Bloodred

di Carolina Lawless

If you have the chance to visit the beautiful Italian city of Naples, you will be amazed by its charisma, rich local cuisine, remarkable artistic landmarks and, above all, the sheer number of churches. In the city centre alone there are over 200 churches to discover, and throughout the rest of the city there are almost 1000. Even if the historical and political reasons for this abundance of churches are fascinating, it is also true that Naples remains deeply religious to this day. This profound devoutness is evident in the city’s conventional religious rites, as well as its local folklore. The city even has over 50 patron saints, with each neighbourhood attributing one to itself. However, amongst this vast sea of saints, only one unites the city in its entirety: the cult of Saint Januarius (in Italian San Gennaro).

According to various hagiographies, Januarius was a local priest who lived in the city in the third century. He later became a bishop and was ultimately decapitated during Emperor Diocletian’s persecutions of Christians. Tradition claims that the saint had performed some miracles during his life, the greatest of which was when he survived the first execution attempts moved against him. After Januarius’ martyrdom, his blood was collected by the woman who raised him, who decided to store it in the ampoule it is still kept in today. 

The first trace of this particular miracle can be dated back to 1389, when it is said that the blood liquefied during an eruption of Mount Vesuvius – the volcano near Naples. The eruption ended abruptly, and many attributed this fact to the miracle. After this first instance, the  Saint’s blood has continued to regularly perform the miracle of liquefaction on three dates almost every year: on 19 September (Saint Januarius’s Day, commemorating his martyrdom), on 16 December (celebrating his patronage of Naples and its archdiocese), and on the Saturday before the first Sunday of May (commemorating the reunification of his relics).

Scientists have long wondered about this peculiar phenomenon, trying to replicate it despite not being able to study the substance directly. Despite the Catholic Church doesn’t officially recognise the miracle as such, it prohibits the opening of the vial, making it impossible to reach certain answers. Nevertheless,  groups of scientists have succeeded in replicating the effect of the miracle, creating a substance very similar to blood but with different properties. This substance, normally solid, can liquify if subjected to movement. What is particularly interesting about this experiment is that it utilises local ingredients which were available in mediaeval times, making the possibility of a hoax all the more probable. 

Despite scientific debates, the miracle of Saint Januarius continues to unite Neapolitan people as well as foreigners, believers and atheists. This is traceable to the continuous interest in local folklore, which in Naples is kept particularly alive. 

It seems as though the miracle of liquefaction was considerably fashionable in mediaeval Naples, as Saint Januarius is not the only one to be said to have performed it -Santa Patrizia allegedly executes the same miracle every Tuesday morning. It is no coincidence that Naples is known as Urbs Sanguinum (the city of blood). Neapolitans, it would seem, are obsessed with blood.

Blood – such a paradoxical symbol if you look closely. It is both life and death, dirty and pure, sacred and profane. The blood of Christ, of Saint Januarius and various others, all worshipped out in the open. But then, blood worship is also Satanic, wrong and sick. Blood is monstrous. Blood feeds Dracula, spreading his infectious deviance and immorality. Blood is a sign of nobility and status – blue blood implies wealth in mediaeval terms. Blood is disease and perversion. 

Blood is menstruation. By far the most paradoxical blood of all. So closely connected with life and birth, yet so violently painful. So perfectly natural, and yet so stigmatised. The inconsistency with which we approach the topic of menstruation is perfectly exemplified by the poem Red, by Salena Godden. 

“[…]

This blood does not come from violence

But my own violent nature

This blood does not come from murder

This blood is not my death

There are no bullets or knives

This is no wound or sickness

This blood is not a weakness

This blood is my moon, my time

This blood is all me

And yet this blood disgusts us the most

More than any blood

More than the blood on the hands of man’s bloody war

This blood disgusts us most

This shameful blood, this quiet blood

Shush! Don’t mention the lady blood

Shush! Don’t mention this discreet blue lady blood

[…]”