Giovanni the Valiant, or, Giovanni the Murderer

Author's Note:

St. Francis of Assisi: the first Italian poet.... one of the most celebrated mystics in the history of Christianity.... Brother to all Creation.... peacemaker....

Francis!

Immortalized in garden statuary and birdbaths the world over--

But he was not always saintly. He wasn't, for that matter, always "Francis".

Born in Assisi, 1181, to wealthy Italian merchant Pietro Bernardone and French noblewoman Lady Pica Bourlemont, he was baptized "Giovanni" but nicknamed "Francesco" by his father.

Francis was seated on wealth and poised to enjoy all the ease and comforts of his birth, but he willingly gave that up-- and chose poverty.

His example would start a spiritual movement that spans the globe to this day.

But, before he could change the world, Francis himself had to change.... Radically.

Such depth of change cannot be traced to one single moment, his conversion was a lifelong discovery of self and a constant renewal of his personal values. For Francis this meant a fearless, sacrificial love for all of creation-- which he viewed as his Universal Family, originating from his Father in Heaven.

Many of his (re)formative moments are so tied up with religious zeal that they begin to feel mythologized or even dogmatic. Valueless to skeptics and beyond question to believers, they remain as of yet relatively unexplored from a secular, psychological perspective.

This is the story of one of those possible moments-- an event which may well have happened and which could explain some of the intensity of Francis' conversion.

In 1202 Francis went to battle... Though the details are lost to time, he certainly saw (and to some degree participated in) the horrors of war. I believe Francis is likely to have injured or perhaps killed someone in the heat of battle, and that such a psychologically damning, traumatic experience may have prompted his lifelong journey towards radical peace.

Sources:

https://www.franciscanmedia.org/franciscan-tradition-and-resources/chronology-of-the-life-of-st-francis/

and

https://www.keytoumbria.com/Assisi/St_Francis.html

Also,

Special thanks to fellow writer R. B. Booth for reading my first draft and sharing such valuable insights! You really improved my writing with your helpful criticism!

And,

Thanks to the Friars of Mt. Irenaeus for introducing me to the life of St. Francis

Giovanni the Valiant

***

1202, Assisi:

"This makes up for that idiocy last Spring-- when you gave away half our stock!"

Giovanni's smile falters. He touches his left wrist, then catches himself and pulls his shirtsleeve back down.

"Don't give me that look-- you deserved that welt! And you're lucky I managed to track down that filthy beggar and retrieve our fabrics, or I'd have given you worse!"

Pietro draws close to Giovanni, he pulls him in by the shoulders and kisses him on the cheek.

"This is a father's job, to prepare a boy for the world. How could you have the strength to march to war, if not for my instruction over the years? How could you be a man?"

Then, laughing, he pushes Giovanni away and cries, "Arm yourself, Francesco! How will you beat the Filth of Perugia, if you cannot beat an old man like me?"

Pietro grabs a walking stick, Francesco grabs a broom.

They clash and it is a violent dance.

They press each other in giddy desperation: a young man tests his place against an old man who's still too proud to yield.

"Go easy on him Pietro." Pica carries the kettle from their hearth.

"He can handle it Lady Pica! I will not take your boy from you. God has bigger plans for this young man!"

"Yes, and so do I. The bigger plan is supper." And Pica places a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Still, I worry for the broom."

Pietro's laugh is like a trumpet.

Giovanni loves that rare sound-- and it feels like a good omen.

A chill shoots up his spine and he ets himself daydream: Marching back with spoils... Assisi's loveliest maidens smiling, scattering flowers at his feet.

His mother frowns. "My son I recognize that look in your eyes. I pray for your sake. Many sons march away with such dreams. But how many return?"

Giovanni flings the broom to the floor and kneels before her. He takes her hand, kisses it, presses it between his own palms, then: "Dear mother, wait until tomorrow! When I am outfitted with the armor and sword father has commissioned. Then you'll cast your worries aside!"

She nods.

But her brow remains creased.

***

That night Pica lights a candle and brings it to the family's tiny shrine, where she bows her head in silence and stays that way for a long time.

Giovanni watches her through the doorway, as he drifts towards sleep.

The last thing his waking eyes see: the silhouette of Pica.

The last thing his conscious mind thinks: Mother is praying for me.

***

The morning is filled with trumpets and song. Gifts, sweets, and blessings are lavished upon the soldiers of the Compagnia dei Cavalieri.

Children run here and there, playing war.

They are streaks of color as they dart across the piazza. They reenact the rebellion and the expulsion of the nobility from Assisi, like a living fresco against the scaglia rossa stone-work of Assisi's buildings.

Their pure, high voices break into scattered songs and the leaders of the merchant class give proud speeches:

"Perugia granted them refuge, when we tore down the stones of La Rocca-- and why? They are allies in greed. Now they issue threats and march to take what's ours! NEVER! We will cut them down leave them for the birds!"

Giovanni sees proud faces in the crowd: elders, maidens, clergy.

His own father.

Pietro is beaming.

And the smaller boys-- those too young for battle look on the company with wide-eyed awe.

And with jealousy.

***

Just after midnight, they march through the Western gate: down into the darkness of the valley.

Giovanni's body is all wire-tight tremors.

A childhood friend, Michele, claps him on the back, and they exchange giddy smiles, like wolves circling up before the hunt.

Bells toll and trumpets blare.

***

They march through olive groves in the silver moonlight. Gray branches curl towards them like twisted fingers in the November fog.

The dust rises in great plumes at their passing and Giovanni can taste it on his tongue.

"We look worse than lepers!" Michele calls to him, "The maidens of Assisi won't want us anymore!"

Giovanni pulls a small white flower out of his sleeve, one which he had caught during the parade. He asks: "Do you think we'll win?"

"If God wills it. We've beaten these bastard nobles once before."

Giovanni tucks the flower back into hi sleeve. "May we return-- all of us-- victorious."

Michele shakes his head, "No Giovanni. There's no such thing as a perfect victory."

After this, the mood changes.

Neither friend can muster a joke and so they march in silence.

***

Just before dawn, they hear the songs of the enemy-- a whisper on the wind.

If they squint they can make the faint outlines of a great quivering shadow on the other side of the valley, in a place called the Collestrada.

The Perugian army looks like an ink stain on the hillside.

Others take up the cry, "For Assisi! For Assisi!"

Giovanni shouts, but he cannot hear himself over the tumult.

Neither can he hear Michele.

Words have lost their meaning-- all one can do is howl.

Trumpets shriek and banners wave.

Swords leap from scabbards and clatter against shields.

The charge begins.

Giovanni's feet are a stampede to match his thundering heart.

He cannot think, all he can do is try not to trip--

The front ranks collide!

An undercurrent of rage rolls like thunder and high shrieks of pain bloom here and there like streaks of lightning in a storm.

He is close enough to smell the copper tang of flowing blood.

He is close enough to smell the riot of sweat and meat and spilled intestines-- and he thinks: Is that what I'll smell like on the inside too?

Men grapple for their lives ahead. To the right there is the ringing music of swords and curses.

He looks around for Michele.

There are torn banners and there are broken lances and there are bodies in desperate strain.

But his friend is nowhere to be seen.

How strange.

They'd been running side by side.

And... before that they'd been laughing.

He wants to run. But his people are being slaughtered.

There is a space between the lines.

He forces himself in-- to close the gap.

Then out of the dust, a Perugian boy-- his sword raised.

Giovanni can't help but see him as a reflection-- a flash-- of who he might have been under different birth.

Hate pours from the boy's eyes and Giovanni thinks: why should I hate myself so?

The boy screams at him: "Die, Assisi scum!"

Their swords clash but those words are still stuck in Giovanni's ears.

He can't make sense of them.

Then Giovanni sees there is blood on the Perugian's blade.

That is the blood of Assisi. The blood of Michele or another of his friends.

And now everything is clear.

It is kill or be killed.

"Die!" The Perugian's voice is raw with hatred.

And that animalistic fury is contagious-- the hell of the moment takes him.

Giovanni slashes!

He catches his enemy across the left wrist-- and feels the jolt of his blade chopping through flesh and skidding against bone.

The Perugian lets out a pitiable cry, he flings his sword to the ground and falls to his knees. He holds his wrist-- paws at his own dangling skin.

Giovanni sees: it's the same exact spot where Pietro had caned him...

He remembers how bad that hurt.

Is this another lesson? Is he a man now, for doing it to someone else?

The blood is flowing and it's much brighter than Giovanni thinks it should be and it is very red.

Except where it trickles into the thirsty dust.

Where it waters the Earth, the blood turns black.

The Perugian, his eyes are wide and urgent: "Please. Please."

Too late.

Giovanni has already thrust his blade forward and the boy's eyes go ever wider as that beautiful, shining sword sinks into his heaving chest.

"Wait." The boy stammers.

He clutches at the blade with his good hand and his finger tips are cut open like the flesh of soft grapes.

"Wait-- wait-- My mom...."

Giovanni is stunned.

He remembers Pica's silhouette.

He wonders if this boy's mother prayed the same way.

He imagines a Perugian Pica, drenched with tears--

"Wait.... "

And he wants to take it all back.

Too late...

He feels warm, living waters flowing over his hand.

He let's go.

This is permanent.

The boy's chest shudders and Giovanni heaves his breakfast onto the ground between them, onto the Earth that is already muddied with so much blood.

***

Giovanni the Murderer

***

1203, A Dungeon in Perugia

***

He wants to stop seeing him.

But will he ever?

A string of pink spittle dangles from the boy's dead mouth-- it dances in the wind.

And Giovanni always sees it.

He remembers the warplay of his youth. Back then his father never called him Giovanni-- but always "Francesco."

His little Frenchman.

He'd give anything to be gentle little Francesco-- innocent, again and forever.

***

A younger prisoner coughs-- they're all sick.

They cannot keep their strength on these meager rations.

Francis pushes his little portion of bread into the younger prisoner's palm.

He'd give anything...

And it will never be enough.

***