I will remember that evening forever.
Beneath the ancient beams of the Kapellbrücke, where the Reuss murmurs its secrets, I danced in my automaton costume, carried by the spark of the carnival. The crowd swayed, music echoed, and suddenly, a gaze froze me. A man approached: tall, with slightly wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes full of life, and a smile so wide it seemed to light up his entire face. My group of friends, intrigued, whispered, “Do you know each other?”
No, not yet, I replied, though an invisible spark told me otherwise. There was something strange and suspended in the air, a tangible connection, like a crystalline note escaping from my music box.
He invited me to follow him. He lived nearby, at the foot of the ramparts. Lucerne’s towers, those stone guardians, were closed for the season, but he knew their secrets. With a rare privilege, he opened them to me. We walked side by side. There was no romantic tension, but a mysterious aura, as if fate had placed him on my path. Something unseen already bound us. Around us, the nine towers of the Musegg Wall, robust 13th-century sentinels, rose above the city.
His name was Lukas. His voice, soft and passionate, seemed to awaken the stones around us.
“These ramparts,” he told me, eyes glowing, “were built around the year 1200 to protect Lucerne, a prosperous city on the trade routes. Each tower has its own character: Schirmer, Zyt, Männli… The Zytturm, over there, houses a clock from 1535 that always chimes one minute before the others. As if it wanted to stay ahead of time.”
My heart beat in rhythm with his words. He led me along the rampart walk. From there, the view stretched over the lake, the old town, and the distant Alps. A living painting, a whisper of interwoven centuries. His voice, calm and warm, made Lucerne’s history vibrate. And when he stopped before Mount Pilatus, that towering mass of rock above the city, his words took on an almost prophetic tone.
“Do you want to know where its name comes from, and why it echoes in your own?” he asked.
I nodded, intrigued.
He gazed at the mountain with near-mystical intensity.
“When I look at the Pilatus from my home, I don’t just see a peak. I see a living book. Every crack, a page. Every lake, a chapter. The name ‘Pilatus’ comes from far away, from a story woven between Rome and the Alps. It is said that Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor who condemned Jesus, left his shadow on this mountain. But you have to go even further back.”
He continued slowly, as if reciting an old tale:
“Emperor Tiberius in Rome was struck by an incurable illness. No physician could cure him. His servant, Albanus, heard of a man with miraculous powers: Jesus of Nazareth. Tiberius sent Albanus to Jerusalem, but he arrived too late. Jesus had just been crucified on Pilate’s orders. Furious, Tiberius summoned Pilate to Rome. And then… your name appears. Veronica. A pious woman is said to have handed Jesus a cloth to wipe his face. That cloth, the Veil of Veronica, bore his image and was said to have healing powers. Albanus persuaded her to come to Rome. And when she showed the veil to Tiberius, he was healed. Your name is tied to that story. To a moment when a woman changed the course of things.”
I listened, heart tight, moved without knowing exactly why.
“Pilate was condemned for his role. He took his own life and his body was thrown into the Tiber. But calamities struck Rome. So they retrieved his corpse and sent it to the Rhône, then to Vienne in Gaul. There too, misfortunes followed. So they brought it to an alpine lake on a mountain once called Frakmont, the broken mountain. That lake became his tomb. But his spirit, they say, never found peace. Violent winds blew from the summit, animals grew restless, storms broke out. They said his soul haunted the lake.”
I hugged my arms. The air seemed thicker.
“One day, a student skilled in occult arts climbed to the lake, up on the ridge of the Widderfeld. He challenged Pilate’s spirit, pronounced incantations, struck the ground. He made a pact: Pilate would remain in the lake, invisible, except on Good Friday. On that day only, he could rise and wash his hands in the water. But beware anyone who broke that pact: throwing a stone into that lake meant unleashing devastating floods upon Lucerne. Until the 16th century, the city council forbade climbing the Pilatus. In 1387, six clerics were even imprisoned for defying the ban.”
I interrupted him, shivering:
“Lukas, that’s incredible… Can you believe I was born on a Good Friday? And you know my name. Do you think it’s just a coincidence?”
He looked at me, visibly moved.
“Veronica, born on a Good Friday? No… that’s not a coincidence. It’s as if Pilatus had chosen you. Maybe if you climbed up there on that very day, you’d see what no one has ever seen.”
He continued at once, eyes sparkling:
“But Pilatus isn’t just about Pilate. It’s a treasure chest of legends. Do you know the Dominiloch? A strange cave in the wall of the Widderfeld, 1,200 feet above the Bründlenalp. A white rock there resembles a man sitting with his arms on a table. They called it the statue of Saint Dominic. Some say a chapel was buried there by a landslide, others that Roman soldiers carved the shape to guard a treasure. In 1814, Ignaz Matt, a Tyrolean hunter, rappelled down in front of 400 spectators and planted a flag on the statue’s shoulder, proving it was just a natural formation. But the legends remained.”
He smiled, almost dreamily.
“Some say three confederate heroes sleep there, ready to awaken if the homeland is ever in danger. Others speak of a giant turned to stone after witnessing the Swiss killing each other, who will rise only when unity returns.”
He spoke more about Vienne, Italy, Scotland, Spain… all these places that lay claim to fragments of Pilate’s fate. But here, in Lucerne, the name Pilatus has been carved in stone since 1475.
“Some say it comes from pileus, the Roman cap, or pileatus, shrouded in clouds. But honestly, Veronica… those etymologies pale beside the legends that make Lucerne’s heart beat.”
When we left the tower, I felt that his words had tied something in me — something ancient and something new.
We walked on in silence, gazing down at the city. Carnival was in full swing. The streets exploded with color, masks, and lively music.
And my heart, like the cobblestones, pulsed in unison with the story he had just shared with me.
