Sign of the Cross Read online

  He began, the way he had begun his written report to the pope, with a set of statements about historical precedents. He told them that Giovanni Berardino had to be placed into the context of the five hundred documented stigmatics throughout the ages.

  The lineage stretched back to St Francis of Assisi. In the thirteenth century, on a spiritual retreat in the mountains, St Francis experienced a stupefying and dazzling vision of Christ and then erupted in bloody wounds, as nails mystically pierced his hands and feet, and a lance pierced his side.

  In the fourteenth century, St Catherine of Siena exhibited the wounds of the stigmata during a visit to Pisa. The wounds disappeared after Catherine prayed to Christ that he remove them, so she would not be a subject of sensationalism but on her death bed the wounds reappeared.

  In the nineteenth century, the German mystic and prophet, Anne Catherine Emmerich, developed the five stigmata and defied doctors who tried to prove her a fraud.

  In the twentieth century, another German, the renowned mystic, Therese Neumann, developed the bloody marks of the Passion, including scourge and circular head wounds, every Thursday and Friday for thirty-six years. All told she experienced the entire Passion mystery almost a thousand times.

  And then, of course, there was Padre Pio of Pietrelcina, the longest-suffering stigmatic in the history of the Church, whose stigmata lasted for fifty years. Bleeding wounds on his palms, feet and flank first appeared while he was hearing confessions in 1918 and persisted until a few days before his death in 1968. Besides the stigmata, there were other manifestations of Pio’s holiness. The blood flowing from his wounds was said to smell of perfume or flowers, the so-called odor of sanctity. Then there were the reports of his power to heal the sick, his prophecies, bilocation and levitation, and an ability to survive for long periods, weeks at a time, without sleep or nourishment.

  Throughout his life the Church mounted periodic investigations of his stigmata including medical evaluations. Initially, the official attitude was that of skepticism. There was a suspicion that he was self-harming and in the 1920s he was banned from saying Mass and giving confessions. The Vatican had discussions about moving him to a convent in northern Italy, but there were fears of riots at San Giovanni Rotondo and he was left in place. Over the years, the Vatican softened its stance and he was gradually rehabilitated, though the Church was noncommittal on the miraculous nature of his wounds for decades. The tide definitively turned in the 1960s when Pope Paul VI dismissed all suggestions of his lack of sanctity. In 1947 the young Polish priest, Karol Józef Wojtyła, visited Padre Pio and took confession with him. Years later, as pope, he would remember what Pio had told him that day; a prophesy that he would ascend to the highest post within the Church and it was John Paul II who canonized Padre Pio in 2002.

  ‘So, let me turn to Giovanni Berardino,’ Cal said, ‘a young man who, in many ways, is a typical case among the assemblage of known stigmatics and who embodies all the challenges of validation that an investigative team might encounter. These investigations generally take place against a background of high emotions and require a rigorous approach to fact gathering, observation and medical evaluation. My role has been limited to interviews with the priest himself, family members, friends and colleagues. Because he claimed to first experience stigmata the day after his visit to a church in Croatia, I visited that site and interviewed its only remaining monk. If it weren’t for my close encounter with the side of a mountain, I would have returned to Rome earlier.’

  After polite laughter, he continued. As he talked, he censored himself and, with each omission, he thought he detected a pleasant curling of Cardinal Lauriat’s lips. He offered no mention of the dueling versions of why Antonio Forcisi didn’t accompany Giovanni into the crypt, nothing of the history of stigmatics at St Athanasius or Brother Augustin’s assertion of Giovanni’s worthiness as a successor, and nothing about the mystical vision Cal had experienced when the young man touched him or his belief that his car crash had been no accident.

  It was time to give his conclusion and this is what he said, ‘I found him to be an affable and pious young priest who seemed sincere and without guile. His aspirations don’t seem to go beyond remaining in his parish and tending to his community. He’s no publicity hound. That said, I’m not a psychiatrist and therefore I’m not qualified to spot subtle forms of psychopathology. Interviews with friends and family added little to the overall fact pattern. St Athanasius is a special church because of its great antiquity but it offered no clues to the genesis of his stigmata. I look forward to hearing Dr Tellini’s medical opinion, but overall, I would have to say that from my point of view, the nature of his stigmata is inconclusive. I certainly could not exclude the possibility of malicious fraud or subconscious self-harming for some psychological secondary gain.’

  The moment he stopped talking he began to marinate in guilt.

  Cardinal Gallegos nodded and said, ‘Inconclusive. I see. Tellini, tell us your opinion.’

  The doctor referred to a draft of his medical report as he spoke. He began by describing the location of the wounds on his wrists.

  ‘I would have to say that the anatomy of the wrist is better-suited for crucifixion than the palms since the weight of the body can be better sustained. Stigmata of the palms, is, in my view, a red flag for fabrication, as the sufferer may be influenced by popular depictions rather than the true Roman practice. As I have learned from the professor, stigmata confined to the upper extremities and sparing the lower extremities are historically unusual. Berardino’s lesions are moderately deep, extending through the dermal layers into the subcutaneous tissue. There is irritation and spasm of tendons and this interferes with some function, but there is no destruction of the tendons. There was some dried blood at the margin of the ulcerations but mostly I saw oozing, fresh blood. There were no signs of acute or chronic infection.’

  Gallegos asked, ‘Is that not unusual for someone who has had these for several months?’

  ‘Perhaps, although it may be a testament to fastidious wound care,’ Tellini said. ‘He does have ample supplies of sterile bandages and gauze. The x-rays of his wrists show no involvement of underlying bones. His blood tests reveal that he has no issues with his clotting mechanisms and only a mild anemia, with values just below the lower limit of normal for a man of his age. However, his local doctor has administered periodic blood transfusions. As to his psychological state, I am not a psychiatrist but I am not a novice at assessing the emotional condition of my patients. I found him to be somewhat immature and a bit guarded in his answers, as if he had something he wished to hide. I conducted a search of his living quarters for acids, bases or any type of dermal corrosives and found none. However, this was a cursory search, not a forensic one. I could have easily missed a well-disguised hiding place. My conclusion is in concert with the professor’s. I find the nature of his stigmata inconclusive although my clear bias is that Giovanni Berardino is inducing these stigmata with the periodic application of some unknown substance.’

  The secretary of state looked around the circle with a satisfied expression and asked, ‘Tell me, doctor, what additional investigations you would recommend to settle this matter more definitively?’

  ‘I would say that he ought to be removed from Monte Sulla and placed in some new location where he would not have access to any irritating substances. There he would be closely observed. If the stigmata healed then the matter would be settled.’

  ‘This is surely a maneuver that the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith might recommend,’ Gallegos said.

  ‘Do you agree, professor?’ Lauriat asked.

  Cal was no longer thinking about the bleeding priest. He was thinking about getting on a plane and returning to Cambridge to lose himself in his Thomas Aquinas book. He was done with Vatican politics.

  ‘I’m sorry, could you ask that again?’

  Lauriat seemed to give him a pass, perhaps charitably attributing his inattention to his concussion. ‘Of c
ourse, professor,’ he said before repeating Tellini’s suggestion.

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ Cal said. ‘I’d be interested to hear how the case resolves itself in the future.’

  FIFTEEN

  Vienna, 1935

  No structure in a city that prided itself in celebrating its wealth was as imposing as the Hofburg Palace. Built in the fourteenth century and expanded in every century since, it stood as a sprawling testament to the wealth and power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

  A solitary figure dressed in a black trench coat, with a black fedora, made his way across the sunny Heldenplatz, tramping over the long shadow cast by the soaring statue of Archduke Charles. At the Swiss Courtyard, the oldest part of the palace, he climbed a single flight of marble stairs and entered the Imperial Treasury.

  It was late in the afternoon and the guard informed him that he had a scant half-hour for his tour before the five p.m. closing time, then asked if he needed directions to a specific gallery.

  ‘No thank you,’ Otto Rahn said. ‘I know precisely where I am going.’

  ‘I need to check your bag.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Rahn sniffed.

  ‘We had an anarchist not too long ago with a hammer. He was going to break something valuable.’

  ‘I am no anarchist and have no hammer.’

  ‘It is required.’

  His leather satchel contained several notebooks, a set of fountain pens and four leather pouches that were of no interest to the guard. He was waved on.

  He had only recently made the trek to the museum and knew exactly where he needed to be. Passing quickly through galleries filled with priceless paintings and sculptures, he entered a room with a central glass case holding the fabled crown, orb and scepter of the Holy Roman Empire. These treasures were of little interest for Rahn but there was an elderly guard milling near the imperial regalia so Rahn slowed down, pausing as a typical tourist to study the bejeweled crown.

  The next room held the object he was looking for. As he entered it, he held his breath, hoping, given the lateness in the day, that there would be no guards and few, if any visitors. He was rewarded on both scores. He waited for a man and a woman, Dutch, by the sound of them, to leave before he strode up to one of the cabinets.

  There were three objects on display.

  In the middle was the Imperial Cross, a wooden crucifix made in 1030 that was covered in gold and precious gems.

  To the right was a smaller crucifix, fashioned in the thirteenth century around a fragment of wood, claimed to be a piece of the True Cross.

  To the left, resting on a velvet wedge, was the Holy Lance, its gold sleeve shining more brightly than any golden object in the room.

  Rahn checked the room again and felt within his bag for one of the leather pouches. Inside of it was an envelope with all the three leather relics he had collected throughout Europe, each one a putative scrap from Christ’s sandals.

  His test he planned was simple enough. With a pair of tweezers, he would gently press a relic against display-case glass at the closest point to the lance.

  Then he would see if anything happened to the lance, whether, to use Eusebius’s phrase, it ‘glowed like fire.’

  He held the first piece of leather in place.

  Nothing happened, but how long should he wait?

  Let’s be scientific, he thought. Five seconds for each object.

  Before positioning a new relic, he looked behind him for the guard but the coast remained clear.

  None of the leather pieces caused any changes to the lance.

  The next pouch contained the cloth relics, remnants perhaps of Christ’s burial cap and cloth, each in its own envelope.

  It took a couple of minutes to cycle through them, and again, there was no effect.

  The third pouch had the wooden remnants; all supposed relics of Christ’s cross. He glanced at the smaller crucifix inside the display case and thought, either it’s a fake or this entire exercise is a bloody waste of time!

  While he was positioning the first piece of wood, he heard a gruff voice.

  ‘Here, you!’

  Rahn palmed the relic and turned around, his shoulder bag swinging with his body and brushing the case.

  The elderly guard said, ‘Watch your bag. We don’t want to scratch the glass, do we?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Rahn said. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘We’re closing in fifteen minutes, did you know?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be making my way out soon enough.’

  The guard muttered, ‘See that you do,’ and returned to the other chamber.

  A few minutes later, the wooden pieces screened, Rahn fished out the last pouch that held a metal box.

  He looked at his watch. The guard would be back soon.

  ‘Waste of time,’ he muttered, plucking out the first of fourteen thorns from its paper envelope. But there were no shortcuts to the experiment and he was a thorough man. The thorn was slightly curved and delicate so he couldn’t press it against the glass too hard.

  Again, there was nothing.

  Number two, he thought, positioning the second thorn.

  Nothing.

  ‘Number three,’ he said in a whisper.

  The pain was immediate and he suppressed a yelp.

  He felt it before he noticed what had happened.

  The hot tweezers and the thorn were lying on the wooden floor, where he’d dropped them. The thorn and tweezers were dimming like cooling embers that had escaped from a hot fire. There was a burn on his index finger and thumb where he had grasped the tweezers.

  Rahn immediately looked to the lance and gulped. The black iron of the lance was red and glowing and wisps of smoke rose from the velvet wedge.

  ‘It glows like fire,’ he whispered. The words came out too loud and he turned to make sure he was still alone.

  He gingerly picked up the tweezers, now cooler to the touch, and used it to pinch the fallen thorn. He slid it into its envelope, noting its provenance, a church in France.

  The lance had returned to its normal black color.

  Hesitantly he repeated the process with the fourth thorn but nothing happened.

  The clock edged closer to five o’clock as he cycled through almost all the remaining thorns, none of them eliciting an effect.

  The fourteenth and last remained, a thorn from a monastery in Spain. Hurriedly he pressed it against the glass.

  It happened again.

  As his flesh burned, the thorn – now a red-hot needle – and the orange tweezers fell at his feet and the lance lit the case with its glow.

  It was five minutes to five and Rahn, despite his burnt fingers, giddily strode past the elderly guard in the next room, tipping his black fedora.

  So Himmler’s crazy theory had been right.

  Rahn judged the information he possessed too sensitive to share via telegram or even the telephone. Who knew whether a nosy operator or the Austrian secret police might be listening? So he embarked on the next phase of his mission without communicating explicitly with Berlin. He sent only a wire to Himmler with the cryptic message: Vienna: Eusebius Confirmed. Seeking Further.

  He had come to Austria without an SS minder, so as not to arouse the suspicions of the Reich’s jittery Austrian neighbors. Now, holed up in his hotel room, he pondered his next moves while gazing at the presumed pair of True Thorns and obsessively rubbing at the burn marks on his fingers.

  He didn’t wish to revisit every Christ relic site in Europe and the Orient. He’d been lucky with the thorns but had come up empty with the cloth, leather and wood relics. He consulted his notebooks and thought long and hard.

  Nails.

  He decided to concentrate on the nails. Some of them had a provenance, harking back to the Emperor Constantine and the Empress Helena. He would return to the sites that possessed the Holy Nail reliquaries he had visited on his earlier trip. If he happened to be close to a site with other famous Christ relics, the Turin
Shroud, for example, or churches with alleged True Cross relics, he would visit them too.

  He charted the most efficient train route to cover the stops. Over the following fortnight, he carried his shoulder satchel into churches and shrines throughout Europe.

  His modus operandi was always the same. He would enter a shrine at a time when there were the fewest visitors then take out one of his True Thorns and press it against the glass of the reliquary case, as close as possible to the nail relic.

  In Rome, the Basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem, had a nail, one of the three Empress Helena was said to have found in the Holy Land and carried back to Rome. Tradition had it that the other two were sent to her son in Constantinople. One of them was allegedly purchased from the imperial treasury of the city by an Italian trader in the Middle Ages. Then bequeathed to the Santa Maria della Scala Hospital in Siena where it was on display in a gold and crystal reliquary. The fate of the purported third Holy Nail was more difficult to determine. According to lore, it was divided into smaller fragments, perhaps used by Helena as talismans to protect Emperor Constantine in battle. One fragment might have been worked into the emperor’s helmet, another into his bridle. The helmet was supposedly in Monza Cathedral in Italy. There were said to be two candidates for the bridle, one in Carpentras, France that was destroyed during the French Revolution, the other in the Milan Cathedral.