The crowd is bustling in the streets of Sartène on this early Good Friday evening. Thousands of people have flocked in from the surrounding area, from all corners of the island, and sometimes even from the mainland and beyond, so as not to miss a moment of the religious event of the year. People are jostling for a view of the church steps on Place Porta, or of one of the spots where the man in red and his legendary procession will pass. The entire town is buzzing with anticipation and emotion.
Do you see the Catenacciu? When will he come out—dragging his massive cross over the cobblestones, the chains clanking around his ankles—to reenact Jesus’s journey to Golgotha? But above all: who is hiding under the red hood, and why is he subjecting himself to such a reenactment of the Passion of Christ?
Processions have been one of the many expressions of Corsican culture for centuries. Less devout than in the past and often organized by local associations, they punctuate the local calendar from parish to parish and still stir up just as much passion: moments of communion and contemplation for the islanders, striking folkloric events for outsiders, most of these processions of penitents lack the aura of the Catenacciu—the “Chained One ” —an icon of “the most Corsican of Corsican cities” dear to Prosper Mérimée.
You have to have witnessed his Stations of the Cross and know his very unique story to understand the fervor he inspires. For centuries, the Catenacciu has embodied the symbol of anonymous redemption. Only the priest knows his true identity; the man who volunteered did so to atone for his sins, which are generally serious—traditionally a capital offense.
Two days before Good Friday, the stranger arrives at the San Cosimu è Damianu monastery in Sarten, where a cell stripped of all distractions—except for a Bible—awaits him. The penitent turns inward to find inner peace. For he will need humility and courage on the day of the procession.
The man is finally led in the strictest secrecy to the Church of Santa Maria Assunta for a final wait until dusk. The bells ring at 9 p.m. Outside, more than 3,000 people are waiting for the Catenacciu—everywhere, from the cobblestones to the rooftops— “leaning out of windows, crowded on doorsteps and balconies.” The most curious onlookers, who might try to touch him, are pushed back.
And there he is, emerging from the commotion with his procession of penitents, led by the imposing Simon of Cyrene, hooded in white, and eight black-robed penitents carrying the ivory Christ, themselves accompanied by the brotherhood. Journalist Dorothy Carrington, who witnessed the scene in the 1970s, believed she was seeing “the terrible squadra d’arozza, the company of the spirits of the dead.” The image leaves a lasting impression, bringing tears even to the faces of the least devout: the Catenacciu, dressed in scarlet, bears his wooden cross weighing nearly 40 kilos, struggling to move forward as best he can, barefoot and shackled by a 17-kilo chain.
And the stranger staggers through the streets of the Corsican city. “The crowd, piqued by curiosity, has eyes only for him. They long to uncover his identity. But they never succeed. Never does the Catenacciu, through a word or a gesture, betray his secret,” says Lucia Molinelli-Cancellieri. People try to read his expression. In vain. He falls three times, like Jesus on the road to his crucifixion. With each fall, the brotherhood, the priest, and the faithful offer prayers and hymns of forgiveness. A relative calm returns, interspersed with boisterous and noisy outbursts.
The reenactment of the Stations of the Cross ends when the penitent in red returns to the foot of the altar, with the enormous cross reverently placed beside him. The hooded stranger kneels to pray. And while the crowd gathers in prayer, both inside the church and in the streets of Sartène, the priest—who alone knows Catenacciu’s true identity—escorts his penitent into the seclusion of the convent. There, the man sheds his purple robes—which will cover another Catenacciu the following year—and slips away into the night. Anonymous, but cleansed of his sins.
How many men have ever worn the red penitent’s robe, hood, and gloves, and for what reasons? It is said that the Catenacciu traces its origins to the Middle Ages: a brotherhood of flagellants is said to have introduced this rite to Corsica, before it was adopted in its current theatrical form during the 16th century in Sartène, under the influence of Franciscan evangelization. This would bring us—by rough estimate—to more than 500 Red Penitents since its establishment in the local liturgy!
More than 500 men—thieves, bandits, murderers, and common criminals—came to this place of suffering to find salvation for their souls. Lucia Molinelli-Cancellieri also claims to know that the famous bandit Spada, a true fanatic, “donned the red robe one Good Friday evening to atone for his sins”; but also “that word of his terrifying presence reached the gendarmerie, ” which did not dare to disrupt the procession out of respect for local customs. It may have been in 1929 or 1930.
The author of André Spada’s biography adds that another criminal, the notorious Bornea, “in turn, after having cold-bloodedly executed the unfortunate Bucchini on the road to Ciamanacce—for no reason other than to prove that he was capable of the worst— the unfortunate Bucchini on the road to Ciamanacce, had sought the honor of being the Catenacciu.” Unverifiable rumors .
Under the red hood, all men—regardless of their status or life story—are inevitably equal. And the list of candidates can only grow longer: these days, there are about sixty of them hoping to receive a call from the pastor of Santa Maria Assunta, the only person authorized to keep a registry and designate the next Catenacciu…
