STRICTLY SPEAKING, HE WAS an unimpressive-looking man. Of
average height and build, with a pale, pinched face adorned with a
small triangular mustache above thin, colorless lips, he would not
stand out in a crowd, nor was he likely to attract a feminine eye. His
thinning hair was cropped tight around the sides and back, in the
style of the day, and his rat-like blue-gray eyes maintained their
focus with the help of old-fashioned pince-nez lenses.
What made this man stand out was the way he dressed: a pure
black uniform jacket accentuated with silver piping, black riding
breeches, and gleaming black jackboots. His peaked cap bore the
silver death-head skull of the Schutzstaffel or SS, the security
apparatus of the German Nazi Party. The pièce de résistance was
the embroidered rank bullion on the collar of his jacket that identified
him as the leader of the SS, Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler.
Two guards standing at the entrance to the Hofburg Palace in
Vienna were also dressed in black, with twin lightning bolt runes on
their collars showing they were members of Himmler’s SS. They
both snapped to attention as soon as they saw Himmler step from
his staff car. As he approached the door to the museum, they swung
the doors open as one, then stood back with stiff right arms held in
salute. “Heil Hitler!” they said in unison.
Himmler ignored them. Carrying a large, black leather briefcase,
he entered the museum and, without asking directions, marched
straight to the Imperial Treasury room. There was only one guard
there, also SS, and he greeted the reichsführer in the same manner
as the first two. His attention focused on the only display in the room,
Himmler returned the salute with a distracted wave of his right hand
and a muttered, “Heil Hitler.”
Inside the massive glass case stood a bejeweled cross,
glistening with every known gem. Beside it sat a bejeweled crown
and a golden orb topped with a cross, also encrusted with gems. A
sword in a golden sheath lay in front of these, as if guarding the
others. These were the Holy Roman Relics, the royal artifacts that
for centuries represented the Holy Roman Empire’s Christian
sovereignty over much of Europe, from its beginning under
Charlemagne until its collapse as the Hapsburg dynasty in the 1800s
at the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte of France.
As magnificent as these items were, they held little interest for
Himmler. The sight of another relic in the case arrested his attention
—the head of a spear about a foot and a half long, and four inches at
its widest. Embedded in its dark gray blade was an ancient nail, held
in place with wire and a sheath of gold. Stamped into the golden
jacket were the Latin words Lancea et clavus Domini, or Lance and
Nail of Our Lord. This, according to the museum’s curators, was the
Holy Lance, the spear of a Roman centurion named Longinus, who
used it to stab Jesus Christ as he hung lifeless from the cross to
determine if he were truly dead. Since the days of Constantine,
every Holy Roman emperor carried the spear into battle, earning it
the more popular name, the Spear of Destiny.
“You are the only guard on duty here,” Himmler said, a statement,
not a question.
“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” the guard replied.
“Good. Now leave me.”
The guard broke his stiff-back stance to look at Himmler. “Herr
Reichsführer?”
“You heard me,” Himmler said. He sniffed and added, “I can smell
tobacco on your uniform. Go indulge in your filthy habit. I need a few
minutes to myself to … contemplate these treasures.”
“But Herr Reichsführer,” the guard protested. “My hauptmann
ordered me to not allow anyone in the treasure room unescorted.”
“And who does your hauptmann take his orders from?”
“You, mein Herr,” the guard said.
“Exactly,” Himmler said. He made a dismissive gesture with his
hand. “Now go.”
The guard turned to leave, but Himmler barked, “Stop!”
The guard turned and again snapped to attention.
“You have the key to the display case?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” the guard said.
Himmler held out his hand. When the guard didn’t respond, he
snapped his fingers. “The key.” The guard dug the key from his
pocket and placed it in Himmler’s palm. “Now go.”
The guard executed an about face and quick marched out of the
room.
Himmler strode up and down in front of the glass case, waiting
until he was certain no one else would disturb him. He used the key
to unlock the case and withdrew the spear head. Holding it up to the
light, he examined its details, ran his finger over the golden Latin
words, pressed his finger against the nail embedded in its blade, and
gently touched the tip. After all the centuries, it was still sharp. He
had hoped it would be.
The reichsführer had made a study of the Holy Lance. He was
convinced the story of its power to lead men to fulfill their destinies
was true. So convinced he was of its authenticity, he had a replica
made of the spear to display in his office at Wewelsburg Castle, the
sacred citadel of the SS. Another he had made to present to Hitler.
He had told the Führer that when the time came, he would present
the True Spear to Hitler.
Himmler also believed the spear still held the blood of Christ on
its tip, however little there may still be left of it. And that was the
reason he came to Hofburg Palace as soon as the Anschluss, the
German invasion and takeover of Austria, was accomplished. He
saw no reason to waste the spear and its powers on Hitler. The
Führer held no beliefs in the church and its legends, or in the
mysticism Himmler embraced. He, the reichsführer, was far better
prepared to employ its powers.
Himmler pressed his left thumb against the spear’s point until it
pierced the skin. His hand recoiled from the prick. He set the spear
down, removed the pince-nez glasses he wore for his nearsightedness,
and studied his thumb as a small bubble of blood
formed. Carefully placing the spectacles into a pocket, he picked up
the Holy Lance again and examined its tip. A small amount of blood
smeared the tip, his blood mingling with the blood of Jesus Christ.
He looked at his thumb again. Christ’s blood mixing with his inside
his veins.
A curious sensation came over him, a lightheadedness, almost
giddiness. He sensed an energy, a power surge inside him. He
hadn’t expected this. All his life, Himmler felt inadequate. His size,
his looks, his poor eyesight, his lack of experience with women. And
despite having enlisted in the German Army during the last war, he
remained in a reserve unit that never saw action, unlike the Führer,
or Göring, or even that scar-faced sybarite Ernst Röhm, head of the
Brown Shirts.
But now he sensed a confidence. He was the new man of destiny
—he felt that now in his heart, felt it in his veins where the blood of
Christ flowed with his own. His destiny was now foretold, and he
knew he would stand among the other greats who held the spear—
Constantine, Charlemagne, and others.
Himmler broke from his revelry and glanced at his pocket watch.
It was time to go. He opened his briefcase and removed the twin of
the Holy Lance, one of the replicas he had ordered manufactured.
He placed it in the case where the True Spear had lain and picked
up the real spear. With all the reverence it deserved, Himmler placed
the Spear of Destiny into his briefcase and closed it. Then he locked
the display case.
With the briefcase gripped tightly, he strode through the museum
to the entrance and opened the door. The two outside guards and
the guard from inside the Treasury Room snapped to attention.
Himmler glanced at his watch again, then addressed the guards.
“The Führer will be here within the hour to examine the Holy
Roman Relics,” he said. “When he is finished, the relics will be
packed—carefully packed, mind you—and transported to Germany.
Do you understand?”
“Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” the three men answered.
“Good,” Himmler said. He handed the display case key back to
the inside guard and, sniffing the air, added, “I recommend you men
refrain from your use of tobacco. The Führer hates that habit more
than I do.”
☼
After the reichsführer left, the third guard returned to his post in
the Treasury Room. He paced the room for several minutes,
occasionally opening his tunic and flapping its lapels, hoping to
reduce the smell of cigarette smoke. Outside, he heard the arrival of
several vehicles and realized the Führer’s caravan had arrived.
Quickly buttoning and adjusting his tunic, he took his post next to
the display when he noticed a small blotch of red inside the case
frame that he was sure wasn’t there before. He unlocked the case
and studied the blotch. Blood? He turned at a commotion outside the
palace door. The Fuhrer! Yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, he
wiped the blood and locked the case, stuffed the handkerchief back
into his pocket, and snapped to attention.
He waited, but no one entered the room. Curiosity plagued his
mind, and he turned to examine the relics. Did the reichsführer hurt
himself on one of the relics? He looked at the sword, but he was
certain it hadn’t been moved. His eyes went to the spear head and
focused on its tip. Was that a minute drop of blood on its tip?
Footsteps echoed outside the room. The guard resumed his rigid
posture. Doors burst open and Adolf Hitler entered the room.
