II.iv. Petronius

"This is the land of debauchery, music, and devotion"
- Montpellier Ange Goudart

The head of Saint Petronius is in the basilica of San Petronio in Bologna. Just his head. Not because he was decapitated by some Roman emperor, but because the rest of his body is in Santo Stephano, another church just down the road. A pope had to give permission for his head to be translated (that is the official term for these things- the bones of Saint Marc were translated from Alexandria to Venice, not stolen) to the new basilica when it was built.
    Old Saint Petronius' head is the star of the show in Bologna once a year. Here, every October fourth is a public holiday; it is the festival of San Petronio. Concerts are held in his name, sausages are stuffed, and even his statue in Piazza della Porta Ravegnana gets blessed with incense and oil. The main event, though, is the High Mass held in the saint's namesake basilica, and all the fanfare that goes along with it.
    I didn't quite have enough courage to go to mass on San Petronio, even though I felt as though I should ever since I found out from a fellow student that climbing the Asinelli tower, something I did last week, is bad luck for undergraduates. I felt as though I owed some sort of debt to the city, so that my bad karma from being presumptuous enough to enjoy the view without a degree would somehow be erased.
    Still, I didn't consider myself quite Bolognese enough to go to mass. I hardly knew Petronius, anyways. Some bishop of the fifth century who had Christianised the area and built a few churches. They still had ninety-two of the sermons he had written, or something. I stood outside the basilica with the thousands of others who must have felt the same way. At about seven o'clock, the great ceremonial doors opened. They themselves had been for the past few weeks decorated with a huge image of Petronius holding a model of the city in his hands, an attribute he is never without. Slowly, a long procession of what must have been three hundred priests of various orders began to exit down the steps of the basilica, into the Piazza Maggiore. A route around the square had been prepared and secured by all three police forces, of course. In fact, there was a surfeit of security, it seemed, as the head of Saint Petronio, encased in a golden monstrance and covered at all times by an immense silk damask baldachinno, circulated around the square. At all times the relic was surrounded by highly decorated members of a ceremonial guard, complete with feathers and Bonaparte hats. They joined the procession only outside the basilica, as their arms prevent them from being able to actually enter. One marcher held the civic standard of Bologna; "Libertas" spelled in gold lettering on a blue background, somewhat ironic for a city that was ruled by the pope for much of its history. In addition to this entourage, security guards with earpieces, at least twenty of them, kept an eye on the proceedings. The archbishop, in his resplendent array of robes, led the tail end of the procession, with two novices holding his robes, lest they trail on the ground, while another swung enough incense around to perfume the gathered masses. Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians, all followed rank and file. Nuns and Abbesses, of the kind that are still easily spotted in Italy, held their own as well. Even the Knights Templar attended. Perhaps they too where there for security. The whole affair reminded me of one of those great coronation canvasses by Jacques-Louis David or Ingres, with dignitaries and churchmen present by the dozen.
    Soon though, the whole procession was swallowed up again by the massive unfinished brick façade that is the basilica. When everything was tidied up, the fireworks began in the square. All of Bologna was on holiday, even old Saint Petronius.



Crowds were gathered in the square by the thousands



Eventually, the main door opened…



…and out came a magnificent procession…



…that circulated around Piazza Maggiore…



…and came to a halt on the steps once more