With the back of his hand Maanu slapped his mother. The queen staggered and fell to the floor. Cries of horror rose from the throats of the courtiers.
"They will die here, before you all, if they do not tell me where they have hidden the shroud, and their accomplices will die as well-all of them! No matter who they may be!"
Two guards entered with Marcius, the royal architect, followed by his frightened young servants.
"Has he told you where the shroud is?" Maanu snapped at the guards.
"No, my king."
"Then whip him until he talks!"
"We can whip him, my lord, but he will not speak. His servants have told us that he has done a terrible thing: Several days ago he cut out his tongue."
The queen looked at Marcius, and then she looked at the unconscious bodies of Thaddeus and Josar. She realized what they had done. In order to keep the secret of the Holy Shroud, they had made this terrible sacrifice so that they would not falter under the torture they would surely suffer.
She began to weep in grief for her friends, knowing that her son would make them pay dearly for this affront to his will and power.
Maanu's entire body trembled with rage, and his face was red with wrath. Marvuz approached him, fearing what he would do next.
"My lord, we will find someone who knows where the shroud has been hidden. We will search everywhere in Edessa, and we will find it-"
The king was not listening. Turning to his mother, he pulled her up from the ground and shook her as he screamed at her: "Tell me where it is! Tell me, or I will cut out your tongue!"
The queen sobbed, her body racked by convulsions. Some of the nobles of the court stepped forward to intervene, seized with shame by their own cowardice, for they had stood by as Maanu struck his mother. If Abgar had seen such an action, he would have had him killed!
"My lord, release her!" begged one.
"My king, calm yourself; do not strike your own mother!" another pleaded.
"You are the king and should show mercy!" counseled a third.
Marvuz seized the king's arm as he was about to strike his mother again.
"My lord!"
Maanu dropped his arm and leaned on Marvuz, exhausted. His mother and the two miserable old men had defeated him. His wrath was spent.
His hands tied, Marcius contemplated the scene. He prayed to God to be merciful, to take pity on them all. He thought about Jesus' agony on the cross, the torture inflicted on him by the Romans, yet how he had forgiven them. Marcius sought deep within himself to forgive Maanu, but he felt only hatred for the arrogant new king.
The head of the royal guard ordered the queen taken to her chambers. He then drew the king to a chair and set a goblet of wine before him. Maanu drank greedily.
"They must die," he said, in almost a whisper.
"Yes," Marvuz replied. 'And they shall." He made a sign to the soldiers, and they dragged Thaddeus and Josar out of the room.
The king raised his head and glared at Marcius.
"All you Christian dogs shall die. Your houses, your estates, everything you possess, I shall distribute among those who are loyal to me. You, Marcius, have betrayed me doubly. You are one of the great leaders of Edessa, yet you have sold your heart to these Christians who have so bewitched you that you have defiled and mutilated yourself. But I will find the shroud, Marcius, and I will destroy it. That, I swear to you."
At a sign from Marvuz, a soldier took the architect away.
"The king will rest now," Marvuz announced to the courtiers, motioning them out of the room. "It has been a long and trying day."
When the two men were alone, Maanu embraced his accomplice and broke into tears. His mother had embittered the taste of vengeance.
"I want my mother to die."
"She will die, my lord, but in good time. You must wait. First we will search for the shroud and gather and kill the Christians, all of them. Then the queen's turn will come."
Cries of agony and horror and the roaring, crackling sound of fire from the city below echoed in every corner of the palace throughout the long hours of the night.
18
ANA JIMENEZ COULDN'T STOP THINKING about the fire in the Turin Cathedral. She spoke to her brother every week, and each time she called she asked about Marco's investigation. Santiago invariably fumed at her and refused to indulge her curiosity. He sounded close to hanging up on her as they spoke now.
"You know you're obsessed, but it doesn't matter. Ana, for God's sake, forget about it, will you?"
"But I can help you, Santiago. I know it."
"I keep telling you it's not my case. It belongs to the Art Crimes Department. Marco wanted my opinion and I gave it to him. So did John. That's it. The end."
"Jesus, Santiago, give me a break. Give me one little peek at the file-I know how to chase down a story. I can see things that cops don't even look for."
'Ah, yes-you reporters are God's gift to investigations and can do our job ten times better than we can."
"Don't be so damn touchy. You know I'm not saying that."
"What I know is that you're not going to start pok-. ing around in Marco's investigation."
'At least tell me what you think."
"I think things are usually simpler than they appear to be."
"That's not an answer."
"Well, it's all you're going to get." And with that he hung up.
Ana slammed the phone down on her end, too, just to make herself feel better. She looked at the pile of papers lying on her desk, alongside more than a dozen books, all on the Shroud of Turin. She had been reading about the shroud for days. Esoteric treatises, religious books, histories… She knew the key lay somewhere in the object's long history. Marco Valoni had said as much: There had been nothing remarkable about the Turin Cathedral until the shroud was installed there. The incidents weren't new-and therefore neither was the motive for them. She was sure of it.
The hell with Santiago. She made a decision: Once she'd gone as deep as she could into the history of the shroud and traced it back as far as was possible, she'd put in for some vacation time and go to Turin. It was a city she'd never particularly liked; she'd never have chosen it as a holiday destination, but that's where the story was-a story she was more determined than ever to write.
Marco had called the meeting for immediately after lunch. It hadn't been easy to convince the necessary ministers, but he had at last been given full clearance to mount the Trojan horse operation his way, with no interference and with additional resources at his command. They were authorized to turn the mute loose and trail him to Timbuktu if he took them there. Now he wanted to brief the team on the details.
Sofia was the last to arrive. Marco couldn't put his finger on it, but he had found her different somehow on her return to Rome from Turin. As stunning as always, but changed in some subtle way.