In 828, two Venetian merchants named Rustico da Torcello and Buono da Malamocco sailed into Alexandria on what appeared to be a routine commercial voyage. They arrived among the smell of spices and the noise of shouting traders, just two more faces in the great port of Egypt, a city that had once been one of the brightest lights of the ancient world. But they were not there to buy goods or load grain. They had a far stranger and far bolder mission. They had come to steal a saint.
Saint Mark the Evangelist had been dead for over seven centuries. According to tradition, he had arrived in Alexandria during the early decades of Christianity and had founded the Church there, becoming its first bishop. He preached, converted, and wrote what would become one of the four canonical Gospels. Eventually, he was martyred for his beliefs, reportedly dragged through the streets by a hostile crowd, and buried in Alexandria, where his tomb became a shrine. For the Coptic Christians of Egypt, Saint Mark was no mere historical figure. He was a spiritual father, a link between heaven and their community on earth, and his tomb had long been a place of prayer, mourning, and identity.
However, Alexandria was no longer a Christian city by the ninth century. Islam had become dominant, and the Coptic Church, while tolerated, lived under pressure and decline. Its patriarchs worried that one day, the relics of their beloved saint might be lost, desecrated, or forgotten altogether. This anxiety reached the ears of the Venetians, who had their ambitions. Venice was growing. It had emerged from the marshes of northern Italy into a trading power, and its leaders were eager to give their rising city the religious prestige it lacked. Rome had Peter. Constantinople had Andrew. Venice had no one.
When the merchants approached the Christian monks guarding the tomb, they found willing accomplices. Whether out of fear for the saint’s safety or quiet desperation under Islamic rule, the monks agreed to help move the body. The plan that followed was so outlandish that it reads today like something between a heist film and a surreal epic. First, the Venetians opened the sarcophagus and wrapped the body in layers of cloth, careful to keep the bones intact. Then, they packed the relics into a container and covered the entire thing with slabs of pork. The pork was forbidden under Islamic law and offensive to the customs inspectors, who, the Venetians gambled, would be too disgusted or alarmed to investigate.
It worked. The customs officials saw the cargo, recoiled it, and waved the merchants through without further inspection. The ship left Alexandria behind and sailed north across the Mediterranean, carrying the body of one of Christianity’s most sacred figures hidden beneath meat. The absurdity of the image cannot be overstated. It would be as if someone today smuggled the remains of an American president out of a national monument by hiding them under a pile of raw hot dogs. And yet, this is the true beginning of Saint Mark’s journey to Venice.
When the ship arrived in the city, the reception was nothing short of euphoric. Church bells rang. Crowds gathered. The doge himself came down to meet the arrival. For the people of Venice, this was more than the transfer of relics. It was divine proof that their city was destined for greatness. To mark the occasion, they built a chapel, and soon after, plans began for a grand basilica to house the saint’s remains. That basilica would become the heart of Venice, both geographically and spiritually, a magnificent structure that foreign visitors described as a vision from heaven.
Over the centuries, the Basilica di San Marco grew into a riot of gold, glass, and marble, each inch a celebration not just of God but of Venice’s role in God’s plan. Mosaics along the walls and ceilings told the story of the relics’ arrival, not hiding the theft but glorifying it. In the Venetian telling, the act was not a crime. It was a rescue. It was not sacrilege. It was destiny. The saint had not been stolen. He had come home.
Saint Mark’s body was eventually placed beneath the high altar, though not without complications. At one point, during the reconstruction of the basilica, his remains were lost inside the walls. The priests, frantic and horrified, fasted and prayed until, legend says, the saint himself appeared in a vision and pointed to where his body had been hidden. It is unclear Whether this happened or was invented to explain a rather embarrassing oversight. What matters is that the people believed it. The relics were recovered, reinterred, and venerated with more passion than ever before.
Over time, the lion of Saint Mark became the official symbol of Venice, emblazoned on banners, carved into marble, and painted onto ships that sailed across the known world. The story of the theft became part of the city’s mythology. Venice was not just a collection of islands. It was the city of Saint Mark, chosen by God, protected by a saint, and destined to thrive.
But if this entire episode were to happen today, it would unfold differently. International law strictly forbids the export of human remains and cultural artifacts. Governments fiercely protect religious relics. Any modern attempt to replicate the actions of those two merchants would result in a global scandal. News cameras would swarm the port. Religious leaders would issue statements of condemnation. Lawsuits would fly across continents. The theft of a saint’s body would not be seen as a triumph of piety and courage but as an act of colonial arrogance and criminal trespass.
Imagine, for example, if a delegation from a modern European city spirited away the remains of a revered Muslim imam from his tomb in a foreign country and paraded them through the streets before sealing them into a state cathedral. The outrage would be universal. The press would tear it apart. Governments would demand accountability. And yet Venice did it. They did it in broad daylight. They celebrated it in art, architecture, and public memory, not as a shameful act but as their founding miracle.
This contradiction is part of what makes the story so compelling. It reminds us that the past is often stranger than we allow ourselves to believe. It challenges us to consider how history is shaped not just by what happened but also by who gets to tell the story and why. In the case of Saint Mark, what might today be called a crime became a sacred tale, retold for centuries in glass and stone.
Even now, pilgrims and tourists crowd into the basilica to kneel before the high altar, light candles, and gaze up at the mosaics without always knowing that the body beneath them arrived in Venice under pig flesh. They do not often question how the saint came to be there. As Venetians have done for generations, they accept it as part of the city’s divine story.
But history is not only the story we tell. It is also the one we dare to reexamine. And in the case of Saint Mark’s body, smuggled across borders, hidden beneath forbidden food, and celebrated as a civic victory, the truth is as audacious, surreal, and unsettling as any story ever told in the long arc of Christendom.
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