A Mighty Charioteer

L ast November, on a (mostly premeditated) whim, I gave up the promise of my mom’s Thanksgiving dinner and flew to Rome for a week. Along with two friends, I joined up with the Catholic Traveler, a pilgrimage leader based in Rome, to spend ten days exploring the holy city and visiting the important sites around it and Assisi. I’d never been out of the country, and despite my aviation adventures, I had a lot of qualms about flying over the ocean. These fears had prevented me from taking an opportunity to visit the Holy Land in college, so I was determined not to make the same mistake here.

There were no traumatic travel disasters. We enjoyed fabulous food, delightful meetups, and even a private tour of the Vatican Museums — the itinerary was well-planned and gave ample time for personal exploration. Going into the trip, I’d made one promise to myself: There was nothing I needed to see so badly that, if I didn’t see it, it would ruin the experience. I was simply there to gaze in awe and thanksgiving.

All this gazing is well and good for a while, but after the 40th church, the sites start to run together — something I didn’t want to happen. So, when a statue started to follow me around the city, appearing in the different churches I visited, I got rather excited.

She initially appeared at the Lateran Basilica: a tall marble figure grasping a mirror in one hand and a snake in the other. Her regal stance and strange accessories caught my eye, and I started looking for context clues. She was stationed across from another female statue, this one holding a sword. And she was located at the entrance to a side altar and some tombs. Snakes and mirrors generally make me think of Vanity, but it would be odd to have a statue representing a vice in this position. I tucked the experience away and moved on.

Then she showed up again, this time in a small carving at the Basilica of Sant’ Agostino. Thoroughly intrigued, I decided to ask around instead of just guessing, but no one knew who my mysterious lady was. Thanks to some quick googling, I soon had a lead: According to some (very scant) sources, she’s a representation of the cardinal virtue of prudence.

There are several variations of Prudence’s depiction in medieval and Renaissance art, which include a two- or three-headed version, Prudence stepping on a snake, Prudence grasping a compass, and Prudence holding a book. Wikipedia claims that the snake represents wisdom, citing Matthew 10:16: “Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.” Very plausible. At once both straightforward and an enigma, Prudence in each form is clear-eyed and resolute.

After this revelation of the statue’s identity, it became a game to notice Prudence greeting me wherever I went in the city. She was next to me in the line to climb the dome at St. Peter’s (I took the elevator and don’t regret it at all). She was at the tomb of St. Frances of Rome (a lovely church we stumbled into while leaving the Colosseum). And she even found me at the Gesu (home to relics of Sts. Francis Xavier and Ignatius of Loyola). She was often present with her sisters, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance, but not always.

Prudence is perhaps the least acknowledged, or most misunderstood, cardinal virtue. It is, alas, often associated with our derogatory English term “prude” and invites mental images of dour aunts. The real prudence, though, isn’t prudish or dour. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, it guides the other virtues:

It lights the way and measures the arena for their exercise. The insight it confers makes one distinguish successfully between their mere semblance and their reality. . . . Without prudence, bravery becomes foolhardiness, mercy sinks into weakness, and temperance into fanaticism.

 My favorite title for prudence comes from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which calls it “the charioteer of the virtues.”

During my time in Italy, Prudence showed up five times in Rome and twice in Assisi, always gently catching my eye, never needing my notice or approval but graciously accepting it each time. It’s sometimes the smallest details that give you the most to consider, and Prudence, with her piercing gaze, gave me much to ponder.