The Descent

'The radiation heats and weakens  the fabric on one  side,  creating  an  image.  If  I  hold my  statue  here long enough, the cloth will turn dark.  If  I  hold  it  higher,  the  image  will be  larger.  Hold  it  high  enough,  and  my  miniature  Venus  becomes  a  giantess.  That explains our giant Christ.'

'Our paint is a low-grade isotope, newtonium,' said Vera.  'It's found naturally.'

'And  you  painted  yourself  with  it  –  your  own  nude  –  to  create  the  forgery  out there?'  asked Foley.

'Yes,' said de l'Orme. 'With Vera's  help. She knows her male anatomy, I must say.' The  older Dominican looked in danger of sucking the very  enamel off his teeth.

'But it's radioactive!' Mustafah said.

'To  tell  the  truth,  the  isotopes  made  my  arthritis  feel  better  for  a  few  days  after.  I

thought maybe  I'd stumbled on to a cure for a while there.'

'Nonsense,' Parsifal  stormed  in,  as  if  remembering  his  hat.  'If  this  were  the  answer, we'd have  detected  radiation in our tests.'

'You would  detect  it  on  this  cloth,'  Vera  admitted.  'But  only  because  we  spilled  dust onto  it.  If  I'd  been  careful  not  to  touch  the  cloth,  all  you  would  detect  is  the  visual image itself.'

'I've  been  to  the  moon  and  back,'  said  Parsifal.  Whenever  Parsifal  fell  back  on  his lunar  authority,  he  was  near  the  end  of  his  rope.  'And  I've  never  come  across  such  a

mineral phenomenon.'

'The  problem  is  that  you  have  never  been  beneath  the  earth's  surface,'  said  de l'Orme.  'I  wish  I  could  take  credit  for  this.  But  miners  have  been  talking  about  ghost images  burnt  onto  boxes  or  the  sides  of  their  vehicles  for  years  now.  This  is  the explanation.'

'Then  you  admit  there  are  only  traces  of  it  on  the  surface,'  Parsifal  declared.  'You say  that  man  only  recently  found  enough  of  your  powder  there  to  have  an  effect.  So how could a medieval con artist  get his hands on enough to coat an  entire  human  body and create  this image?'

De l'Orme frowned at the question. 'But I told you, this is not Leonardo.'

'What  I  don't  understand'  –  Desmond  Lynch  rapped  with  his  cane,  excited  –  'is why?  Why go to such extremes?  Is  it all just a prank?'

'Again,  it's  all  about  power,'  de  l'Orme  answered.  'A  relic  like  this,  in  times   so superstitious?  Why,  whole  churches  came  into  being  around  the  drawing  power  of  a single  Cross  splinter.  In  1350,  all  of  Europe  was   transfixed   by   the   display   of  a supposed  Veronica's  veil.  Do  you  know  how  many  holy  relics  were  floating  around Christendom  in  those  days?  Crusaders  were  returning  home  with  all  manner  of  holy war  loot.  Besides  bones  and  Bibles  from  martyrs  and  saints,  there  were  the  baby Jesus' milk teeth,  his foreskin – seven  of them, to be precise – and enough  splinters  to make a  forest  of  True  Crosses.  Obviously  this  was  not  the  only  forgery  in  circulation. But it was the most audacious and powerful.

'What  if  someone  suddenly  decided  to  tap  into  this  benighted  Christian  gullibility? He could have  been a  pope,  a  king,  or  simply  an  ingenious  artist.  What  could  be  more powerful than a life-size snapshot of the entire body  of  Christ,  depicting  him  just  after his great  test  on  the  Cross  and  just  before  his  disappearance  into  the  Godhead?  Done artfully, wielded cynically, such an artifact would have  the ability  to  change  history,  to create  a fortune, to rule hearts  and minds.'

'Ah, come on,' Parsifal complained.

'What  if  that  was  his  game?'  de  l'Orme  postulated.  'What  if  he  was  attempting  to infiltrate Christian culture through their own image?'

'He? His?' said Desmond Lynch. 'Who are you talking about?'

'Why, the figure in the Shroud, of course.'

'Very  well,' growled Lynch. 'But who is the rascal?'

'Look at him,' de l'Orme said.

'Yes, we're  looking.'

'It's a self-portrait.'

'The  portrait  of  a  trickster,'  said  Vera.  'He  covered  himself  with  newtonium  and stood  before  a  linen  sheet.  He  deliberately  perpetrated  this  artful  dodge.  A  primitive photocopy of the son of God.'

'I give up. Are  we supposed to recognize him?'

'He looks a little like you up there,  Thomas,' someone joked. Thomas blew his cheeks out.

'Long hair, goatee. Looks more like your  friend Santos,' someone teased  de l'Orme.

'Now that you mention it,' de l'Orme mused, 'I suppose it could be any one of us.' It  was turning into a game.

'We give up,' said Vera.

'But you were  so close,' said de l'Orme.

'Enough,' barked  Gault.

'Kublai Khan,' de l'Orme said.

'What?'

'You said it yourselves.'

'Said what?'

'Geronimo.  Attila.  Mao.  A  warrior  king.  Or  a  prophet.  Or  just  a  wanderer,  little

different from us.'

'You're not serious.'