Chapter

Thirty-Seven

Today is the twenty-first day of February. While my vigor grows by the day, the same cannot be said of my spirit.

I did not sleep last night. It was no fever or bubo that kept me awake, but rather the threatening words of the Archbishop that were only compounded by the frightening spectacle I witnessed upon my return home from his palace.

The same two priests led me back on horseback, but they did not take me all the way. They left me instead, without explanation, at the door to their church, a half a league or so from my home. The streets were not as empty as they had been on my departure. On the contrary, they were more crowded than a typical day even before the time of the plague. I assumed by the way the townsfolk were lining the streets that a religious procession of some form must be winding its way past.

There was indeed a procession, but none like I have ever observed before or hope to ever again. The men participating could be heard even before they could be seen, though their words were unintelligible. Not only was their tongue foreign to my ears, but they cried out over each other and many just howled or moaned.

The sight of them was more shocking still. There had to be twenty men or more. They staggered along the street in a loose collection like a group of revelers stumbling out of a tavern after dark. They wore cloaks and togas, but most of the garments were torn enough to expose their chests and backs. They had once been white but were now thoroughly stained with blood, dirt, and sweat. A few wore crowns of thorns fixed so tightly on their heads that blood trickled from their foreheads. The man at the front of the procession lugged a wooden cross over his shoulder that was so large its base dragged along the street behind him.

They trudged along the street stopping often to flog themselves with lashes that were adorned with sharp objects. Many of the vicious strokes drew blood. All the while, they chanted, shrieked, and moaned as if in a state of ecstasy. At random intervals, each man would drop to his knees and mutter some form of garbled prayer. Some foamed at the mouth, while others smeared their faces with their own blood like barbarians applying paint before a battle.

The sight of them was enough to make a man question his sanity. But when I looked upon other spectators, few appeared as revulsed as I felt. Some looked amused. Others watched in rapt attention as though witnessing an epiphany. Many even spurred the eccentrics on with shouts of encouragement.

I recognized a neighbor of mine standing among the crowd, Giacomo the cobbler. I asked Giacomo if he knew who these strangers were. He said they were Germans who had come from north of the mountains.

What form of madness is this? I asked him.