A Saint and His Legend in Zamora Today

All photos in this post 2017, 2018 Jessica Knauss 

I live in a place enchanted by long years of people creating, destroying, and most of all, telling stories.

A particularly delightful legend surrounds the first Bishop of Zamora, Saint Atilano. Atilano was a humble man, so humble that he didn't feel worthy of the position of bishop that had been granted him by the king. He decided to perform a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and as he was leaving Zamora, he threw his episcopal ring into the Duero, Zamora's majestic river and the whole reason the city was founded. To finish off the symbolic act, Atilano declared that if he ever came upon the ring again, he would resume the solemn duties of tending to the Zamoran flock of faithful.

In no version of the legend are his travels interesting enough to talk about. This is a story of Zamora, and for that reason, no one knows whether Atilano even made it to the Holy Land or how long he was gone. When he had completed his pilgrimage, or was simply tired of traveling (tenth-century travel was rather more harrowing than our worst tales of airline abuse today), he stopped outside Zamora at an inn to have his midday meal, rest, and clean up from his travels. Digging into the fresh fish on offer that day, what did he find but his very own episcopal ring!

Notice the hefty ring in the fish's mouth. 

Atilano's humility didn't make him a fool, and he understood a sign when he saw one. He accepted his holy duty to be Bishop of Zamora once again. When he slipped the ring onto his finger, all the bells of Zamora tolled without the influence of bell ringers, and Atilano's ragged travel clothes became the delicately embroidered robes of the highest ecclesiastical office (read: highest office) in the land.

This miracle is the main reason the first Bishop of Zamora is considered a saint, and everyone who grew up in Zamora (and avid new residents like yours truly) have a sense of its significance to the city. Zamoran artist Gregorio Fagúndez created this sculpture commemorating the story in 2013, using materials left over from the restoration of the Iron Bridge and calling it "The Legend of the Tenth Century." Calling the miracle story a legend emphasizes the differences in the way Zamorans thought more than a thousand years ago (Did they accept the story at face value?) and our all-too-modern skepticism.

Of course they're right to be skeptical. The story has all the trappings of a folktale, and its legendary character was dramatized for me in a surprising manner this week. I went to the castle for an evening program by El Za-Moro de Zamora, a modern Muslim who loves Zamora's legends, but wanted to give his own take on them. Among jolly audience participation, one of the first themes he came upon was the story of Saint Atilano.

"Who knows the story of Saint Atilano?" he asked a relaxed and knowledgeable audience. I almost raised my hand, but in this case, I'm glad I didn't. If I'd recited my perfect outsider's version of the tale, I would've missed the way the performer had to cajole long-forgotten facts out of several audience members, which made for absurd hilarity and a sense of what it must've been like to grow up with the legend. The first people weren't sure why Atilano didn't want to be bishop, and no one could come up with the idea that he was going to the Holy Land. Things got a little more specific when it came to his return, when he ordered the fish dish at a restaurant over there near that church across the river. The performer used the idea of a restaurant (not exactly the same thing as an inn, but it'll do) to bridge the story with what he wanted to share.

"That's got to be a health code violation," said the performer (I'm translating loosely). "They didn't even clean the fish before they served it!" Then he launched into an even more ancient tale that takes place in "a city in Arabia," which doesn't tell of a bishop, but of a devout jeweler, who is prosperous and appropriately grateful, giving thanks to God with every transaction. One day, however, he lets his guard down and a jealous neighbor sneaks into the shop and steals earrings meant for the princess, throwing them into any nearby body of water. The jeweler was shocked to discover that the earrings were missing and wasn't sure what to do. When his wife was cleaning the fish (unlike the "restaurant" in Zamora) for that evening's meal, what did she find?

"The bishop's ring!" someone in the audience responded lustily.

"The bishop's ring? How did the bishop's ring get to Arabia? This story takes place long before Atilano threw his ring away! I've never heard anything more surreal," said the performer amiably. But he ended by saying, "Everything's connected."

And in this fish/jewelry story, everything really is. The performer was pointing out that Atilano wouldn't have found his ring in a fish if the jeweler's wife hadn't found earrings in a fish first. The legend is clearly traceable from Zamora to the Middle East (and then farther?) via Andalusia.

The performer said if he had been there, he would've caught the ring and told Atilano not to bother with the travels, because he was clearly going to find the ring again (since his story is based on another, much older one), and he might as well get on with it.

Was the story ever true? It hardly matters, as long as the listeners perceive the emotional truth in their own version of the legend.

The performer debunked more Zamoran legends that evening, and for me, the more the stories' hidden history was laid bare, the more wonderful they became. Every story is one aspect of the human experience. Let's all tell our stories to each other and find the common ground.