Chapter 7
Vienna
The use of the term “Until now” sounded ominous, so Simon decided that an interjection would be good at this point.
“The 12 objects, what are they? Or can’t you tell me?”
Richard looked at the young man in front of him. He had reached the age when he went to more funerals than weddings or christenings, and most people were young to him. Of medium build, perhaps a little overweight, Simon did not cut a particularly impressive figure, with his shabby, though doubtless fashionable, attire. But Richard felt that, in this case, appearances might be deceptive. There was a sharp intelligence hidden in the blue eyes, peeking out from the sandy mop of hair. And there was the attitude. Given what he had just been told, some hesitation might be in order, but Simon had jumped straight in, grappling with Richard’s story rather than trying to deny it. Maybe Jonathan had made a wiser choice than he first thought.
“Of course I can tell you Simon, you are one of us now. As I said, they are ancient objects of unbelievable power, worshipped by people throughout the ages. The oldest is the sarcophagus of Cheops, which most people think was stolen from the Great Pyramid. It was not stolen, merely removed by those wise enough to fear its power.
“There is the Ark of the Covenant, which contrary to popular belief, is not in some American Army storage depot.” Richard allowed himself a chuckle, showing that he was not totally ignorant of popular culture.
“That’s in Ethiopia, isn’t it?” Simon had read a couple of books which told of the Ethiopians‘ belief that one of their princes had taken the Ark with him, back to their homeland, after the Queen of Sheba had left Solomon. To this day, devotees believe it is kept in a special temple, seen only by its guardian priest, in the highland town of Dollabella. Requests for proof are met by appeals to faith, and the stalemate continues, to the benefit of the tourist trade.
“Bit further South actually, Zimbabwe. One of you colleagues managed to find it, clever man, but no-one paid any attention. Thank God, who knows what the madman over there would do with it if he knew he had it.
“Your country plays host to Excalibur, the sword of King Arthur, while Japan holds the sacred mirror Yata no Kagami, part of the Imperial regalia.
“In Saudi Arabia, in plain sight of millions, the Black Stone of the Kaaba, while in Turkey, the Sultan’s Palace hosts the Staff of Moses.
In Italy, the Turin Shroud really is the burial shroud of Jesus, while the Golden Plates of Joseph Smith actually were given to him by angels. We also look after the lost Eagle of Varus”
“But that was recovered in 41 AD. The Romans got all their eagles back.”
Referring to the fateful battle of the Teutoburg Forest in 9AD, a force of three Roman legions had been wiped out in an ambush by the German chieftain Varus. He had taken the three legionary standards or eagles causing the emperor Augustus to bang his head against the wall in rage and shame. The first two had been recovered soon after, with the third only being found 32 years later. From that day onwards, neither the legions’ names or numbers were ever used again, so great was the shame of their defeat, and Rome’s attempted expansion across the Rhine came to an abrupt and final halt.
“You should not believe all you read in the history books, Simon, especially not those written by the Romans. My Germanic ancestors were not the painted savages they portray...
Our Spanish friends protect the Golden headdress of Moteczuma, while the Chinese have the Sword of Qin Shi, the first emperor. As you can see, these are impressive, mystical objects. Treasures which cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”
“That’s only eleven; you said there were twelve objects.” Once more Richard was struck by Simon’s acuity, even if, in the scheme of things, it was a small blessing.
“That is the problem.” Richard sighed. The burden of the Order’s failure to protect its treasures lay with him. “It is a sad time that you have joined the order, for we have failed. The twelfth object has been stolen. We have lost the spear of Longinus.”
Simon had some questions by this stage. He was as much of a fan of conspiracy theories as the next man, but this was all taking it a bit too far. “But most of these things are fakes, if they ever existed. All the tests prove beyond doubt that these treasures we still have are copies, they’re not the originals. If there were any originals to begin with.”
“What better way to keep them safe than to tell everyone they are worthless? You are right, every so often, these treasures are tested by science, and science always pronounces them fake. ‘They were made far too late for them to be authentic’ the reports always say. We all know this. But Simon, think. Would you bother to steal something you thought was a fake? The best safety for these objects is for people to think them fakes. We know something of manipulating the minds of man.” Another chuckle, less avuncular this time, more cynical.
Simon took his point, but was not satisfied. “OK, say that’s true, why are some of the treasures on display and others hidden or lost?”
“It depends on the culture they come from. Some of the pieces have always been on display, others have always been hidden. The Order seeks only to protect the objects, not to control access to them. If they have been on display, let them remain so. If the world thinks them lost, let them stay hidden. Think of the risks if, say, Excalibur suddenly appeared. The sword of King Arthur, with all its mystical power. What thief in the world could resist an object like that?”
“But isn’t it a risk, leaving some of these treasures in the public domain as it were?”
‘Yes, as the Spear shows, it was. But having been on display for so long, we decided that removing it would cause more trouble than it was worth. If the public could no longer see it, they would start to look for it and the last thing we wanted was some treasure hunter blundering his way across it.”
“What’s the story with the spear? I don’t know too much about it.”
“The Spear of Destiny, the Habsburg Lance or, to give it it’s proper name, the Spear of Longinus, is the spear which the centurion Longinus used to pierce the side of Christ on the cross. According to St John, the Jews did not want the bodies to remain on the cross overnight as the next day was the Sabbath. The Romans broke the legs of the two thieves crucified with Jesus, to hasten their deaths, but when they came to Christ, they thought he was already dead. To make sure he was, the centurion took his spear and pierced his side. Out of the wound poured blood and water. Longinus himself took this as a miracle, although modern science has other ideas, and became one of the first Christians, moving into exile in North Africa.
There the lance remained for the next several hundred years, allowing other “relics” to take its place, until the Moorish expansion drove the family into exile in Italy. Seeking a guarantee for their safety, they offered their most prize possession to the Lombard King who ruled the area around Milan. At that point, the Lance became part of the regalia of the kings and was used when Charlemagne was crowned in 774. From that point, it belonged to the Holy Roman Emperor and was kept in the royal treasury, first in Prague, then in Nuremburg when the capital moved there in 1424. It stayed there peacefully for 300 years, an object of devotion and a sign of power.
And then came Napoleon. He was obsessed with power, obsessed with the occult - why else did he spend so much time messing around in Egypt? He was looking for the wisdom of the ancients. Ha. He found nothing.”
Simon was about to interject that Napoleon had found the Rosetta stone, allowing the decryption of hieroglyphs, and started Egyptology as a serious field of study, so the expedition could not be called a total loss, but felt the old man was on a roll and let him continue.
“However, he returned to Europe and turned his attention elsewhere, there were plenty of relics he could still acquire. In those days, every cathedral had something important, bones from saints and the like, but only one had the spear. And so he marched on Nuremburg. The council panicked and sent the spear, and the rest of the imperial regalia to Austria, to the Habsburgs for safe keeping. Where they remained, safe from the Corsican megalomaniac. After the threat receded, the Nuremburgers asked for them back, but what could one city do against the might of the Austro-Hungarian Empire?”
“Didn’t Hitler take it after the Anschluss?” Simon was beginning to remember some of the legend now, the product of a television documentary which promised answers but left only questions.
“Some people think that the Spear caused Hitler. He certainly saw it when he was a painter in Vienna, and it does seem to have obsessed him from that point on. You see, the Spear is, forgive the pun, double edged. It gives great power, but sometimes at the cost of sanity. But you are right, when Germany and Austria were united in 1938, one of Hitler’s first acts was to have the Spear moved to Berlin.
“But the good councillors of Nuremburg were not the only ones who could foresee danger. The Order arranged for a replica of the Spear to be made, and the night before the Germans crossed the border, it was swapped and the original spent the war safely hidden in an alpine barn, sharing its home with the cows. The Americans and their General Patton were kind enough to return it after the war, but they did not realise they were only handing back a 7 year old fake. Ah the Americans, so literal sometimes.”
The old man leaned back and paused for breath. “You must forgive me. I am an old man and get tired easily. How long are you staying in Vienna?”
“The police have told me not to leave for a day or two, so I thought I’d do a bit of sight-seeing. There are some interesting collections in the museum I’d like to see. Collections of the non-legendary sort I mean”
“Excellent. If you will allow me to impose, I will send my driver to pick you up tomorrow at 10. We can tour the museum together; it would be a treat to get an expert’s guide to the Roman collection. And we can talk more. Is that agreeable?”
There was almost a hint of vulnerability there, an old man needing to escape his burdens, and Simon relented. “Of course. Ten o’clock would be fine.”
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must head home. By the way, please call me Richard. That is my name, Richard zu Stahlberg. I hope you can forgive the Schmidt nonsense, but I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course Richard, I’m sure in your position, I would do something similar.”
The bill was swiftly dispatched and the two headed to the lobby where their coats were waiting. Simon might have been embarrassed by the contrast between his coat and Richard’s loden, but something about the old man made such comparisons irrelevant. Or maybe it was the wine. Walking down the long hall way, the temperature dropped steadily until they entered the raw chill of the cloudless night.
“Allow me to drop you at your hotel, no need for a taxi.” The old man turned and waved at a large black Mercedes, parked just up the road on the other side of the quiet street. The only other vehicle was a courier motorbike, doubtless dropping off some urgent package, and the only pedestrians a tall man muffled in black against the cold. Vienna had obviously shut down for the evening.
The man started to move across the street, causing the Mercedes to slow before it picked them up. The man, well over six feet by the look of him, raised his hand as he crossed, as if in greeting.
But his hand stopped halfway. His hand which ended in a long, narrow metal object. A gun.
Phut. The supressed Glock 22 coughed, smoke billowing from the chamber, like breath, on this freezing evening.
Simon heard no cry, but felt Richard’s blood spattering his cheek as the old man wobbled then began to sink to the ground.
Turning now, the gunman looked directly at Simon, his gun still raised.
A sudden noise caused both to look to their right. Past the Mercedes which was braking quickly at the sight of its dead owner, the courier sped on his motorbike, driving right at the assassin. The killer tried to adjust his aim, to take out the new threat, but the closure speed was too fast. The motorcyclist knocked the gun out of his hand almost like a mediaeval jouster. Slowing the bike in a skid, the rescuer revved the engine, aiming again for the murderer like a bull for a toreador. The man ran, back on the pavement and round a corner. The motorcyclist decided not give chase, turned again and roared off down the street.
Turning to Richard, his chauffeur now running to help, Simon supported him under his neck. The wound went straight through the middle of the old man’s forehead. He was dead.
Enjoy the weekend
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