Polopolis
The invisible city of Polopolis is half way, by most compasses, between here and Cathay. It has always been a place for meeting – cultures delicately touch one another there as the moon kisses the water on its river, known by the same name as the city’s marketplace, ‘Il Milione’. Leaders meet there, too, to discuss their affairs of state, knowing that this is a place of the moment and the record books will not judge them here – and that Il Milione will carry their words away if they regret them. So long are these moments that much of the city is populated by these leaders’ descendants.
There are no record books in Polopolis, then: all is talk, and all history is oral. History is made most intensely at Il Milione, the marketplace, where thousands gather every day to trade, negotiate, accuse, reconcile or befriend. There, over there, are lost twins reunited after years at the opposite edges of the city (there are no gates, of course), smiling to discover their wives and children have completely different names; to their right, a carpet maker shows off his craftsmanship, so finely woven in so many colours one cannot tell where each thread begins or ends.
Polopolis has three quarters, known as Niccolo, Maffeo and Marco, though no two estate agents can agree on where exactly their boundaries lie: that fine apartment building you see, with roof tiles the colour of the sky, is championed by one as being in ‘Maffeo borders’, and another ‘where Niccolo and Marco meet’.
Il Milione itself is not one broad channel, but an endless series of bifurcations and rejoinings, sometimes ducking under the houses and at others flaunting itself in ornamental lakes; everywhere there are bridges, and each has its resident mathematician, frowning the long weary hours away as she contemplates the shortest route from one place to another. “We both step and do not step in the same rivers” is the old philosopher’s inscription on the perfect masonry of the arch above the city hall.
I have been to Polopolis myself, and sometimes it feels as if I never left.
St Lucy is the only saint celebrated by Lutherans in Scandinavia. Here is her story.
As with many saints, we know more of Lucy or Lucia from legend than life. According to tradition, she was born to a rich family of noble Christian descent, Greek on her mother’s side and Roman on her father’s, in Syracuse around 283 AD. Her father died when she was young, and her mother Eutychia was keen to see her married off – in this case to a young pagan.
Lucy knew from an early age that she wished only to be a bride of Christ, and vowed to maintain her virginity, as well as devoting her worldy goods to the poor.
Lucy prayed at the tomb of St Agatha in Catania, 50 miles from Syracuse, that her mother might be dissuaded from forcing her to marry, and the story goes that St Agatha interceded and cured Eutychia of a debilitating haemorrhage. This gave Lucy the leverage to persuade her mother to back off, and indeed to distribute much of her own riches to the needy.
This generosity alas came to the attention of Lucy’s betrothed, who was jealous and unmotivated by Christian charity. In 303 he reported her – during a period of persecution of Christians by the emperor Diocletian – to Paschasius, the governor of Sicily. She was sentenced to forced prostitution, but the guards sent were unable to move her, even with oxen. They were then ordered to kill her with bundles of wood set on fire, having tortured her and gouged out her eyes, but again she miraculously prevailed – until, finally, she was stabbed to death.
As she died she foretold Paschasius’ own punishment, and the decline of Diocletian, and some accounts say her eyesight was restored (though perhaps of little use at this stage). She probably died in the year 304.
Lucy was venerated early on, and commemorated by Saints Gregory and Aldhelm, and the historian Bede. Her body is said to have lain undisturbed in Sicily for 400 years, and was then removed to Corfinium in Italy, and thence to the church of St Vincent in Metz, France, though her relics are now believed to be scattered across various locations in Europe.
Lucy’s wide range of patronage included authors, blindness, glaziers, haemorrhages, saddlers and sore throats, and she is remembered on 13 December.
In Scandinavia, her feast has become unusually important: in Sweden, Denmark, Norway and Finland alike she is portrayed by women wearing a headdress of candles (symbolising the fire that was burnt around her), and special carols are sung – this festival of light (Lucy indeed means ‘light’), at the dark point of the year, may well have pagan origins before her. In Sweden a number of traditions are particularly well-established, and make the day almost as significant as Christmas. Various Lucine traditions persist in Italy, too, where children sometimes leave gifts out for her.
The first follows John Clare’s ‘journey out of Essex’ – ie his fugue from an asylum at High Beach in 1841, walking penniless, driven by lost (and unregainable) love, the 80 miles to his village north of Peterborough. I can’t remember feeling so inspired and gripped by a book in recent times, such that I’ve fixed anyone who’ll listen (or won’t) with an ancient mariner’s stare and proceeded to prate about it. Sinclair’s form, for me at least, gets ever better with each new non-fiction book he writes – while his fiction (though I probably will tackle Dining on Stones when I have the stomach) gets more unwieldy and unfathomable.
The Clare book is self-indulgent at times, especially with a fruitless quest revolving around his wife’s genealogy, but I loved it throughout nonetheless – the usual blend of coruscating sideswipes at modern blandness, fused with elegiac tones and swathed in his psychogeographic obsession with making connections: Sinclair is the real Dirk Gently.
I’m still in media res with the Rodinsky book – more on that some time soon.
‘K’ saints are fewer and further between than many, but there are some, and one of them offers the tantalising prospect of being patron saint of gout, rheumatism and whitewashers. This is his story.
Kilian (or Cilline, Chilianus or Killena, among others) is believed to have been born to a noble family in Ireland (or possibly Scotland) around 640AD. In his youth, as many other saints before him (except rebels such as Francis), he was known for his studiousness and piety.
In early years after his decision to become a monk, he is believed to have dwelled at Hy – better known as Iona – and may even have become the abbot there. In accordance with Irish custom, he later became a traveling bishop, before setting out with 11 companions across what are now France and Germany. It is as an apostle to Franconia – a historic region of Germany now part of Bavaria, and centred on Wurzburg, that he is now chiefly remembered. In 686, Kilian visited Pope Conan, who had recently succeeded John V, and was given licence as a missionary to Franconia.
At Wurzburg, Kilian met the pagan, Frankish ruler Duke Gozbert, whom he converted around 687. Gozbert was at the time married to Geilana, his brother’s widow – an arrangement not acceptable for a Christian at the time, which Kilian of course pointed out. It seems that Gozbert was compliant, but Geilana reacted with the fury of a woman scorned, and plotted against the bishop.
In a story worthy of Elizabethan drama, while the Duke was away on business, Geilana hired a murderer to despatch not just Kilian, but his two assistants, Colman and Totnan (both saints now, too), apparently on 8 July 689, the date now commemorating Kilian, who is also remembered as patron of Bavaria. In a thorough cover-up, they were buried at the crime scene along with all their vessels, vestments and writings – perhaps why he has become patron of whitewashers…
On Gozbert’s return, the Lady Macbeth-like Geilana disavowed all knowledge of the murders, but the assassin was burdened by guilt, went mad, confessed, and died in misery. Geilana herself also later succumbed to madness.
The martyrs were not silenced by death, however, and miracles were soon attributed to the site of their deaths, and their remains recovered and reburied in a vault of what became Wurzburg cathedral in 752, and are believed to remain there to this day. Kilian’s copy of the New Testament was also recovered and held there until 1803, when it moved to Wurzburg University library.
So far in this series we have tended to look outward, to men (and women) of action. Our saint for ‘J’ takes us inward, to a life of contemplation – though his life was not without its dramatic moments.
John de Yepes was born in old castile on 24 June 1542, the youngest son of silk weavers Gonzalo and Catherine, the latter widowed early in life. He lived in various villages as a child, attending schools for the poor, then studied the humanities at a Jesuit school in his late teens and early twenties, while attending to the very poor under the patronage of the governor of Medina hospital, before entering the Carmelite order as Father Juan de Santo Matia (St Matthias), studying at Salamanca University. He was ordained at the age of 25.
His life’s work arose from his meeting Theresa de Jesus, later St Theresa of Avila, and together they reformed the Carmelite order over the next 10 years, founding monasteries across Spain. Their reformed communities became known as ‘discalced’ (barefoot), in contrast to the ‘calced’ Carmelites who did not accept their reforms. At this period he took the name John of the Cross.
This work stopped abruptly in December 1577, when John was taken prisoner by those non-reformed calced Carmelites in Toledo, and he endured almost a year of brutal lashing, torture and isolation; his hardship was accompanied by mystical visions. Astonishingly he escaped in August 1578, and continued his reforming work until his death. In this latter period he produced many writings, all published posthumously, which were strongly influenced by his period in prison. He died in 1591.
These works have made him one of Spain’s foremost poets, with two of them, the Spiritual Canticle and the Dark Night of the Soul, accorded masterpiece status. In the former, he writes of how the bride of the soul has lost her groom, Jesus, and relates closely to the Song of Songs, which had been illegally translated into the vernacular by John’s tutor at university, Fray Luis de Leon.
His body of poetry is small overall, but has had a huge influence on subsequent mystical traditions, notably on Thomas Merton and T S Eliot. As a result he is regarded as the patron of the contemplative life and mystical theology, as well as Spanish poets. His memorial day is 14 December. Tradition has it that images of Christ, the Virgin and other saints have appeared in connection with his relics.
Among the few well-remembered ‘I’ saints, one formidable character stands out: Inigo Lopez de Loyola, better known as Ignatius, and founder of the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits.
Ignatius was the youngest of 13 children, born to a noble family in the castle of Loyola in the Basque country. He was named Inigo after St Eneco, an 11th century Spanish hermit. Few details of his early life are recorded, but it seems that he became a cleric young, and served as a page in the household of his relative Juan Velazquex de Cuellar, treasurer of the kingdom of Castile in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella of Columbus voyage fame.
Ignatius later confessed to a dissipated life in these early years, affected of dress and fixated on personal glory. Perhaps this is what led him to join the army in 1517 (along with the death of Velasquez). In 1521, Inigo’s legs were both badly wounded by a cannonball that passed between them during the French siege of Pampeluna on 20 May. He was returned to Loyola by the French, to whom the Spanish forces had surrendered, where one leg was broken and reset, with part of the bone being sawn off – a gruesome era for surgery.
Having recovered from the fever that attended this ordeal, Inigo asked for fiction (the chivalric romances of the day) to aid his convalescence. When none was available, he was left with the lives of Christ and the saints to read. Competitive by nature, he imagined rivalling the saints for their feats of endurance, fasting or pilgrimage, but then had a vision of Mary and Jesus which made him realise how shallow his worldly view had been (to the concern of his worldly older brother). He now became resolved to emulate the saints’ self-denial and to emulate their better deeds, and decided to dedicate himself to converting non-Christians.
He followed this change of heart by visiting the monastery at Montserrat in 1522, where he gave away his rich clothes, and then lived in a cave in Catalonia for a few months to purify himself, where he had visions of the Virgin. Here he developed the first version of his series of meditations, the Spiritual Exercises. He then embarked on his planned pilgrimage to the Holy land, only to be rebuffed by the Franciscans there and sent home after a long and arduous voyage.
In 1528, he joined the University of Paris, after a brief and troubled period (many people did not accept his new holy way of life) at the University of Salamanca. In Paris he spent seven years refining his education and attempting to persuade others to practice his Spiritual Exercise. After six years there he had attracted half a dozen followers and together, on 15 August 1534 at Montmartre, they founded the Society of Jesus ‘to enter upon hospital and missionary work in Jerusalem, or to go without questioning wherever the pope might direct’.
Ignatius’ companions travelled to Venice on their way to the Holy Land, but war with the Turks prevented further progress. Ignatius, meanwhile, was compelled to return to Spain due to his ill health. The group were all ordained in Venice in 1537, with the approval of Pope Paul III. In 1540 the Pope approved their order in Rome, though limited it to 60 members – a limit removed three years later.
Ignatius himself was appointed the first Superior General of the Jesuit order (though this term was only used by their detractors), and sent his colleagues across Europe as missionaries to found schools and seminaries. His Spiritual Exercises became a cornerstone of their philosophy, and were published in 1548 (although led to a brief enquiry by the Inquisition).
In 1554 his Jesuit Constitutions affirmed the order’s commitment to self-denial and Papal authority, with the motto Ad maiorem dei gloriam, ‘for the greater glory of God’. In the 1550s Ignatius also wrote his autobiography, though it was not published for 150 years.
Ignatius spent his later years administering the society, and his attempted retirement in 1551 was not accepted. His original companions meanwhile travelled to India, Ireland, Germany, Scotland and Ethiopia, among others. He died in Rome after a bout of fever in 1556, by which time the Jesuits had already grown to 1000 members – today there are more than 30,000. He was canonised in 1622.
Ignatius is patron of the Basque country, of retreats, of soldiers and, naturally, of the Society of Jesus. His memorial day is 31 July, the date of his death.
G is for St George, the Patron Saint of England … and Canada, Georgia, Greece Malta and Palestine to name a few.
The status of St George (c275-c303) in England (only one of the countries which has him as patron – others include Canada, Georgia, Germany, Greece, Lithuania, Malta and Palestine, as well as many cities!) has grown and grown, if only through the recent popularity of St George’s Cross flags during football tournaments.
But what do we know of England’s patron, and are there any meaningful connections that gave him this role?
The simple answers are ‘little’ and ‘no’! The earliest account of his life dates from the 4th century, and tells us that his father was an army officer from Cappadocia (now part of Turkey) and his mother was from Palestine, where she brought him up.
George himself apparently became a soldier and rose through the ranks until he refused to assist the emperor Diocletian’s persecution of Christians – he was already a Christian himself and was apparently tortured for his perfidy and executed on 23 April – more specifically, the stories tell that he was decapitated at Nicomedia as an example to others (though this example may have the opposite effect from that intended, as the Empress Alexandria and a pagan priest watching were apparently prompted to become Christians themselves).
Twentieth century scholarship suggests that all we can safely say about George is that he lived and suffered in the area around Lydda in Palestine – and that’s it.
However, his veneration began early, in the reign of Constantine (emperor from 324), with a church built at Lydda. The one there today, built in 1872, is the third on the site.
George was canonised in 494 by Pope Gelasius I, despite the belief at the time that his ‘acts are known only to God’. The earliest text about miracles associated with George dates from this period, so clearly people were not unwilling to imagine his acts anyway.
He has been depicted as a soldier since at least the 7th century, and the legends about the dragon begin in the 12th.
The primary telling of this latter tale comes from the Golden Legend of Jacob de Voragine, a 13th century bestseller recording legends about many of the popular saints. The story entered popular English culture after it was printed by Caxton.
Briefly, the tale runs that a dragon had ravaged a city in Libya, and was only appeased by a daily sacrifice of two sheep. When the ovine supply ran dry, humans had to be considered as substitutes, and the king’s daughter was selected to be first by drawing lots.
St George was passing by and rescued her from the dragon, transfixing it with his lance and binding it with the princess’ girdle so that she could then lead it like a lamb. George then used this victory as leverage to convert the locals to Christianity and he distributed their rewards to the poor.
There are many interpretations of this story, and some even suggest that the dragon was an allegorisation of Diocletian. At the very least it is a powerful symbol of Christianity fighting and defeating the forces of evil.
George’s presence in England dates at least back to 1061, when a church was dedicated to him in Doncaster. The St George’s cross was certainly used in the 13th century, and he seems to have been something of a mascot for the crusaders.
The Order of the Garter, founded around 1347, is named after George, and he has held a grip on the English imagination ever since – perhaps if only because of his military prowess.
Given that he is also the patron of farmers, butchers, knights, lepers, saddlers, sheep and syphilis, it does seem that his lack of recorded ‘acts’ has only ever been a stimulus for him to become whatever people need.
