“But a jawbone – that must be proof of some locked-up nun from the old days when they were up to no good.”
My naughty godson Dante was stirring, as ever. I’d mentioned an article about the discovery of a vast jawbone uncovered during repair works to the Vatican heating system undertaken in the bitter winter of 1962.
In reality, the truth was more intriguing than Dante had imagined. At first, the unearthed treasure was thought to be a dinosaur fossil. Then the researchers realised that the jawbone was mammalian, much more recent, and not fossilised. It was that of an elephant – the remnants of the beloved Hanno.
Hanno was given to Leo X by King Manuel of Portugal in 1514. On arrival, Hanno delighted everybody with his charms and tricks, sucking up water and spraying the pope and cardinals. Such was his popularity, and so loved was he by the pope, that Raphael painted him. Leo X’s election as pope had caused particular excitement and Rome had become a frenetic hub of plenipotentiaries seeking papal patronage. Hanno, a white Indian elephant, was the perfect example of an ostentatious bargaining chip of the time: the Portuguese king had given it in a bid to curry the pope’s favour against his Egyptian rivals in the spice trade. Tragically, the animal sickened and died within two years, but until his untimely death, he resided in a vast and beautiful courtyard called the Cortile del Belvedere, the official papal menagerie.
This grandiose yard was host to a panoply of creatures over the centuries, ranging from Pius IV’s pachyderms to Leo XIII’s ostriches. They were not there purely for papal amusement or to demonstrate God’s extraordinarily diverse creation; they also served serious political and diplomatic purposes. Visiting potentates could witness the Holy See’s majesty, power and geographical reach.
Moreover, the menagerie provided supplicants an opportunity to woo the pope of the day by presenting him with ever more obscure animals. Or, to quote Silvio Bedini, a historian at the Smithsonian Institution, it was customary for ruling princes to send to Rome “on election of each new pope an ambassador extraordinary … providing opportunities for unlimited ostentation … [to reflect] the achievements of the sovereign”.
The rhinoceros sent to replace Hanno didn’t have quite as easy a time as its predecessor. Poor Genda suffered 16th-century serial regifting, being passed from Sultan Muzaffar Shah II of Gujarat to the Portuguese Indian governor, Afonso de Albuquerque, to his master Manuel I of Portugal, who oversaw the final handover, to Pope Leo X. It was after thousands of miles of sea travel that the ship in which Genda was shackled to the deck was struck by a storm just off the Ligurian coast. Unable to escape his bonds, Genda sank with the ship. Reportedly, his final ignominy was to be recovered from the depths, skinned and sent to Rome to be exhibited impagliato – stuffed with straw.
Such was the importance of a menagerie to the reputation of the papacy that when the papacy relocated to Avignon in the early 14th century, the Palais des Papes was quick to institute a menagerie of its own, presumably to cement its legitimacy. Soon enough, boar, lion and camels stalked the new Holy See to impress passing potentates and pilgrims.
A pope’s penchant for pets could be a means of demonstrating the Holy See’s power, but it could also be, as in Leo XIII’s case, for pure amusement and pleasure. Back in Rome, in the late 19th century, Pope Leo kept ostriches, deer, goats and gazelles, most of which were allowed to leap and gambol about freely. When one of the gazelles leapt up on Leo and started licking him, the Swiss guard were shocked. The pope’s rejoinder was: “Do you really think a gazelle could defeat a lion?”
For a pope to be seen to have a love of animals could also act as a reputational fillip. Pius XII’s relations with Nazi Germany have long been contentious. What is not, however, was his affection for animals. He forbade the Vatican gardeners to squash insects; the first thing he did on arrival at the papal summer residence of Castel Gandolfo was to check his flock of sheep; he insisted on dining alone at the Vatican to commune with his pet canaries. But his most cherished bird was a goldfinch named Gretel, which he had found with a broken wing and nursed back to health. It became his constant companion and used to perch on his hand while he spoke to it.
In more recent times, Benedict XVI was, and indeed still is, inordinately fond of cats. They seem to reciprocate this feeling: as humble Joseph Ratzinger, theology professor in Tübingen in Germany, he was accompanied by a local cat to lectures and mass. After his summons to Rome to be the (catchily named) Prefect for the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith by John Paul II in the early Eighties, he had to abandon his pet cat Chico, for the rule of no pets was strictly enforced (promotion has its downside). Ratzinger made up for this by taking long walks around Rome to find stray cats to commune with. Unfortunately, nobody told the cats of Rome there is a ban on living creatures in the Vatican. According to Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone, once “about 10 cats followed him into the Vatican and one of the Swiss Guard intervened, saying ‘Look, your Eminence, the cats are invading the Holy See’.”
The 21st-century Vatican, teeming with peregrinating pilgrims and scuttling cardinals, has no room for animals, and pets are still forbidden. Pope Francis recently condemned couples who prefer pets to children, calling the choice “a form of selfishness” (Pope Francis hasn’t met Dante).
Perhaps animals at St Peter’s are a distraction from the divine. Or it could be that forbidding pets was a reaction to the near excessive exotica of the past. Whichever way, surely the place is less fun without all creatures great and small?
This article first appeared in the Easter 2022 issue of the Catholic Herald. Subscribe today.
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