In his private study he took the call.

“Yes, Richard?” The Pope said, trying to sound cheerful. “What have you found?”

The Pope’s face crumpled like paper. His erect carriage sagged, and his strong square shoulders slumped. He searched jerkily for several moments before he found a chair to sit in.

“Yes,” the Pope said in the voice of an old man. “I understand.”

He listened for perhaps half a minute. “Is there anything—anything at all we can do?”

Shaking his head as if his secretary of state were in the room with him, the Pope’s voice was emphatic when he spoke. “No! You mustn’t That would make us as morally bankrupt as he. Leave there as soon as you can. I need you here.”

Slowly the Pope replaced the telephone on its receiver and got to his feet. He passed by the window again on his way back to the chapel. Dawn had colored the square a rosy pink. The crowd had thickened. He looked on them now with the bitter fondness of someone saying good-bye to a loved one.

And then he went to his private chapel to pray for a miracle.

“It’s magnificent, George, simply magnificent.” Braun walked around the conference table in the ecumenical council meeting room once again. The Shroud of Sophia lay stretched flat, covering most of the massive wooden table. The bejeweled gold box and the bound volume of the Sophia Passion rested on a small table brought in from the reception foyer.

The shroud was nearly twelve feet long, woven of linen, and bore two head-to-head images, one anterior, one posterior, of a young girl entering puberty. The faint straw-colored outlines of her wounds were visible in the bright light of early morning.

Beyond the closed door to the council room came the muted voices of the men the Pope had sent from the Vatican to authenticate the shroud. Braun had enjoyed watching them work. As professionals they had been excited to examine such an obviously genuine part of history. But as people loyal to the current Pope and his doctrines, they went about their task with heavy frowns, knowing what their authentication would mean.

The most troubled of all was Richard Borden. It didn’t really matter, Braun thought. Like Constantine’s scribe who had interviewed all of Sophia’s townspeople, Borden and the others had all outlived their usefulness to him. And like the scribe, their days and their lives were finite.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Get that, please, George,” Braun said as he leaned over the table to stare into the face of the image.

Stratton’s shoes thudded dully on the bare wooden floor as he walked to the door and opened it. Richard Borden, soon to become ex-secretary of state, was standing on the other side.

“Please tell the cardinal that we will be going now,” Borden said.

Braun lifted his head. “How is the Pope this morning, Borden?”

The secretary of state struggled to control his temper. “He’s quite well, Your Eminence, and has agreed to your … request. When may we expect you in Rome?”