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“There are two relics of the Arma Christi left,” he said. “And less than twenty-four hours to RSVP. One of those involves the Americans. What if they refuse to participate? I took a chance making personal contact and extending them a special invitation. Maybe that was foolish.”
He wondered if Washington was responsible for Reinhardt’s presence. But how could that be? A leak? That was possible. An old Persian proverb came to mind, one he’d come across in his readings. The man who knows not, but knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun him. A wise precaution. The man who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a student. Teach him. Definitely. The man who knows, but knows not that he knows, is asleep. Awaken him. That was where he currently found himself. But the man who knows, and knows that he knows, is a teacher. Learn from him.
Absolutely.
“When do you leave to head north?” he asked Vic.
“Shortly.”
Originally, Vic would have handled things tonight alone.
But Jonty decided on a change in plan.
“I want to go with you,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
The Accumulation of Holy Relics started with Helena, The mother of Constantine the Great. She was granted the high title of Augusta Imperatrix and allowed unfettered access to the imperial treasury so she could secure the precious objects of the new Christian tradition.
To fulfill her mission, in A.D. 326, at the age of eighty, she traveled to Palestine as the first Christian archaeologist. In Jerusalem she ordered a temple that had been built over the site of Christ’s tomb near Calvary torn down and a new church erected. According to legend, during the construction, remnants of three different crosses were discovered. Was one the cross upon which Christ died? Nobody knew. To find out, the empress commanded that a woman who was near death be brought to the site. When the woman touched the first and second crosses her condition did not change. But when she touched the third she immediately recovered. Helena declared that to be the True Cross and ordered the building of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher at that spot.
And so began the veneration of objects.
From its inception Christian belief depended on the miraculous, with Christ rising from the dead. Relics became a part of that belief, filling a void after pagan idols were banned. They were common prior to A.D. 1000, but the Crusades brought a new wave of relics into Europe. Thousands of objects, everything from teeth to appendages, bones, blood, even entire bodies. For a church to possess a relic meant that pilgrims would come, and with them a constant revenue stream. Not surprising then that so many faux relics appeared, as it was much easier to create your own than travel to find one.
The Protestant Reformation brought change, as relics horrified the reformers. John Calvin said that if all the fragments of the True Cross were gathered together they’d fill a large ship. Yet the gospels testified that a single man was able to carry it. After 1517 Martin Luther relics lost much of their importance, but eventually seven attained special status.
The True Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the Pillar of the Flogging, the Holy Sponge, the Holy Lance, the Nails, and the Holy Blood.
The Arma Christi.
Weapons of Christ.
Instruments of passion.
According to Corinthians, to those who renounced the “weapons of this world,” the Arma Christi were a great protection against temptation.
* * *
Cotton listened as Stephanie explained.
“The Arma Christi still exist, though there is debate as to which are the true relics and which are fakes. But the Vatican solved that problem by compiling its own official list.”
Pieces of the True Cross were everywhere. The largest, and most notable, sat in the Monastery of Santo Toribio de Liébana in Cantabria, Spain. The Crown of Thorns seemed equally scattered, many claiming that their thorn was authentic. But the one in St. Anthony’s Chapel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, had acquired a stamp of authenticity. A segment of the Pillar of the Flogging, supposedly retrieved by Helena herself, remained in Rome’s Basilica of St. Praxedes. The Holy Sponge moved from Palestine, to Constantinople, to France, ending up in Notre-Dame.
Whether Christ was crucified with three or four nails had been long debated. But legend said that Helena, while in Palestine, found four Nails. She supposedly cast one into the sea to calm a storm, a second was mounted into Constantine’s battle helmet, a third was fitted to the head of a statue, and a fourth was melted down and molded into a bit for Constantine’s horse. Yet there were dozens of Nails scattered across Europe. The Vatican ended the debate by blessing the one on display at the cathedral in Bamberg, Germany, as authentic.
“The sixth relic, the Holy Blood, was here in Bruges,” Stephanie said. “Or at least it has been for the past nine centuries. The seventh is the Holy Lance.”
“People are stealing these relics?” he asked.
She nodded. “Over the course of the last three months five have been taken. Two remain. The Nail and the Holy Lance.”
What had Ian Fleming written? Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.
“We need to go,” she said, and they left the market square, walking back toward where the Basilica of the Holy Blood stood. From there Stephanie led him down an enclosed path identified as Blinde Ezelstraat, Blind Ass Street, which emptied into a small plaza that accommodated a columned, concrete arcade.
The fish market.
He knew the story. For centuries fresh saltwater fish had been sold in Bruges’ main square. Centuries ago the delicacy was expensive, available only to the rich. The common folk complained about the stench, so in the early part of the 19th century the merchants moved here, away from the crowd. It remained in use to this day, but no one was hawking their catch this evening. A placard informed them that the market was only open a few days a week from eight until noon. A crowd had collected beneath the colonnade, taking advantage of the empty concrete tables. Children played on the cobblestones beyond.
“Are we going somewhere in particular?” he asked Stephanie as they walked.
She stopped near the pavilion. “We have a serious situation developing in Poland.”
He heard the concern in her voice.
“The Fox administration wants to bring back the European Interceptor Site.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
In 2007 the United States opened talks for a missile defense system to be located in Poland. It would consist of ten silo-based interceptors to be used in conjunction with a tracking and radar system to be located in the Czech Republic. The idea was to protect against missiles from Iran, but Russia strongly objected, interpreting the move as a test of American strength. In retaliation the Russian president threatened to deploy short-range, offensive missiles in Kaliningrad to counter any supposed defense system. Europe likewise expressed deep reservations. France, Germany, and Italy all opposed the move, thinking it more provocative than strategic. The uproar continued until the Obama administration finally canceled the proposal.
“They really want to step into that ant pile again?” he asked.
“They definitely want to go there. The thinking is to send a message to Moscow that there’s a new sheriff in town. Things are going to be different. A way to show the world that Fox is a man to be reckoned with.”
“Talk about poking the bear. As I recall, the uproar against the missiles was nearly uniform. Nobody thought it was a good idea.”
“Fox hates the European Union and NATO. He’s spent the last few months antagonizing nearly every ally we have. He doesn’t give a damn what the EU or Russia wants.”
They stood on the backside of the high-pitched roof of the old town hall, its pinnacles, turrets, and spires giving play to fanciful light and shade. The path ahead, past the fish market, was lined with bars and cafés preparing for another night’s business. Tables dotted the cobbles, many already filled with folks enjoying supper. The time was approaching 8:00 P.M., and he was a litt
le hungry himself.
“The key to everything this time,” Stephanie said, “is the president of Poland. He alone will make or break any decision about the deployment of those American missiles.”
“He wants them?”
“That all depends,” she said.
An odd answer, so he tried, “What do missiles in Poland have to do with the Arma Christi?”
“Quite a bit. Those thefts happened for a reason. A rather strange reason, but definitely a reason.”
He could tell that there was more to the story. “When are you going to tell me?”
“Right now. Follow me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Cotton walked with Stephanie past more cafés with tables and wicker chairs under colorful awnings. She avoided all of them and headed for one of the ivy-clad buildings that fronted a canal. An iron sign attached to the brick façade read LA QUINCAILLERIE. Hardware store. An odd name for a restaurant.
Inside was strictly Old World with smoke-blackened beams, marble-topped tables, and waiters in starched black aprons. The rough-brick walls were adorned with prints and mementos collected over the generations. The windows were open to the evening, facing the same canal he’d sped down earlier. Across the water were more brick buildings with terraces and diners.
A man waited at one of the window-side tables. Medium height with a thin, quiet, clean-shaven face, sallow skin, and modest brown hair. He wore a dark suit and tie and stood as they approached.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “This is Tom Bunch. He works with the White House.”
