[This and the next post are a (not very humble, I’m afraid, but respectful, I hope) tribute to Teddi Pappas, who is one of the very few authenticists still trying to study the Shroud from primary sources. I disagree with her in almost every way, but that’s no reason not to acknowledge a fellow explorer in the jungle, recognise her discoveries and applaud her endeavour to make sense of them.]
In 52 BC, the Roman politician Titus Annius Milo was put on trial for the murder of his rival, Publius Clodius. Marcus Tullius Cicero defended Milo on the grounds of self defence, attempting to show that Clodius had ambushed Milo as he was travelling with his wife and household servants in his coach on the Appian way from Rome. Clodius, on the other hand, was on horseback accompanied by a posse of thugs, for no apparent reason. During the ensuing affray, Clodius was wounded and fled to a nearby inn, where Milo had him killed, but only, he claimed, because he feared for his life if Clodius was let go. As there was considerable dispute about the exact nature of the retinues of each man, Cicero turned to the place where they met, just outside Clodius’s house. Would Milo have plotted his ambush there, where Clodius could call upon a thousand reinforcements at a moment’s notice, or was it not infinitely more likely that Clodius simply waited for the hapless Milo to come along the road, and jumped him as he passed by? “Res loquitur ipsa, iudices, quae semper valet plurimum.” Facts, my Lords, always carry the greatest weight in such a case, and here they speak for themselves.”1
Sadly for Milo and Cicero the facts did not speak for themselves and Milo was convicted and banished for life.
The expression “res ipsa loquitur” cropped up again in 1863, when a barrel of flour fell while being lowered from an upstairs warehouse hatch and struck a pedestrian walking below. The pedestrian (Mr Byrne) sued the owner of the warehouse (Abel Boadle) for negligence, but since there was no specific evidence of negligence the case was dismissed. On appeal, however, C.B. Pollock, one of the three judges, famously said, “There are certain cases of which it may be said res ipsa loquitur, and this seems one of them. In some cases the Courts have held that the mere fact of the accident having occurred is evidence of negligence.” His fellow judges agreed, and Byrne was awarded £50. The case set a dangerous precedent, reversing the usual presumption of innocence, by making the very fact that an accident has occurred at all an act of negligence by default.2
The term is now strictly restricted to cases of negligence, and never used in criminal trials. M’learned friend Theodora Pappas, however, in defending the authenticity of the Shroud against its detractors, is fond of quoting “res ipsa loquitur,” and cites the case of serial killer Paul Dennis Reid as a demonstration. After murdering several people in different fast-food restaurants in Tennessee, Reid was arrested and convicted on the basis of several pieces of evidence, including the fact that Reid’s thumb print was detected on a movie rental card belonging to one of the victims, which was found on a roadside the day after the killings. It is Ms Pappas’ contention that this video card spoke for itself, such that where it was found and how it got there was irrelevant to the case. This is not apparent from transcripts of the trial, in which the circumstances of the find and whether they supported the defence or the prosecution are clearly discussed in some detail.3
But even metaphorically, does the Shroud speak for itself? In a church in Turin is a long thin cloth, about the size and shape of an altar cloth and nothing like any shroud ever seen. On it are the faint marks of the front and back of a man, which look like imprints from a bas relief. The cloth is z-spun, which is typical of Europe but not the Middle East, and apparently woven on a four-shaft treadle loom, not invented till the 12th century. It has no provenance prior to the 1350s, and was never touted as a genuine relic until the 1450s. If it speaks for itself, it speaks clearly of an origin in Europe in the Middle Ages.
M’learned friend, on the other hand, thinks that what speaks for itself is the fact that the image has not been precisely duplicated. It hasn’t been done = it can’t be done = it must be miraculous. And that’s it.
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1). ‘Pro Tito Annio Milone ad Iudicem Oratio,’ Marcus Tullius Cicero, 52 BC, in numerous sources in Latin and English.
2). The English Reports, Exchequer Division, Vol 159, ed. Max Robertson, 1916
3). ‘State of Tennessee V. Paul Dennis Reid, Jr.’, various hearings.
Hugh, a confession: last night, having eaten one too many fish and jalapeño tacos, I had a strange dream. In it, I traveled back to 12th century Hungary, where a tired illustrator of the Pray Codex — having consumed a truly heroic quantity of goulash — sat admiring his drawing of a burial shroud and fell into a heavy, carbohydrate-induced sleep. In his dream, he imagined that his drawing might miraculously become real linen, and that the linen might miraculously produce an image of Jesus.
And when he awoke, there it was.
When I awoke, however, it had turned into a negative. I can only conclude that the chain of miraculous transmission runs: a Hungarian artist’s post-goulash fever dream → real linen → my post-taco subconscious → and somehow the rest is history.