The Descent

'What are you talking about?'

'Your  flash  theory,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'Only  it  requires  not  quite  a  flash.  More  like  a slow bath of radiation.'

'Radiation?'  said  Parsifal.  'Now  we  get  to  hear  that  Leonardo  scooped  Madame

Curie?'

'This isn't Leonardo,' de l'Orme said.

'No? Michelangelo then? Picasso?'

'Be  nice,  Bud,'  Vera  interrupted  mildly.  'The  rest  of  us  want  to  hear  it,  even  if  you know it all already.'

Parsifal fumed. But it was too late to roll up the image and kick everyone  out.

'We  have  here  the  image  of  a  real  man,'  de  l'Orme  said,  'A  crucified  man.  He's  too anatomically correct to have  been  created  by  an  artist.  Note  the  foreshortening  of  his legs, and the accuracy of these  blood trickles, how they  bend where  there  are  wrinkles in  the  forehead.  And  the  spike  hole  in  the  wrist.  That  wound  is  most  interesting. According to studies done on cadavers,  you can't crucify  a  man  by  nailing  his  palms  to a cross. The  weight of the body tears  the meat right off your  hand.'

Vera, the physician, nodded. Rau, the vegetarian,  shivered  with distaste. These  cults of the dead baffled him.

'The  one  place  you  can  drive  a  nail  in  the  human  arm  and  hang  all  that  weight  is here.'  He  held  a  finger  to  the  center  of  his  own  wrist.  'The  space  of  Destot,  a  natural hole  between  all  the  bones  of  the  wrist.  More  recently,  forensic  anthropologists  have confirmed the presence of nail marks  through precisely  that place in known crucifixion victims.

'It  is  a  crucial  detail.  If  you  examine  medieval  paintings  around  the  time  this  cloth was  created,  Europeans  had  forgotten  all  about  the  space  of  Destot,  too.  Their  art shows Christ nailed through the palms. The  historical accuracy of this wound  has  been offered as proof that a medieval forger could not possibly have  faked the Shroud.'

'Well, there!' said Parsifal.

'There   are   two   explanations,'   de   l'Orme   continued.   'The   father   of   forensic anthropology  and  anatomy  was  indeed  Leonardo.  He  would  have  had  ample  time  – and the body parts  – to experiment  with the techniques of crucifixion.'

'Ridiculous,' Parsifal said.

'The  other  explanation,'  de  l'Orme  said,  'is  that  this  represents  the  victim  of  an actual crucifixion.' He paused. 'But still alive at the time the Shroud was made.'

'What?' said Mustafah.

'Yes,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'With  Vera's  medical  expertise,  I've  managed  to  determine that  curious  fact.  There's  no  sign  of  necrotic  decay  here.  To  the  contrary,  Vera  has told me how the rib cage details are blurred. By respiration.'

'Heresy,' the younger Dominican hissed.

'It's not heresy,'  said de l'Orme, 'if this is not Jesus Christ.'

'But it is.'

'Then you are the heretic, gentle father. For you have  been worshiping a giant.'

The  Dominican  had  probably  never  struck  a  blind  man  in  his  entire  life.  But  you could tell by  his grinding teeth  how close he was now.

'Vera measured him. Twice. The  man on  the  shroud  measures  six  feet  eight  inches,'

de l'Orme continued.

'Look at that. He is a tall brute,' someone commented. 'How can that be?'

'Indeed,'   said   de   l'Orme.   'Surely   the   Gospels   would   have   mentioned   Christ's enormous height.'

The  elder Dominican hissed at him.

'I think now would be a good time  to  show  them  our  secret,'  de  l'Orme  said  to  Vera. He  placed  one  hand  on  her  wheelchair,  and  she  led  him  to  a  nearby  table.  She  held  a cardboard box while he lifted out a  small  plastic  statue  of  the  Venus  di  Milo.  It  nearly slipped from his fingers.

'May I help?' asked Branch.

'Thank you, no. It  would be better  for you to stay  back.'

It  was  like  watching  two  kids  unpack  a  science  fair  project.  De  l'Orme  drew  out  a glass jar and a paintbrush. Vera  smoothed a cloth flat on the table  and  put  on  a  pair  of latex  gloves.

'What are you doing?' demanded the older Dominican.

'Nothing that will harm your  Shroud,' de l'Orme answered.

Vera  unscrewed the jar and dipped the brush in. 'Our "paint,"' she said.

The  jar  held  dust,  finely  ground,  a  lackluster  gray.  While  de  l'Orme  held  the  Venus by  the head, she gently  feathered  on the dust.

'And now,' de l'Orme said, addressing the Venus, 'say  cheese.'

Vera  grasped  the  statue  by  its  waist  and  held  it  horizontally  above  the  cloth.  'It takes  a minute,' she said.

'Please tell me when it starts,'  de l'Orme said.

'There,'  said  Mustafah.  For  the  image  of  the  Venus  was  beginning  to  materialize  on the fabric. She was in negative. Each detail became more clarified.

'If that doesn't beat  all,' Foley said.

Parsifal refused to believe. He stood there  shaking his head.