The fortified town of Otranto sits low on the back of the Italian heel like a blister you get from wearing new Florentine leather boots, as close as you can get across the Adriatic to Albania and the start of the Via Egnatia to Istanbul. English speakers may know it best from Horace Walpole’s gothic novel in which a father wants to marry his son’s fiancee, but its fame stems more from the year 1480 when 800 of its townsmen were beheaded by an invading Ottoman army. Their bones are still encased under glass in the cathedral and their still uncorrupted flesh is held in locked wood-fronted cabinets, so their degree of uncorruption must be believed unseen.
The martyrs were canonized en mass(e) by Pope Francis in 2013, a decision not without controversy, besides the fact that their individual names are mostly unknown so one must pray to the Martyrs- called “the victims of Islam” in one Italian newspaper- collectively. The move was forced upon Francis by the last minute decision of Benedict XVI, aka Benedict the Islamophobe, made the same day he dethroned himself from St. Peter’s chair.
One of the stated miracles required for their being named saints, in this case the return to health of a cancerous nun whose fellow sisters had prayed to the Martyrs, was challenged by her oncologist claiming she was cured the old fashion way with chemotherapy and radiation. Another basis for saintliness is that they be defenders of the faith, but documents from the time indicate they were war hostages killed because their overlord the cash-strapped King of Naples would not pay their ransom.
On a clear day they say you can see the Albanian mountains from Otranto’s harbor. It was cloudy during my visit, but very hot My legs were sore from walking. In the cathedral I was most impressed by the mosaic floor showing the Tree of Life growing from the backs of two African elephants, less by the four carved marble columns standing outside the Martyrs’ Chapel that recount their story, and least of all by the bones in the glass cabinets. I am facing hip replacement surgery next month and came to Italy to get away from all that.
I was happy to leave the chapel and head to a cafe table on the harbor side under an Aperol umbrella- Cinzano seems out of favor this summer- where I ordered a Campari soda. This one came mixed by the barman with a slice of orange in a tall glass. I prefer the ones I had in Naples that came pre-mixed in a volcano-shaped bottle for two euros, albeit a half size but still a nice visual companion to seeing Vesuvio across the Bay. I couldn’t see Albania from my table in Otranto but I did see the last of the tourist season’s bathers and sun seekers stripped for action on the town beach. Their flesh looked uncorrupted. My legs still hurt. But mirabile dictu, the Campari hit the spot.
Can you count all 800 skeletons?
can you see the beheaded martyrs?