitants, none were alive. Rather than surrender to Roman rule, they chose mass suicide instead.

This is the only recorded incident in Jewish history in which death was selected over occupation. Their love of land and freedom has since become legendary throughout all of Israel. In fact, to this day, upon entering the Jewish military, each soldier declares an oath: Masada shall not fall again.

Perhaps it was the bravery of her fellow Jews that stirred in Nava such hope for this site. Perhaps it was the fact that she could trace her lineage to the heroes of Masada. Perhaps it was nothing more than a feeling that she owed those who died here a debt of gratitude. Whatever the reason, deep in her heart, call it instinct, call it intuition, call it a gut-feeling, Nava was drawn to the cave below like a moth to a flame.

She stripped off her backpack, readied her flashlight and started down the slope.

3

It was a magnificent mid-October afternoon, ideal for the short walk from Remy’s to Michael’s office. And while his friend Remy could be wrong about a great many things, he was right about one: Michael was no longer a priest, he was a professor. A Professor of Early Christian Studies at the prestigious Catholic Institute of Paris. This, of course, made possible by a scholarship to the Sorbonne at age twenty, but also because of his friend and mentor Gerard Rousseau, a fellow professor at the Institute.

Come to Paris, Gerard said to Michael over the phone. Come see why they call it The City of Light.

The City of Light.

What a wonderfully descriptive phrase, Michael thought to himself. Yes, he would have to visit the city of light. He would have to see for himself why it beckoned to the likes of Hemingway, Chopin, Monet and countless other artists, poets and writers.

And so he did visit.

Twenty years ago which now seemed like only twenty days.

Time in Paris flows like a river neverending, Gerard told him. Days become weeks before you realize the sun has set.

Such poetic discourse from a man of the cloth, Michael thought. Rarely had he found things to be as good as they were touted, however, so he approached his first trip to France with caution.

He landed in Paris on Monday. By Wednesday he was in love.

But it wasn’t the museums, parks and palaces that captivated him. He lost his heart to the sheer majesty of a great and ancient city. A city first occupied six thousand years ago by nomadic hunters who found it ideal for a first settlement. A city that saw the Roman Empire extend its reach to the river Seine long before the time of Christ. A city that witnessed the black plague take thousands upon thousands of its citizens, yet never gave in to defeat. This, not Chicago, was the city of the big shoulders. This indeed was the city of light.

Upon graduating from the Sorbonne, Michael received his doctorate from the Institut Catholique de Paris (the Catholic Institute of Paris), after which he returned to Boston to begin his life as a priest. But after fifteen years, he removed his collar, and returned to Paris, not as a member of the clergy but a professor at his alma mater.

The city of light was his once again.

But living here was not without its complications. Michael missed his parents back in Boston, his family, his friends, the parish he called home for fifteen years. Nothing would replace them. No amount of time spent in a city even as wonderful as Paris would fill the void he felt at leaving them behind. He spoke to his parents weekly, his friends almost as often, his fellow priest at the parish only once. When he announced to the church that he was leaving, no one seemed surprised but everyone seemed disappointed.

Think this through before making your decision, one said.

You owe it to God to continue your work here, said another.

Are you sure this decision is God’s will, and not yours? said a third.

Michael was crushed beyond repair. Only one priest, Father James, offered any words of encouragement or consolation.

You must follow your heart, Michael, Father James told him in that wonderfully consoling voice of his. Follow your heart and listen for the voice of God. You may feel as if he’s abandoned you just now, but I assure you, he hasn’t. Promise me you will listen.

Michael promised.

But it wasn’t easy.

There had been a time when everything between him and God had been easy. A time when it was a joy to serve the church, a privilege to serve others. But that time was gone now. Irretrievably lost amid the wreckage of shattered dreams and a bone-weary body.

All because of what happened that night.

A night that would stand in his memory forever. A night that took everything he’d given his life to and destroyed it with a singular act of murder. How could it happen? Why did it happen?

These were the questions for which he had no answers.

Soon he discovered he hadn’t just lost his will to serve those in need, he had lost something far greater, something far more fragile: he’d lost his Faith. His faith in mankind, his faith in the church, his faith in – dare he say it? – his faith in God. And with the loss of his Creator he lost his soul as well.

And so he came to Paris.

Looking not only for a way out but a way back. Back to the life he’d known before, back to the church, back to God.

This was the question that haunted him day and night, echoing in his dreams when asleep, whispering in his ear when awake. It occupied him so deeply that he could walk into an intersection filled with automobiles without realizing it.

Which he did.

The taxi swerved wildly to its left missing Michael by inches, causing the car behind it to slam on its brakes, which caused two more cars to swerve and slam on their brakes. Horns blared, tires screeched, people yelled. First at Michael then at one another..

Demonstrating the reflexes of a startled cat, Michael leaped to the curb in one swift motion, covering more ground in a single move than was humanly possible. It would have been a remarkable feat of agility had he not managed to stumble and fall head-over-heels into a flower bed filled with thorny roses. Fortunately there was no accident on the street; the cars went on about their business. Michael, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. In falling, he had impaled himself in the hind quarters with several especially sharp thorns. It wasn’t so much the pain that bothered him as it was the laughter of two small girls who were watching from a safe distance.

Michael smiled and gave the girls a little wave, as if to say, Yep, I’m a klutz, all right. Both girls returned the wave and ran off giggling, no doubt to report to their parents what they’d just seen.

OK, Shaw, Michael announced under his breath. Back to the real world...before it kills you.

After carefully removing the thorns and regaining his composure, if not his dignity, he continued his walk, eyes wide, ears open, ever vigilant of oncoming traffic and thorn bushes.

When first arriving in Paris, Michael wondered how he would ever navigate from one part of the city to another. Getting from point A to point B was not just a matter of following a neatly laid-out traffic grid. In fact, Paris was like a grand puzzle. A maze of streets, boulevards and parkways, splintering off the main thoroughfares into a spider web of cross streets and diagonal routes. North-to-south or east-to-west roads simply did not exist.

Upon a closer inspection, however, he discovered that the River Seine ran through the center of Paris, dividing it into northern and southern halves, more commonly known as the left and right banks. Furthermore, each half was subdivided into twenty districts. Once he understood the design, it was easy to find his way from the Louvre (Right bank, First District) to the Eiffel Tower (Left Bank, Seventh District). Exploring the city then became a matter of knowing the identifying location as much as the address.

The Catholic University, for instance, was on the Right Bank, Sixth District. Five minutes from the Luxembourg Museum, a short walk from the Sorbonne, and a stones-throw away from Sainte-Sulpice, the church made famous by the book The Da Vinci Code.

Finally, having crossed several more intersections, all without incident, Michael arrived at the Institute. When he opened the door to his office, it was with the intent of preparing a series of lectures he was giving entitled Against Heresies: Tertullion’s response to the Gnostic Gospels.

It was a lecture he was never to give.

4

The large manila envelope on Michael’s desk did not immediately draw his attention. Mail had a tendency to pile up from time to time before he had the chance to sort through it. Since the invention of e-mail, the letters he received at his office were either bills, third-class marketing or the occasional college flyer announcing an upcoming event. All personal mail was delivered to his apartment.

Michael turned on his laptop, rearranged a few papers on his desk and began writing. Midway through the first paragraph, however, he paused. Something caught his eye. The large manila envelope. It was addressed to Father Shaw, not Professor.

That’s odd, he thought. Not once since his arrival in Paris had anyone referred to him as Father. Michael picked up the envelope and studied it. No return address. Probably a paper or essay written by a colleague imploring him to both read and endorse it. He’d received dozens of them since arriving at the Institute, but still, Father Shaw?

Michael opened the envelope and removed two pieces of paper. One, a photocopy of a hand-written page in what appeared to be an outdated form of French. The other a letter addressed to him. Michael slipped on his glasses and read the letter first, thankful that he was almost as fluent in French as he was in English.

Dear Father Shaw:

My name is Lisette Bellamy. Forgive me for sending this by mail. I intended to visit your office but certain events have made that impractical. Quite recently I came into the possession of a document that might be of some interest to you. Enclosed you will find a photocopy of a page from a diary, written I believe in the 14th century. If, after reading this, you are interested in the complete diary, I will be at the Theatre des Marionettes in the Jardin du Luxembourg at noon on Wednesday. I will wear a red scarf. I hope to see you then.

Sincerely,

Lisette

Michael was mystified. How does one simply come into the possession of a 14th century document? Was Ms Bellamy the curator of a museum? A dealer in antiquities? A collector of historical papers? Or possibly a scam artist out to make a quick buck on a forged document? Also, why send it to him? He was a professor of early Christianity, not medieval literature. If this diary was in fact authentic it might have significant historical worth, but of what practical value could it be to him?

He began reading.

Or rather piecing it together. Between the smudged copy, the faded ink, and the unusual sentence structure of 14th century writing, he managed to get the gist of what the diary contained in the first paragraph. It was dated 1 July, 1356. The author was concerned that something he owned was going to be taken from him, forcibly, by King John II.

This much was interesting but hardly unusual. French Kings were notorious for acquiring wealth or property from their subjects through the use of force, fear and intimidation. In 14th century France, the law of the land was subject to the whims of the monarchy.

Michael continued reading.

It appeared that the object in question was acquired by the author in Constantinople while on campaign and under the hand of the Holy Regency the previous year, and brought to Paris under the cover of night.

Michael paused. His interest intensified. The phrase while on campaign and under the hand of the Holy Regency could only mean one thing: the author was a knight of the Crusades, sanctioned by the Holy See: the Pope.

But what knight and which crusade? And why did it need to be brought into Paris under the cover of night?

Was it some sort of contraband? Gold or silver perhaps? A stolen piece of art? Some prized possession of a royal family elsewhere?

On he read.

The next sentence was almost indecipherable. The only word legible was the town Smyrna. Try as he may though, Michael couldn’t place Smyrna among any of the cities conquered in the Crusades. Then again, his recollection of the Crusades was sketchy at best. He thought there were a total of ten in all. He was certain thought that the first was launched in 1095 under the direction of Pope Urban II. The intent of the first crusade was to regain the Holy Land, specifically Jerusalem, which was taken in the Muslim conquest of the mid-seventh century. The first crusade, he recalled, saw the knights successfully re-capture Jerusalem in 1099.

Michael remembered these dates well because they represented the first use of indulgences in conjunction with Christian warfare. Anxious to win a decisive battle in the name of the Church, the Pope pledged indulgences (forgiveness of sins) to those who picked up the royal mantle and traveled bravely to Jerusalem to take back the city in which their Lord and Savior died.

The first Crusade proved to be a resounding success. The subsequent ones, however, were travesties at best, most of which resulted in the Crusaders doing more marauding than crusading. In fact, when the well-armed knights stormed into Jerusalem in 1099, they killed as many Jews as Muslims. They considered the Muslims a threat to Christianity, the Jews a party to the crucifixion. Either way, both were the enemies to Western Europe.

Toward the end of the page, Michael ran across another word he thought was Liely or Lierly. He stopped reading. Now why did that ring a bell? Was it someone’s name? A city? A church? He was fairly certain it was a city, but he wasn’t sure why it seemed familiar.

Midway through the next paragraph, the name Julian appeared, followed by Stephanus, neither of which meant anything to Michael, but the third name in that paragraph did mean something. In fact, it meant a great deal.

It was a man’s name. A name hidden deep in the recesses of Michael’s mind. One that he learned as a young seminary student then promptly forgot until it reappeared recently on the cover of TIME magazine. The man’s name: Geoffrey de Charny. The legendary French knight who, in 1350, displayed what has become the most-celebrated artifact in all of Christianity: The Sacra Sindone or Sacred Linen. The burial cloth used to cover the crucified body of Jesus Christ, more commonly known today as The Shroud of Turin.

Michael sat back in his chair. If