Lore 244: Stolen

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In 1992, Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry went to outer space for the first time.

That's right, after a lifetime of telling stories about the cosmos, he was finally journeying out toward places no man had gone before.

It must have been a poignant, momentous experience for him.

And I'm sure it would have been if Roddenberry had been aware of it.

But alas, he had no idea.

You see, on the day that Gene went into space, he had already been dead for about a year.

It was only his ashes aboard Space Shuttle Columbia's mission STS-52.

And after a brief voyage, the shuttle returned safely to Earth, Roddenberry's remains in tow.

But that wouldn't be the end of his posthumous career as a cosmonaut.

A few years later, on April 21st, 1997, he returned returned to space again.

Well, seven grams of him did, and this time he had company.

23 other people's cremated remains were also launched into the Earth's orbit.

By 2020, the spacecraft had disintegrated into the atmosphere, Roddenberry and his fellows along with it.

A burial among the stars.

Funeral rites have been a part of human civilization since the beginning of time.

They reflect our values, our customs, and yes, even our technology.

And so it kind of makes sense that there would be a modern version of this ancient practice.

Also, one thing you can be sure of when you launch a loved one into space is that no one is going to tamper with their grave.

Because down here on Earth, that isn't always the case.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore.

We all know the importance of an heirloom, those special treasured objects passed from hand to hand, generation to generation.

Sometimes heirlooms are valuable, like silver candlesticks or fine jewelry.

Other times, their value is simply sentimental, made precious by their history and the memories tucked inside them.

A great-grandmother's comb, for example, or a handmade quilt.

Really, an heirloom can be just about anything.

But one keepsake you probably don't have stowed away beside your family photo album are human body parts.

Unless that is you happen to live inside a Catholic church, in which case those little trinkets go by another name.

Relics.

Now, I like to feel that this is one of those terms that most people understand.

Relics are holy objects with religious significance due to having physical contact with either a saint or Jesus Christ himself.

And traditionally, there have been three different classes of of relic.

Third class relics were objects that had come in contact with a first or second class relic, sort of a holy version of six degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Second class relics were usually a saint's personal possessions, the clothing they wore or the stuff they owned.

And then we have first class relics.

Now, first class relics can be one of two things.

Either they are objects directly connected to Jesus Christ, for example the Shroud of Turin, or most fun of all, the actual severed and preserved body parts of dead saints.

Now, of course, you might be wondering, what do I mean by body parts?

Well, historically, relics have included hands, fingernails, locks of hair, entire limbs, severed heads, hearts, skeletons, whole preserved corpses, and more.

One church even claimed to have been the caretaker of Jesus' circumcised foreskin until it was stolen in 1983.

And look, don't ask me what the thief wanted with it.

I do not know.

It's also worth noting that while this three-tiered class system has existed for a long time, the Catholic Church changed it in 2017.

Today, there are only two classes of relics.

First class now includes sizable body parts or the full contents of an urn, and second class covers tiny fragments of bodies and objects associated with saints.

In other words, everything but large pieces of corpses are second class.

Originally, saints' remains were left untouched after burial, and it was considered poor form to move them.

Even in their graves, though, they were highly revered, so much so that churches would be built right on top of them, hoping some of the graves' holiness would radiate out into the people inside the building.

Then, in 787, everything changed.

That's when the Second Council of Nicaea decreed that every altar must contain a relic, a rule that remains in place to this day.

That's right, every single Catholic church in the world had to have a relic inside, by sacred law.

And with with that, suddenly, saints' remains were a hot commodity.

People started digging them up left and right to be gifted, traded, and even sold.

Relics were all the rage, and throughout the Middle Ages, pilgrims traveled great distances just to visit specific ones.

It was basically the medieval equivalent of flying across the country to see Taylor Swift in concerts.

And just like the Aris tour, these pilgrimages brought a boost to the local economy.

Oh, and don't forget that relics were also kind of portable, so they'd often be taken on tour, the way that a museum might send an exhibit around the country today.

From city to city, severed arms and floating heads would be displayed to packed crowds.

These people, of course, would be clamoring for food, shelter, souvenirs, and more, all feeding into a rapidly growing relic economy.

By the way, those souvenirs I mentioned often included teeny tiny flake-sized fragments shaved off of the saints' body parts and sold.

Look for saint relic on eBay, and you'll see what I mean.

Seriously.

Now, folks who go to a modern rock show today can rely on a lot of high-tech, flashing lights, pyrotechnics, basically a spectacle.

But seeing a saintly relic in person, you could be in for something even wilder.

In fact, you might just witness a miracle.

Take, for example, the blood of Saint Januarius, patron saint of Naples, Italy.

After being beheaded in the 4th century, the folks at the Naples Cathedral got their hands on a vial full of his blood.

And today, it's still there, sealed in glass.

Now, given that the blood has been in that ambule since the year 305, you would assume that it is all dried up.

And it is, except when it isn't.

Supposedly, on special occasions, the blood liquefies.

And this isn't a rare miracle either.

It allegedly liquefies three times a year, always on anniversaries that are important to the city or the saint himself.

And on the rare occasion that it doesn't magically liquefy on schedule, that's bad news, apparently, almost always seen as an omen of bad things to come, like the plague or war.

For example, in 1527, the blood refused to liquefy just before Naples was hit with the plague.

And then again, in September of 1939, a few weeks after World War II began.

Oh, and also, the blood refused to liquefy in December of 2020, right before the COVID pandemic began.

But Saint Januarius is far from the only saint with a crazy story.

You see, when people don't let the dead stay in their graves, things start start to get a little wild.

And when it came to acquiring a top-of-the-line relic, some people came up with some very creative ideas.

The relic in Fecom Abbey in Normandy wasn't just a little dried-up blood or some ashes in a dusty urn.

No, some claim the place is actually possessed by the severed arm of Mary Magdalene.

Here's how they say the rumor began.

Sometime during the 12th century, Hugh, the bishop of Lincoln, went to visit the abbey, and that's where he saw it, the arm, prominently on display.

And honestly, he was smitten.

Pardon the deep cut here, but to quote Mystery Science Theater 3000, can't eat, can't sleep, all I do is think about it, gotta have that hand.

That's right, Hugh desperately wanted a piece of Mary Magdalene's arm to call his own.

Not the whole thing, mind you.

He wasn't that greedy.

Just a finger would do it.

So he tried to break one off, but the relic turned out to be a bit too

leathery.

So the story goes that the bishop put the mummified hand into his mouth and literally bit off two of her holy digits.

When the monks guarding the relic found out they naturally freaked out, Hugh argued that it was no different than eating the body of Christ, which he did every day taking the Eucharist, and that he should really be allowed to chomp saints whenever and wherever he wanted.

And somehow, the monks were like, well, we can't argue with that very sound logic.

And so they let him go.

In fact, Hugh received the opposite of punishment.

He was later made a saint himself.

And I really wish that I could tell you that his story was unique.

But to do that, I'd have to overlook the incident with Saint Francis Xavier's toe.

For those who don't know who he was, Francis Xavier was a 16th century saint who died in 1552 on an island near China from what was recorded as exhaustion, something that sounds very relatable in 2023.

Mourners gathered in droves to pay their respects to him, and as they waited in line to approach the saint's body, one lady saw an opportunity.

When her turn came, she bent as if to kiss the saint's feet and then bit off one of his toes.

After that, she brought the toe all the way back to Portugal and installed it in her own chapel, where tourists could visit it, for a fee, of course.

Unsurprisingly though, not all relics were small enough to be popped into your mouth like a bonbon, but that didn't stop people from snatching them anyway.

Like the head of Saint Catherine of Siena, for instance.

Known for her stigmata and mystical visions, Saint Catherine died in 1380 at the young age of 33.

Despite the title of Siena, Catherine actually died in Rome, and when the people of Siena requested her remains for burial, Rome refused to comply.

So the worshipers had no choice.

A group of her followers snuck to her Roman grave and exhumed her body with plans to bear her home.

But they hit a a snag.

According to the legend, they soon realized that the full corpse was just too large and heavy for them to carry whole.

So they settled on the next best thing.

They cut off her head and put it in a bag to take back to Siena.

In a tense moment during the heist, Roman guards stopped them and searched their suspiciously head-sized bag.

But to the amazement of the thieves and guards alike, they found no head inside.

Instead, the bag was full of rose petals.

Later, after the guards had released them and they'd made their way to safety in Siena, the rose petals transformed back into St.

Catherine's severed head.

And whether or not these specific details of the legend are true, that severed head is on display today in Siena's San Domenico Basilica.

And yet, at the center of all of this activity were smugglers.

But they didn't always work for themselves.

Remember, every single altar by Catholic law had to have a relic.

And the better the relic, the more income it would provide to that abbey.

Which is why some abbots who couldn't afford to buy one on their own would hire smugglers to steal relics for them instead.

And because there obviously weren't enough relics to go around, some smugglers created new ones by digging up random people's bodies, chopping them up into pieces, and selling those chunks under the false claim that they belonged to some well-known holy hero.

There's this old saying from the Catholic theologian Erasmus, who once said that there was enough wood from the true cross to build a battleship, given how many churches claim to have a piece of it.

And at least four different churches have claimed to have St.

John the Baptist's severed head.

I think you get the idea.

Suffice to say, relic smugglers were a dime a dozen.

They were surefire work, after all, simple supply and demand.

But there was one thief who outshone all the rest, a man who went down in history as the greatest relic smuggler of all time, who, along with his brothers, pulled off a heist so wild it makes Ocean's 11 look like amateurs.

By day, he was a Roman deacon.

By night, though, he ran a body-snatching operation, a classic, wholesome family business.

At least, that was the case for Deustana and his two brothers, Lunissus and Theodorus, along with their friend Sabatino.

Now, usually, the work was fairly simple.

The gang would descend into the catacombs below Rome, sneak into tombs and mausoleums, steal the bones, and then store them in the family home before journeying out to whatever cathedral had ordered the delivery.

Clients could also sign up to accompany Deustana down into those tombs for those who preferred a more DIY pick-your-own corpse approach.

And surprisingly, these thieves would sometimes boldly hawk their wares out in public at monastic fairs and markets.

It's not clear how many human bodies DeSdana and his partners rip from their graves or how big a fortune they accrued in the process, but we do know that one particular theft helped the thieves go down in history.

It was sometime during the 9th century and a courtsier named Einhard had just been given some land in the German forest and he wanted to build a church there.

But of course to establish a church, he needed a relic and he didn't have one.

Lucky for Einhard though, Deustana was in town.

Now, the thief's reputation often preceded him, so I'm sure it was no coincidence that Einhard invited the deacon to join him for a meal.

The two drank and ate and chatted casually until eventually the conversation shifted to relics.

Long story short, Einhard needed one and Deusdana had the ability to get it for him.

And it wasn't long before preparations began for a journey back to Rome.

Riding on the back of a mule, Deus Dana left for Rome.

With him were Einhard's notary, a guy named Ratlieg, and Ratlig's servant Regenbald.

Along the way, they were also joined by a priest named Hilduin, who also happened to be on the hunt for a shiny new relic for himself.

When they arrived in Rome, there was good news and bad news.

Sadly, the bones that Deustana had in mind for them were already gone, but luckily, he knew where they could get some others, an entire catacomb that was exclusively dedicated to martyrs.

Sufficiently annoyed, but also determined not to leave empty-handed, the thieves and their clients all snuck into the church of St.

Tibertius in the middle of the night.

When they were finished, they had made it out with the crusty remains of two special holy people, an exorcist named Peter and a priest named Marcellinus, both of whom had been beheaded in the year 305, five centuries prior, and one of whom had been interred with a beautiful silk robe.

And so, with their mission accomplished, the thieves left Rome.

At the end of their journey, both Marcellinus and Peter were laid to rest in Einhard's new church, and you would think that that would be the end of it.

But well, it wasn't, because this is where things got a little messy.

Literally.

The relics were obviously valuable, so Einhard had guards standing by day and night.

But one of those guards fell asleep on the job, and as he did, he dreamt that two doves, one white and one gray, flew through the window.

And then a voice announced, go and tell Ratlik to inform his master that those holy martyrs are unwilling that their body shall rest in this place, for they have chosen another to which they desire to be taken at once.

Suffice to say, Einhard was not thrilled with the news that the saints weren't happy with his new church, so he went to check out the remains for himself and found the coffins mysteriously oozing blood.

That's right, sealed ancient remains seeping pools of sticky blood onto the church floor.

And yet Einhard didn't really want to give up the relics.

He had paid dearly for them after all, and so he kept them.

More visions followed though, strange dreams and angry ghosts demanding the remains be moved.

And all the while, those coffins kept oozing.

According to Einhard's own writing, and I quote, the fluid was of a brackish savor, as it were like the taste of tears and the thinness like that of water, but had the color of true blood.

And I just want to point out that that seems to imply that Einhard actually tasted the stuff, which, yeah, I know.

After seven full days of oozing, he finally agreed that this was all a bit too much.

So, once again, the relics went out on the road, this time with Einhard himself leading the way.

And when they finally reached the new church, the saints were once again laid to rest, their remains adorned inside the crypt, along with that beautiful silk.

And again, Einhard's men watched over those remains day and night.

But when the guards were asleep, a thief snuck in, used a flame to unseal the caskets without breaking any locks, and proceeded to scoop a full pint and a half of loose ashes out of the box, all before sealing it back up.

By morning, no one even knew what had happened.

And it might have stayed that way too if it weren't for one little slip-up, which I am contractually obligated to refer to as a loose lips sink crips sort of situation.

Basically, after installing the relics in their new church, Einhard had gone home.

A while later, he bumped into the priest Hildeon, who, if you remember, had been along for that trip to Rome, and Einhard started telling him about the gorgeous silk robe that had come along with the remains.

Absolutely, Hildeon agreed.

It really is gorgeous.

Which gave Einhard pause.

You see, despite being part of the traveling party, Hildeon wasn't actually there on the night the relics were stolen in Rome.

So he wouldn't have had a chance to see this robe unless he had opened the casket later.

Einhard's eyes widened and Hildeon immediately realized his mistake and fessed up.

It turns out the whole enterprise had been a plot by Deusdana's gang along with Hildeon and Rat League, Einhard's own notary, all to re-steal the remains from under Einhard's nose.

Then they re-sold the relics to new buyers.

which, since Einhard had already paid them for them, meant that the thieves got paid twice for a single set of remains.

And Deustana had gotten away with it all.

Humans have always had a complicated relationship with the bodies of the dearly departed.

From modern-day funerals to ancient rituals, so much of our grief and remembrance is centered around human remains.

Knowing too that people are very good at finding creative ways to be deceptive, the practice of stealing or making relics from human corpses shouldn't really come as a surprise.

I guess looking back, it's only shocking that it didn't happen more often.

After all, it's hard to turn down a good opportunity, especially when it's just sitting there, six feet underground.

But most thieves don't work without risk.

When it came to Davus Donna and his crew, you would think that they'd have been in big trouble when the truth came out.

After all, beyond the usual civil laws they were breaking, stealing a saint must have been considered a grievous sin in the eyes of the church, right?

Well, actually, that assumption would be wrong.

In fact, crazy enough, it was often the opposite.

You see, people believe that these remains were essentially sentient.

And so it was thought that if the holy, super-powered relics didn't really want to be taken, they wouldn't let it happen.

How?

Well, remember, these saints' remains had the ability to perform miracles.

It wouldn't be out of character for a relic to, for example, become too heavy to lift or to slam all the doors closed in the catacomb.

So if a relic was successfully removed, that must mean that the saint approved.

In a sense, relic robbing was a way of liberating those remains, not stealing them.

And the historical record backs this up.

Many monks actually bragged publicly about the relics they had stolen.

They loved this flex so much much that sometimes that bragging was a lie.

And because of this, it's hard to know which recorded thefts were real and which were just a tall tale spread around to gain a bit of sacred street cred.

At the end of the day, no one, not even Deus Dana, was punished for the heist.

The worst that happened as a result was that Einhard had to sort of awkwardly request that the thieves please return the saints bits that he had stolen first, which they did.

At long last, the relics were installed in a final church that that those saints reportedly approved of.

And there they remained, healing the sick and performing miracles, all without a single blood-oozing coffin in sight.

I hope you enjoyed today's journey through the dusty tunnels and crypts that is the world of holy relics.

I know it certainly opened my eyes to a whole new branch of folklore.

But sometimes the subject of good saintly remains can be a bit too tiresome.

Sometimes what you really want is a bad boy.

So we've dug up one final story about the relic of a sinner.

Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it.

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The Grand Baroque Church of St.

James the Greater lies in the center of Prague's old town.

Originally built in the 13th century, a fire destroyed it in 1689.

But that couldn't stop the people's dedication to their God.

The church was rebuilt, finer and more opulent than ever.

Today, the church boasts arched Gothic ceilings, vaulting into elaborate frescoes.

Delicate filigree lines the walls and encircles ornate paintings scattered throughout more than 20 altars.

Golden cherubs perch on lofted balconies.

But these aren't the church's most notable features.

Not by a long shot.

No, the church of St.

James the Greater is actually famous for a single mummified severed arm that's dangling from the ceiling.

It all goes back to a very strange legend.

According to the story, a man snuck into the basilica one evening.

He was only trying to get in from the cold and who could blame him?

The winter was bitter and the church was warm and welcoming, all aglow with golden light.

Well, this visitor made himself at home and crept through the church, oggling all the fine statues and treasures, until one object, finer than all the rest, caught his eye.

It was a statue of the Virgin Mary, and she was covered in jewels.

At the sight of the statue, the man became greedy and hatched a plan.

He decided to hide in the church until dusk, and once he was all alone, he would steal the jewels off of the virgin to keep for himself.

So there he waited until one by one the worshipers and clergymen all filtered out, leaving the aspiring thief in solitude.

And at last, darkness fell.

With the coast clear, the man approached Mary and reached up, eyes glinting with hunger and placed a single hand upon the largest of the statue's gemstones.

As soon as he did though, Mary's own hand quickly rose up and grabbed his arm.

Panicking, he tugged and writhed against her iron grip, but the statue refused to let him go.

The thief, it seemed, had been trapped.

Mary held the man firmly in place all throughout the night, and that's where he was the following morning when the clergymen and congregants came back.

To their credit, they tried their best to free the man, but to no avail.

Mary held on tight.

Finally, there was only one option left to them.

As the would-be thief looked on with horror and regret, one of the parishioners took up a butcher's knife and sawed his arm free from his shoulder.

And if it makes you feel any better, I do have to add that many of those parishioners were apparently members of a local butcher's guild.

So it's probably fair to say that the man doing the cutting knew what he was doing, right?

Now, according to the legend as it's been passed down over the years, the moment the blade made it all the way through and the poor man's arm was completely severed, the Virgin Mary let go, dropping the severed limb to the floor and returned to her natural pose as if none of it had ever happened.

And the church did what you might expect.

They hung the arm on a meat hook, mounted it high up on the ceiling, and then left it there, where it has continued to dangle for over 300 years, serving as a warning to all aspiring thieves to come to this very day.

So, is the gruesome origin story of the severed arm actually true?

Probably not.

But if that's the case, it leaves us with an even more uncomfortable question about the very real display on the ceiling of the church.

Where in the world did they get that arm?

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with writing and research by Jenna Rose Nethercott and music by Chad Lawson.

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