The feast of St Lucia

A photo essay with words from Siracusa, in Sicily

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In the square in front of the cathedral, just as it was turning dark, two men and two women were dancing to music from a battered beatbox.

It was folk music of some sort, and they danced in a row, their joined hands held at shoulder height. They skipped to one side and then to the other, then separated and spun like pennies before coming together once more.

The square was otherwise empty. Floodlights cast dancing shadows high on a two-thousand-year-old wall. It was as if the lighting director of The Third Man had been brought in specially for the occasion.

At the edge of the square some scaffolders were building a rudimentary platform. It looked like the kind of structure a news organisation might use as a camera position for a big event. I made a mental note to return the next morning.

When you read a guidebook on holiday you often come across a line that says something like “on the feast day of the town’s patron saint there is a spectacular religious parade”. And you think one day you will be organised enough, or lucky enough, to arrive somewhere at just the right time to experience such a sight.

This was just such a time.

When I returned the next morning there were indeed TV cameras on the platform. What seemed like most of the local population were packed into the square in front of the cathedral, the Duomo.

The fortunate ones sheltered in shadow. The rest of us milled around under a sun that was hotter than it had any right to be in May, even in Sicily.

I was in Siracusa, the Ancient Greek city that happens to be in Italy. Siracusa, or Syracuse, contains multitudes and spans millennia. If you half-close your eyes you can imagine this southeastern corner of Sicily in its classical pomp. While exploring the narrow lanes you feel an uncanny sense of walking in footsteps two thousand years old.

The day’s festivities were in honour of the city’s patron saint, St Lucia. In English, Lucy. She was a third century martyr. If you ever see a symbol of a woman with a knife stuck through her throat, blood spurting from the wound, that’s her.

On this day, May 13, an ornate silver statue of the saint, perched on a elaborate silver chest containing her relics, was to be carried the few hundred yards from the Duomo to the Chiesa di Santa Lucia alla Badia, which contains Caravaggio’s Burial of St Lucy. Seven months later, on December 13, it makes the return journey in another procession. These are the two most important days in the Siracusa calendar.

I was there to take pictures. This was my idea photographic assignment. I love photographing people who are thoroughly engrossed in something that means a lot to them: a football match; a political demonstration; a music festival; a religious procession with a brass band.

At the heart of the crowd were the great and good of Siracusa. Men in black velvet caps and cloaks bearing a Jerusalem Cross insignia. Women in 18th century dresses accompanied by men in tricorn hats and lace frills. Priests in silk vestments. Men in vintage military uniforms. And various other civic and religious officials whose provenance and authority was a mystery to an outsider like me. One of the men in black velvet cloaks made a selfie video with his mobile phone, taking in the whole scene with himself at its centre, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

The statue - locals prefer the term simulacrum - was escorted by a dozen “cilii”, large wooden candelabras decorated with flowers and carried by men who were dressed like monks.