For it was here that the two leading powers of Europe, German and Byzantine, met in conflict. My present journey almost exactly follows the route of their struggle. The wild hunter Dietrich von Bern first appears in Verona; near Ravenna he fought a great battle — the Rabenschlacht of the thousand-year-old German sagas. Ravenna was the seat of the Byzantine generals, the heroic Belisarius and the eunuch Narses, and here the Goths, with their strength fading, attacked under Vitigis and Totila. The last Gothic king, Tejas, was killed with his valiant army further down the peninsula, on the slopes of Vesuvius. Almost all traces of the heretical Goths have now vanished. They were Arians, and there is still a street in Ravenna named after them. One of the better-known tombs was once an Arian baptistery. And here stands the mausoleum of Dietrich von Bern, a relic of one of the greatest battles in human history.
And it goes on still… Even as I stood above the grave of Dietrich von Bern, Spanish government troops were being slaughtered in the Guadarrama pass and the insurgents were firing their last rounds at the Toledo Alcázar. But the war in Spain has long ceased to be a struggle between rebels and government forces. It has become a clash of two opposing worlds: two versions of collectivism finally joined in open conflict. Now the other nations of Europe stand poised around the Spanish ring, armed to the teeth and holding on to one another’s hands, lest they rush to the aid of one of the combatants — before counting up to nine over whichever goes down, and hurling themselves at one another to establish, through warfare, whichever of the two had been right. Byzantium and the Goths, East and West, Orthodox and Arian (Arians/Aryans: the names echo, as if history were making a pun). Once the battle was for Rome. Now it is for the whole of Europe.
But on that occasion, in the last analysis neither side really won. That was a third power: the Byzantines destroyed the Eastern Goths, only for their Gothic cousins, the Lombards, to drive them out in turn — and then promptly vanish, almost without trace, after giving their name to one of the great regions of Italy. And Rome became neither Arian nor Greek Orthodox, but Roman and Catholic. Perhaps today too there is still hope (pray for this, venerable St Athanasius and all you anti-heretical Early Church Fathers!) that once again a third power should come victoriously between the two.
SAN MARINO
I WENT ON TO RIMINI, that endlessly elongated Italian version of our own Siófok, where I bathed in the Adriatic after lunch, then took a seat on the little electric train up to San Marino. I had thought that I would be the only person mad enough to set out on such an outing immediately after lunch, in such appalling heat. But I was wrong. The little train was no less crammed than any of the others I had been on. Whole hordes were on their way to San Marino. It seems I am by no means the only madman here. Tripping up to San Marino in these temperatures is apparently quite the norm. What shall we do next? I know — after lunch, let’s all go up to San Marino.
San Marino is a mountaintop town, the most extreme example of those I have seen so far. It is much more mountainous than Gubbio, cowering on the side of its bleak prominence, or the terrifyingly black, Papal-medieval Anagni, or Orvieto, laid out like a huge board game on a table. It rises both higher and more abruptly than any of these. The cliff on which it is built is absolutely vertical on one side, as if cut by a knife; the other is terrain for rock-climbers. One cannot begin to fathom what was in the minds of the people who colonized and built it. It really is a place where, if you lose your footing, you plummet headlong out of the town.
The route becomes increasingly romantic as it rises. From the broad plains of Romagna you get your first, distant views of the quaint mountain republic, with its three crests, the three towers built on its peak. The train climbs steadily towards it, burrowing through tunnels and weaving its way back and forth like the miniature cave railway in Városliget, emerging suddenly on one side, then on the other, ever higher and higher, while the miraculous little town comes steadily into view, with the three towers above it.
Finally we reach the top. But even now there is still nothing above us for quite a way. The little train empties the tourists out and they climb cheerfully upwards, vying eagerly with each other. They pass through the town gate and set off up the steep streets of the tiny centre. They reach the miniature piazza, where the diminutive city hall stands, every bit as ancient and wonderful as the palazzi comunali of many far grander cities. Little restaurants on every side invite one to try their views, their music and their moscato wine (the local speciality). People are already seated and gazing in admiration at the republican army, of which at least half the entire personnel must be strolling up and down in front of the town hall. Others simply race up to the post office, then stream back down to the waiting train, clutching postcards covered in San Marino stamps.
But the enthusiastic majority continue bravely along the cliff road towards the towers. It leads directly up the mountain, with chasms plunging away to left and right. The towers are genuinely medieval, although much restored — fortified bastions ruling fantastically over the landscape below, like the old tyrant rulers of the clans, every one of them a Malatesta, a Scaliger, or a Rovere, though the eagle-feather emblem at the top of each, the symbol of San Marino, tames them, as you would a bird. The tourists swarm happily up and down the steps (which have no guard rails), no doubt naively rejoicing in the fact that they “didn’t have to live in those olden times”—rather like the first-time spectators at a boxing match who congratulate themselves on not being the ones getting knocked about.
THE THIRD TOWER
THUS WE ARRIVED at a little gate bearing the notice: Road to the Third Tower. Having carried them this far, the day-trippers’ enthusiasm instantly deserted them. Puffing and panting, they turned back and made for the viewpoints and the moscato. I continued on — suddenly, happily, at ease and alone. The third tower was all mine.
The tower stands apart, at the far corner of the mountain top, on an inaccessible cliff, very steep on both sides. The town itself doesn’t extend this far, and as you pick your way to the end of the crest you are made giddy by the height. Here, on the exposed ridge, a chill wind blows, even in this intense heat. I imagine it must do so at all times.
I sit at the foot of the tower and gaze out at the view. My view. So far I have been obliged to share it with the day-trippers, to join enthusiastically in their constant chattering. Now I have come into possession of my soul. The whole of this part of the country is mine: on one side, rich, twilit Romagna, with its scattering of towns, sloping gently down to the distant sea; and on the other, the bandit-haunted Apennines of ancient Etruria. Behind them again, I sense the presence of my Easter kingdom: Urbino, Arezzo, Gubbio, and the whole of Umbria. These are real mountains, as vast as a man could wish. Mountains any larger than these I do not like. I dislike the Alps. They are excessive, unmanageable, titanic. In a word, inhuman. No mountain should be greater than these before me. The Apennines are human-scale, just as the whole Italian landscape is human-scale. And that is why it is lovelier than any other.
I sit looking out over the Italian countryside. In the advancing twilight the blues and the reds on the skyline have a serenity of inexpressible sweetness, and for the first time on my present journey I am happy. Happy in the archaic sense of the word, according to which no child can be said to be happy: a replete happiness, containing everything. The Third Tower is mine alone. Italy is mine, not Mussolini’s. I am mine alone: alone in my self-completeness.