The Relic Forgery Market: The Sacred Gold of the 12th Century
Imagine a world where a carefully polished pig’s bone, set in gold, was worth more than an entire estate. Where cunning merchants sold dozens of "Saint Peter’s fingers" to credulous bishops, each convinced they possessed the only one. Where monks, between prayers, etched false inscriptions onto bone
By Artedusa
••17 min read
The Relic Forgery Market: The Sacred Gold of the 12th Century
Imagine a world where a carefully polished pig’s bone, set in gold, was worth more than an entire estate. Where cunning merchants sold dozens of "Saint Peter’s fingers" to credulous bishops, each convinced they possessed the only one. Where monks, between prayers, etched false inscriptions onto bones to lure pilgrims and their offerings. Welcome to 12th-century Europe, where the trade in fake relics had become a thriving industry, blending piety, greed, and artisanal genius.
This was no mere marginal traffic, but a parallel economy as lucrative as the spice or slave trades. Authentic relics—fragments of the True Cross, martyrs’ bones, drops of the Virgin’s milk—were rare, but demand was insatiable. Churches under construction, monasteries seeking prestige, cities competing for spiritual allure: all wanted their share of the sacred. When reality fell short, they invented. They forged. They embellished. And sometimes, they stole.
But how to distinguish truth from falsehood in a world where faith trumped reason? What were the secrets behind these counterfeit devotional objects? And above all, why did no one seem truly outraged? Let us step behind the scenes of this unparalleled artistic enterprise, where the art of deception became a form of sacred craft.
Relics: The Currency of a Century in Crisis
The 12th century was an age of contradictions. On one hand, the triumphant Church extended its influence across Europe, erecting sumptuous cathedrals and launching crusades to "liberate" Jerusalem. On the other, medieval society was gripped by upheaval: famines, epidemics, feudal wars. In this climate of uncertainty, relics were far more than mere objects of devotion. They were talismans, guarantees of divine protection, instruments of power.
Demand exploded with the rise of pilgrimages. Thousands of faithful flocked to Santiago de Compostela, Rome, or Jerusalem, hoping for grace or absolution. Churches housing prestigious relics saw their revenues multiply tenfold from offerings. A saint’s bone could draw entire crowds, generating profits comparable to a commercial fair. Cities waged fierce competition: who would possess the most miraculous relic? Who would attract the most pilgrims?
The problem? Authentic relics were in limited supply. The martyrs of Christianity’s early centuries could no longer meet demand. So, they turned to... creative solutions. The monks of Saint-Denis, under Abbot Suger, were among the first to systematize the collection—and sometimes the fabrication—of relics. Suger himself proudly wrote of acquiring fragments of the True Cross, never doubting their authenticity, even as modern historians estimate dozens of "pieces of the Cross" were already in circulation.
The Crusades worsened the situation. Knights returning from the East brought back relics "discovered" in Jerusalem’s ruins or purchased from Byzantine merchants. Many were genuine, others... less so. In 1204, during the sack of Constantinople by Crusaders, thousands of relics were looted and resold in the West. Some were authentic; others sprang straight from the imaginations of local forgers. It mattered little: what counted was satisfying Europe’s thirst for the sacred.
The Art of Turning a Sheep’s Bone into a Martyr’s Relic
Forging a fake relic was not mere fraud—it was a goldsmith’s work, requiring technical skill and an intimate knowledge of the faithful’s expectations. The artisans who ventured into this illicit trade had to master several crafts at once: sculptor, metallurgist, historian... and sometimes even forger of documents.
The most common material? Animal bones. A pig’s femur, carefully cleaned and polished, could easily pass for a saint’s. Sheep’s teeth, once carved and yellowed with vegetable dyes, became "Saint Lawrence’s teeth." Ox skulls were transformed into "martyrs’ heads" with resins and pigments. In Cologne, it was said that monks used horse bones to fabricate "relics of equestrian saints," like Saint George.
But bones were not the only materials repurposed. Textiles were particularly prized. A piece of linen, soaked in chicken blood and artificially aged, could become a "fragment of Christ’s shroud." Wood was just as easy to pass off: any olive branch, presented as a "piece of the Cross," found a buyer. In Rome, an entire market was dedicated to selling "nails of the Crucifixion," made from old Roman nails salvaged from ruins.
Reliquaries—those precious caskets designed to house relics—played a crucial role in the deception. The more sumptuous the reliquary, the less the faithful dared question its contents. The goldsmiths of Limoges, renowned for their mastery of champlevé enamel, produced gilded copper boxes inlaid with gemstones, so beautiful they became credible. Inside, a mere dog’s tooth, wrapped in silk, became a "relic of Saint Christopher."
Authentication documents were just as important. A parchment bearing a forged papal signature or a rough Latin inscription was often enough to convince a skeptical bishop. Monastic scribes, experts in calligraphy, were regularly called upon to draft false certificates. Some even imitated the wax seals of ecclesiastical authorities, adding a touch of legitimacy to their forgeries.
And when relics ran short, miracles were invented. A Virgin statue that "wept" thanks to a hidden tube system, a bone that "healed" the sick because medicinal herbs had been slipped inside... the possibilities were endless. What mattered was creating a story, a narrative that would give the relic its aura of sanctity.
Suger of Saint-Denis: The Prince of Relics and the Art of Legitimization
Among the most influential figures of the 12th century, Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis occupies a unique place. This monk turned statesman, advisor to the kings of France, was far more than a mere collector of relics: he was one of the first to grasp their political and economic power. Under his abbacy, the Abbey of Saint-Denis became a model for relic management, blending sincere piety with strategic calculation.
Suger did not merely acquire relics—he staged them. He built a new church, the Basilica of Saint-Denis, designed as a setting for his sacred treasures. The stained glass, sculptures, altars—all were conceived to glorify the relics and, by extension, royal power. For Suger had understood one thing: relics were not just objects of devotion, but tools of propaganda. By associating the kings of France with the saints whose relics he possessed, he reinforced the legitimacy of the Capetian monarchy.
But Suger was also a shrewd negotiator. He knew where to find the most prestigious relics... and how to obtain them, even by questionable means. In 1124, he acquired a piece of the True Cross, presented as a gift from the Byzantine emperor. Modern historians doubt its authenticity—especially since several other "pieces of the Cross" were already circulating in Europe. It mattered little: Suger turned it into a symbol of his abbey’s power.
His approach was pragmatic. In his writings, he enthusiastically described how he had "discovered" relics hidden in the abbey’s walls, as if they had been revealed to him by divine intervention. In reality, some of these relics were likely purchased from itinerant merchants or even fabricated on site. But Suger was not exactly lying: he was interpreting. He transformed ordinary objects into sacred treasures through the sheer force of his narrative.
His influence was such that other abbeys and cathedrals followed his example. In Chartres, the Virgin’s tunic was "miraculously discovered." In Reims, the holy oils used for the coronation of the kings of France were displayed. Everywhere, relics became instruments of power, and Suger had written the manual.
Yet Suger was not a forger in the strict sense. He sincerely believed in the power of relics, even if some were probably dubious. His genius lay in understanding that, in a world where faith trumped reason, authenticity mattered less than perception. A relic was not sacred because it was true: it was true because it was sacred.
The Black Market of Relics: When Faith Becomes Commerce
The relic trade was a market like any other, with its rules, intermediaries, and swindlers. The difference? In this case, the merchandise was supposed to be sacred. Medieval fairs, like those in Champagne, were prime locations for traffickers. Beneath tents selling spices and fabrics, merchants discreetly offered "Saint Peter’s fingers" or "the Virgin’s tears," carefully packaged in ivory boxes.
Prices varied according to rarity and reputation. A simple martyr’s bone might sell for a few deniers, while a piece of the True Cross fetched astronomical sums. In Paris, a merchant once offered a "nail of the Crucifixion" to the city’s bishop. The prelate, suspicious, asked to see the certificate of authenticity. The merchant produced a parchment bearing the seal of the Patriarch of Jerusalem. The bishop bought the relic without hesitation... only to discover years later that the seal was a crude forgery.
Intermediaries played a key role in this trade. Pilgrims returning from the Holy Land were easy prey: they were sold "authentic" relics at exorbitant prices, made to believe they had been lucky enough to find them themselves. Traveling monks often served as brokers, connecting sellers and buyers. Some monasteries even had "workshops" dedicated to producing fake relics, where artisans worked in secret to meet demand.
The risks were real. In theory, selling fake relics was punishable by excommunication. In practice, sanctions were rare. Bishops and abbots, the main buyers, had every interest in turning a blind eye. After all, a relic—even a fake one—drew pilgrims and their offerings. And who could prove a relic was false? Miracles, often invoked to attest to their authenticity, were easy to simulate.
The most famous case is that of the "Holy Tear" of Vendôme. In 1187, a monk claimed to have discovered a tear shed by Christ at Lazarus’s death. The relic, set in a golden reliquary, drew entire crowds. Miracles were reported, and the town became a major pilgrimage site. Yet doubts lingered: how could a tear from Christ have survived for over a thousand years? In 1220, a papal investigator discovered that the "tear" was actually a drop of resin... but it was too late. The relic had become too lucrative to abandon. Church authorities preferred to hush up the affair.
This black market had its limits. The boldest forgers sometimes got caught. In 1150, a Venetian merchant was arrested in Cologne for selling "the Virgin’s hair," which turned out to be goat hair. Sentenced to prison, he was released a few months later... after paying a hefty sum to the bishop. Proof that, in this business, everything was negotiable.
Between Sacred and Deception: The Power of Relics on the Medieval Imagination
Why did the faithful so readily believe in fake relics? The answer lies in the very nature of medieval faith. In a world where death was omnipresent and miracles were seen as tangible proof of divine presence, relics held a central place. They were not mere objects: they were bridges between heaven and earth, fragments of holiness that the living could touch, kiss, venerate.
Relics acted as catalysts for miracles. A sick person healed after touching a saint’s bone was living proof of its authenticity. It mattered little whether the healing was due to a placebo effect or natural remission: what counted was the confirmation of divine power. Miracle stories, carefully recorded by monks, reinforced this belief. In Chartres, it was said that the Virgin’s tunic had saved the city from fire. In Compostela, it was told that Saint James’s body had guided pilgrims to his tomb. These stories, passed down through generations, gave relics an aura of unquestionable truth.
Relics were also symbols of power. Possessing the skull of Saint John the Baptist, as the Cathedral of Amiens did, conferred unparalleled prestige on a city. Kings and nobles competed for the most prestigious relics, not only for their spiritual value but also for their political worth. In 1239, King Louis IX bought the Crown of Thorns from the Emperor of Constantinople for the staggering sum of 135,000 livres—about half the annual budget of the Kingdom of France. This was not merely an act of piety: it was a declaration of power. By bringing the relic to Paris, Louis IX made France the new spiritual center of Christendom.
Yet this blind faith had its limits. Some critical minds dared question the authenticity of relics. The monk Guibert of Nogent, in his treatise De Pignoribus Sanctorum (On the Relics of Saints), denounced the excesses of relic worship. He recounted how a bishop had discovered that the "arm of Saint John the Baptist" venerated in his diocese was actually a camel bone. But such voices were in the minority. Most of the faithful preferred to believe, for in the medieval world, faith was a matter of survival. Believing in relics meant believing in divine protection, in the possibility of miracles, in a world where the sacred was tangible.
The forgers understood this well: they were not just selling bones or pieces of cloth. They were selling hope. And in a century marked by war, epidemics, and fear of hell, hope had a price.
When Relics Shaped Europe: Cathedrals, Crusades, and Royal Power
The relic trade did more than enrich merchants and monasteries: it transformed Europe’s political and cultural landscape. Gothic cathedrals, those architectural masterpieces, were largely built to house relics. Chartres, Reims, Amiens, Cologne—all owed their splendor to the presence of a sacred treasure. Without relics, these buildings might never have been erected.
Take the Cathedral of Chartres. Its construction in the early 13th century coincided with the miraculous discovery of the Virgin’s tunic. According to legend, the relic had been given to the city by Charlemagne himself. In reality, it had probably been purchased from a Byzantine merchant a few decades earlier. It mattered little: the tunic drew thousands of pilgrims, and offerings poured in. The stained glass, sculptures, altars—all were designed to showcase the relic. Chartres became a model for other cathedrals, proving that a relic could turn a modest town into a major spiritual center.
The Crusades were another driver of the relic trade. Knights returning from the Holy Land brought back sacred treasures, often purchased at great cost from local merchants. In 1204, during the sack of Constantinople, Crusaders looted thousands of relics, which they later resold in the West. Some were authentic, like the Crown of Thorns acquired by Louis IX. Others were crude fakes, like the "pieces of Longinus’s Lance" that multiplied after the capture of Jerusalem. It mattered little: what counted was bringing back something sacred, something tangible, proof that the journey to the East had not been in vain.
Relics also played a key role in consolidating royal power. In France, the Capetians used relics to reinforce their legitimacy. Suger, by associating the kings of France with the saints of Saint-Denis, turned the abbey into a symbol of the monarchy. Later, Louis IX built the Sainte-Chapelle to house the Crown of Thorns, transforming Paris into a new Jerusalem. In England, Norman kings displayed the relics of Saint Edward the Confessor to assert their right to the throne. Across Europe, relics became instruments of propaganda, visible proof of divine favor bestowed upon rulers.
But this power came at a cost. Relic wars were frequent. In 1164, Emperor Frederick Barbarossa seized the relics of the Magi from Milan and transferred them to Cologne, sparking a diplomatic conflict with the pope. In 1208, the theft of Saint Mark’s relics from Alexandria by Venetian merchants triggered a crisis between Venice and Egypt. Relics were not mere objects: they were political stakes, symbols of power, weapons in power struggles.
And then there was money. Pilgrims spent fortunes on offerings, lodging, souvenirs. Cities with prestigious relics saw their economies thrive. In Compostela, the pilgrimage to Saint James became an industry in itself, with inns, guides, and souvenir vendors. Relics were not just objects of devotion: they were economic engines, tools of urban development.
The Most Outlandish Relics in History: From Saint’s Blood to Unicorn Bones
If the 12th century was the golden age of fake relics, some forgeries defied all reason. Here are some of the most extravagant, proving that the imagination of forgers knew no bounds.
Let us begin with the Holy Prepuce—the foreskin of Jesus Christ. According to legend, Christ’s foreskin was preserved after his circumcision and venerated as a relic. In the 12th century, several churches claimed to possess it, including Charroux in France and Calcata in Italy. In 1263, Pope Innocent IV had to intervene to end the disputes, declaring that the Holy Prepuce was too sacred to be displayed. Yet veneration continued until the 20th century, when the Church finally officially banned the cult of this... rather embarrassing relic.
Another controversial relic: the Blood of Saint Januarius, kept in Naples. According to tradition, the blood of the saint, martyred in the 4th century, liquefies miraculously three times a year. Scientists have proposed various explanations, from a chemical phenomenon to a medieval hoax. Yet Neapolitans continue to venerate this relic, and the miracle still occurs today... or at least, that is what they are led to believe.
Animal relics were also highly prized. In Venice, the bones of Saint Mark, brought from Alexandria in 828, were venerated. But in 1094, during the consecration of Saint Mark’s Basilica, it was discovered that the relics had disappeared. According to legend, they were miraculously found in a pillar of the church. In reality, the bones had likely been replaced with those of a horse or camel, the originals having been stolen or lost. It mattered little: the Venetians were convinced they had recovered their patron saint.
And what of unicorn relics? In the 12th century, people firmly believed in the existence of this mythical creature, whose horn could neutralize poisons. Several European churches displayed "unicorn horns," which were actually narwhal tusks. In Paris, the Sainte-Chapelle possessed one, a gift from the King of Denmark. Nobles bought them to protect themselves from poisoning, and apothecaries used them to make antidotes. No one seemed to care that unicorns did not exist.
Finally, there were the most macabre relics: the entire bodies of saints. In Rome, the body of Saint Cecilia, martyred in the 3rd century, was displayed in a pose that seemed to defy the laws of nature. In reality, the body had been reconstructed from various bones, and its posture was the work of an artist. In Compostela, the body of Saint James was exhibited in a silver shrine, though doubts lingered about its authenticity. After all, how could an apostle who died in Palestine have ended up in Spain?
These relics, however fanciful, served an essential purpose: they gave the faithful something to believe in. In a world where death was ever-present and miracles were seen as proof of divine favor, relics offered hope. And in the 12th century, hope was a currency more valuable than gold.
The Relic Forgery Market: The Sacred Gold of the 12th Century | Art History
