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The Relic

The line stretched back across the great square, an insane monster of a thing, stretching down the square’s huge length, flipping 90 degrees, then 90 degrees again and then a parallel line of people. On and on almost 50 such lines, each hundreds of feet long, a body length wide.

All over the square the Swiss Guards roam, the threat of their automatic bullpup assault rifles belied by their clownish red and white uniforms, the same ones from hundreds of years before.

Some things had changed since the church’s resurgence, and others most certainly had not.

Ivan got on line 24 hours earlier. There was no point when the line dissipated. There was no day or hour where the relic was not on public display, it’s power available for a price.

To get in required the payment of alms. The amount demanded had increased year over year as the church’s role quickly progressed in the aftermath of the discovery, from renewed spiritual guide straight to a mafia style protection racket.

Ivan was actually ill, albeit by choice. Some people did come to bear witness without a firm diagnosis – the “better safe than sorry crowd” – many came just to pray before the thing, any healing effects being purely incidental to the satisfaction of their religious fervor.

But to come without proof of illness subjected you to heightened scrutiny, and a man trying to do what Ivan was about to try and do could nary afford a single extra eyeball watching him.

So Ivan purposefully infected himself with Hep C. It wasn’t hard, a local junkie was more than willing to help him out in exhange for some cash.

Once he was certain the disease had had time to spread its roots, Ivan got a confirmed diagnosis from a doctor, had him print out a letter, and then bought a one-way flight to Rome.

Now he waited on the worlds longest line, a mere ten feet from his goal. As he progressed in the line the security became more and more intensive. What began as a smattering of Swiss Guards, by the end, turned into a veritable army. These final fifty feet of the line passed between two rows of the fluffy red soldiers, each armed to the teeth and standing ram rod straight.

Ivan wasn’t worrying too much yet, although he should have been, since he’d already passed the point of no return. Before the last fifty feet of the line, anyone could exit at anytime, no questions asked. Thousand of people every week left the line early, giving up on futile hopes of snapping a photo. The ample signage along the route, warning that photographs and photography equipment of any kind with be met with hails of gunfire, usually did their job.

It was the rare individual with nefarious intent who allowed themselves to go past the point of no return. After the fifty foot mark, there was no longer any leaving the line, or avoiding the strip search which was conducted on each believer before entering the chapel.

So far, in the eleven years since the relic was discovered, no one had taken its photo. No one except the Vatican scientist, Gerlando Talgiani, the man originally tasked with assessing whether or not the relic contained actual miraculous properties.

He was called to the scene of its discovery, to isolated Bloomington, Idaho, where reports were coming in of a Cult of Christ among the towns 200 or so residents. Rumor had it that an object of miraculous power had been sent by God and that all who gazed upon it were healed.

Talgiani was dubious. A cynic even. That is why he was sent. In all his years investigating for the church, he had never found a bonafide miracle.

When Talgiani reported back that the relic was real, its powers legitimate, its origins undeniably holy, well, the vatican sort of lost its shit. They freaked. The details are not well understood, and probably never will be, but word is they tried to destroy it, to burn Bloomington to the ground and pretend the whole thing never happened.

Only Tagliani himself stopped them, by making an announcement to the world. Soon enough believers from all over the planet were flocking to Bloomington to be healed, and soon enough the Church had to back down and either accept the relic or fall into obscurity.

Needless to say they accepted. The relic was brought to Rome, and put on public display, at first for a voluntary donation, but eventually at an ever growing flat rate.

Tagliani was disgusted by the whole enterprise. They say he lost it. Certainly seemed that way when he self immolated in protest on top of the alter in the Basilica.

But back to that one photo. They say, in order to convince the Pope, Tagliani took a photo back to Rome and, somehow, the mere image of the relic still worked its magic, healing the Pope himself of his rheumatism.

The photo was destroyed of course and since then photography has been violently controlled. For good reason. Whoever wields that photo wields the power to heal anyone on Earth.

It was Ivan’s turn. A Swiss Guard waved him forward to a small booth, all in red velvet. Inside a man with a stoic expression spoke in English.

“Empty your pockets and strip.”

Ivan’s heart was racing. This was it. He followed the soldier’s orders, placing his meager possessions on a small table next to his clothes.

The soldier inspected Ivan, thoroughly, and then turned to his possessions. He looked at each in turn, his glasses, his wallet, his key ring and, at last, his pen.

Ivan held his breath. That pen, the design of that pen, paying the man who made that pen, had cost Ivan over three million dollars. It was all the money he, or anyone of his family members, would ever have in the world and Ivan had stolen it all to bet on this one, batshit venture. The pen bore an absolutely minute camera with just enough memory for a single high definition photo. It was activated by a specific pattern of presses on the spring loaded button at the bottom.

The man fingered it carefully, eyed it judiciously. He took off the cap and to Ivan’s horror, he looked directly into the minuscule lens. Does he see it? Is this the end?

Finally the man capped the pen and placed it on the counter. Turning to Ivan he said. “Sir, dress yourself, take your belongings, wait for that green light to go on, and then enter the chapel. You shall have ten seconds of solitude with the relic and then you will be escorted out. Attempt to leave the premarked path, or to linger after the signal to leave, and you will be shot. Do you understand everything I’ve said?”

Ivan nodded, high as a kite on adrenaline.

“May God be with you.”

With that the man left. Ivan, as if in a dream, got dressed, put away his belongings and held onto the pen, twirling it nervously in his hand. The inspection was the last obstacle, for obvious reasons there were no cameras inside the chapel.

The light turned green and Ivan entered through red velvet curtains. A path lead through the center of the Sistine Chapel where a kind of glass obelisk stood. Ivan approached it speedily and gazed upon the relic.

Obviously he’d heard rumors of what it looked like, and he’d never seen a photo, but somehow, this just wasn’t what he was expecting.

Inside the glass casing, behind thick bulletproof glass, carefully held on a delicate golden tripod, was a piece of toasted white bread. If Ivan squinted his eyes, just so, he could sort of make out the basic outline of a blurry face.

The face of Jesus Christ.

Ivan shrugged. He had to admit, he felt about a hundred times better than he did before he’d come in. Even the stuffy nose he picked up waiting in the smoggy line in the middle of urban Rome cleared up completely. He looked down at his hand and watched an old scar there disappear before his eyes. He felt as if he had been reborn.

Cognizant of his limited time, he opened the pen, pressed the button in the correct pattern, and snapped his photo. He’d done it.

He should have been excited. All that money that would be coming his way should have had him on cloud nine. And anyway, he didn’t believe in this stuff. Still he spent his last couple of seconds looking at that toast with a solemnity he could hardly explain in words.

The light up ahead turned red, indicating his time to leave. Awkwardly, unsure, Ivan gave the piece of toast the sign of the cross and ran out.

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