ST. CECILIA
Persecution Result of Covetousness—Steady Growth of
Christianity—Story of Saint Cecilia—Dress of a Patrician
Woman—A Roman Marriage—Cecilia’s Consecration—Apparition of
St. Paul—Cecilia’s Guardian Angel—Conversion of Two Roman
Nobles—Slaughter of Christians—A Declaration of Faith—Condemnation
of the Nobles.
Time passes on; madmen and sages, dolts and fighters succeed one
another on the Imperial Throne, and try to hold together such rags
of the Purple as are left to them; one and all agree in looking upon
Christianity as a pestilential fad, to be stamped out by any means that
come to hand. Some institute official persecutions, some merely leave
the governors of cities and provinces to deal with the pest according
to their own ideas. Even the most careless or the most indulgent never
revoke the ancient edicts of proscription, and these edicts are always
there in reserve to strengthen the hand of any man in authority, who,
for his own ends, desires to destroy and confiscate. For it must be
remembered that in the Roman Empire, from the First to the Fourth
Century, even as in England under Henry and Elizabeth and their
successors, persecution was mostly the result of covetousness, and that
the insane law adjudging the property of the condemned to those who
procured their conviction was the same in both cases and constituted an
appeal to selfish passions far too strong to go unused.
The more energetic or less vicious of the Emperors spent but little
time in Rome itself after the middle of the Second Century; the safety
of the Empire, surrounded by a fringe of enemies and barbarians,
constantly required their presence elsewhere, and so the supreme
municipal power fell almost completely into the hands of the governors,
men who had rarely reached that prominence honestly and who made haste
to reap their private harvest as rapidly as possible. Such an one was
a certain Turcius Almachius who became the Prefect of the city under
Alexander Severus in the early part of the Third Century. Alexander is
generally described as a fair-minded and indulgent man, who, though he
permitted the edicts of proscription to remain on the statute books,
had no personal hostility to the Christians and did not consider that
their existence constituted a menace to the State. Perhaps he thought
enough had been done already to annihilate their claims, and believed
that the “superstition,” as it was called, would die a natural death.
And, all the time, Christianity was growing to be a great force,
nullifying the sentence of death pronounced upon it, by the solid
irresistible pressure of its own vitality, even as the tender shoot
sprung from an acorn will at last rend and shatter the heavy tombstone
beneath which it lay.
This steady yet gentle growth of Christianity during the hundred and
eighty years which had passed between the date of St. Peter’s coming
to Rome and that of the accession of Alexander Severus, is vividly
illustrated in the fact that various wealthy pagan parents of the
latter epoch did nothing to oppose the Christian education of their
children when accident or the designs of Providence rendered such
education possible. One cannot help thinking that even they realised
that Christianity taught the boys and girls to be very virtuous and
obedient children, from whom they would always receive the highest
measure of filial love and duty. So it was that the only daughter of
the noble Cecilius, one of the few representatives left of the true
aristocracy of better times, was brought up from her infancy in the
Christian faith. We are not told who her teacher was—perhaps some poor
slave, who thus conferred on her master’s family an honour before which
all those of noble ancestry and vast possessions were destined to pale,
the honour of giving one of her most illustrious martyrs to the Church.
The maiden Cecilia was so beautiful, so good, so accomplished, and
withal such a loving, docile daughter, that it must have been with a
great pang at heart that her father and mother saw the hour approach in
which she must leave them for the house of the husband they had chosen
for her, the young Valerianus, a fit mate in every way for their dear
child, in her parents’ eyes. But to Cecilia their decision brought
great fear and perplexity. Valerianus was all that they believed him
to be—noble, upright, kind-hearted, a distinguished officer, with a
heart as clean as his countenance was beautiful—but Cecilia had long
ago vowed her life to God; the Pontiff, St. Urban, had approved of her
high choice, and she had been assured by her Guardian Angel—constantly
visible to her pure eyes in daily life—that God had accepted the
sacrifice and would never permit her love for Him to be shared with
an earthly spouse. Yet we, who know less of God’s ways than did the
holy girl, read with something like astonishment that Cecilia ventured
upon no open opposition to her parents’ plans for her. The authority
of a Roman father was so supreme that it would have appeared to her
an impiety to resist it. That she was consumed with anxiety and fear,
we know, and that she spent nights and days in prayer to God, to His
Angels, and to the Blessed Apostles, to protect her from the threatened
danger. No “Acts of the Martyrs” are more full and authentic than
those of St. Cecilia, written by those who had known her in life and
who witnessed her death. As the dreaded day approached, she redoubled
in fervour, and, fearing her own weakness in presence of the young man
whom his high spirit, virtue, and beauty made her love as a brother,
she fought down all carnal impulses by prayer and fasting (sometimes
for three days together) and mortified her flesh by wearing a hair
shirt under her rich dress.
At last the wedding day dawned, and the great palace was all humming
with joyous excitement. Her mother came into Cecilia’s room to dress
her for her marriage. Her beautiful hair was braided in six long
strands, in imitation of that of the Vestal Virgins; her family had
always clung to the high ideals of ancient Rome, and no taint from
the deluge of luxury and vice in which the Empire was plunged had ever
penetrated into their sternly guarded homes. In daily life we are told
that Cecilia went clothed, like other patrician ladies, in garments
richly embroidered with gold, but on this, the day of her wedding, her
mother put upon her a robe of plain home-spun wool spotlessly white,
copied from the one woven by her ancestress, Caia Cecilia, hundreds
of years before, and which was the original tunic, the model upon
which woman’s costume was founded for something like a thousand years
afterwards. Good Roman women still looked upon the wise and simple
Tanaquil as their pattern in all the matters of domestic life, and
at the period of which we are speaking the Etrurian Queen’s spindle
and distaff were still preserved among the sacred insignia of the
city. A white woollen girdle, like Queen Tanaquil’s, was bound round
Cecilia’s waist, and then she was shrouded in the flame-coloured veil
with which every Roman girl, noble or simple, covered her face and
head when she went to meet her bridegroom. The veil not only signified
maiden modesty, but denoted the firm constancy with which the bride
was prepared to cling to her husband. It was originally the badge of
the women of the Flaminia, a race which, some four hundred years before
St. Cecilia’s day, held the Catholic belief as to the inviolability of
marriage, and prohibited divorce. The “Flammeum,” as the flame-coloured
veil was called, remained, for this reason, in use at Christian
weddings, until, at any rate, the Fourth Century, when St. Ambrose
spoke of it in his treatise on “Virginity.”
But Cecilia’s marriage was a purely pagan ceremony, the first at which
she had ever been obliged to assist. Wine and milk were offered to
the gods, and she raised her heart to the one true God, renewing the
offer of her whole being to Him; the cake, “the symbol of alliance,”
was broken and shared, her hand was placed in the hand of her ardent
bridegroom, and they were now man and wife. As the sun sank behind the
Janiculum Hill, the bride was conducted, with great pomp and rejoicing,
to the dwelling of her husband, across the Tiber, now the Church of St.
Cecilia in Trastevere that we all know so well.
All the way, through the songs and music, Cecilia prayed in her heart
that she might be protected, and be helped to keep her vow; brighter
than the numberless torches carried in the procession shone her faith
in God, who has never forsaken His own when they called upon Him.
Valerianus was waiting for her in the stately pillared portico, all
decorated with rich white tapestry and strewn with flowers. Here the
second plighting of their bond took place, after the ancient Roman
custom.
“Who art thou?” asked the bridegroom, as the bride first stepped on the
portico.
“Where thou art Caius, I will be Caia,” Cecilia replied, in the
invariable formula, which, in her case, was a double assurance, since
she was directly descended from the noble Caia Cecilia, the type and
standard for all good wives. To her was then presented, first, clear
water, the emblem of purity, and then a key, symbolic of the care
she must have of the household and its goods. After that she sate
down for a moment on a fleece intended to remind her that she must
work with her hands; and, these ceremonies over, the family and the
guests accompanied the newly married ones into the dining-hall and
the wedding banquet went merrily forward to the sound of music. Music
was Cecilia’s own language, but she had always used her sweet voice to
sing the praises of the one true God. Now she “sang to Him what was in
her heart” and ceased not to pray. When all was over and the guests
withdrew, the chosen band of matrons led Cecilia to the door of the
sumptuous chamber, perfumed, full of flowers, dimly lighted, where her
splendid passionate lover would come to make her his own.
Who cannot feel the awe and thrill of that moment, the choking of heart
with which the maiden listened for Valerianus’ footsteps, the fear and
the hope, the sublime trust in God, yet the full realisation of the
struggle to come?
Valerianus entered, and came towards his bride, and Cecilia with great
gentleness said: “Oh, most sweet and most beloved youth, there is a
secret which I must confide to thee if now thou wilt swear sacredly to
respect it.” Valerianus promised, very solemnly, that he would forever
hold secret what she was about to tell him, and Cecilia continued:
“I am under the care of an Angel whom God has appointed protector of
my virginity. If thou shouldst violate it, his fury will be enkindled
against thee, and thou wilt fall a victim to his vengeance. If, on the
other hand, thou wilt respect it, he will bestow on thee his love and
obtain for thee many blessings.”
Valerianus was greatly astonished and agitated, but Divine Grace
was already working in his heart, and he replied: “Cecilia, if thou
desirest that I should believe thee, let me see this Angel. Then, if I
recognise him as truly an Angel of God, I will do as thou hast asked
me. But, if I find thou lovest another man, both him and thee I will
slay with my own sword.”
With calm and heavenly authority, Cecilia replied: “If thou wilt follow
my counsel, Valerianus, if thou wilt consent to be purified in the
fountain of eternal life, if thou wilt believe in the one true and
living God, thou shalt behold my Guardian Angel.”
Eagerly Valerianus cried, “And who will purify me, that I may see him?”
“There is a holy old man who thus purifies mortals,” she said.
“And where shall I find him?” Valerianus asked.
In Cecilia’s reply to this question we have a wonderfully vivid picture
of Christian life in Rome at that time:
“Thou must go out of the city by the Appian Way as far as the
third milestone. There thou wilt find some poor beggars who will
ask an alms of thee. I have always taken care of them, and they
well know my secret. Give them my blessing and say: ‘Cecilia
sends me to you that you may conduct me to the holy old man, for
I have a secret message which I must bring to him.’ And thou,
Valerianus, when thou art in the presence of Urban, relate to
him all my words, and he will purify thee and clothe thee in new
white garments, and then, when thou returnest to this chamber,
thou shalt see the holy Angel, who will evermore be thy friend
and obtain for thee all that thou shalt ask of him.”
Valerianus believed. The innocent, yet earthly love, which a few
moments earlier had fired his heart, was transfigured into a heavenly
flame which aspired to God. Without an instant’s delay he set out,
alone, on foot, and in the dead of night—his wedding night—to traverse
the whole city and miles of the solitary road beyond, to find the
dispenser of Grace. All was as Cecilia had told him; the beggars gladly
obeyed her commands and led him to the refuge where Urban prayed and
whence he governed the Church. And what a revelation it must have
been to the brilliant young officer to discover, concealed beneath the
ground over which he must often have led his company of cavalry in all
their pomp of golden helmets and shining armour, the subterranean city
of the Christian Faith!
Throwing himself at Urban’s feet, Valerianus poured out his story, and
the venerable Servant of God was so overcome with joy that he fell on
his knees, and, while tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks, thus
gave thanks for the noble young soul called to great salvation:
“Lord Jesus Christ, sower of chaste counsels, receive the fruit
of that which Thou didst sow in Cecilia! Lord Jesus Christ,
good Shepherd, Cecilia Thy handmaid hath served Thee like a
faithful[15] lamb. The spouse who was like an untamed lion, she
has made into a most gentle lamb, for he who is here, did he not
believe, would not have come. Therefore, Lord, open the gate of
his heart to Thy Words, that he may know Thee for his Creator,
and that he may renounce the Devil with his pomps and idols.”
Urban remained long in prayer; Valerianus was deeply touched. Suddenly
a venerable old man, with garments white as snow, appeared before
them, holding in his hand a book written in characters of gold. It
was the great Apostle St. Paul. Valerianus, half dead with terror,
fell prostrate on the ground. The Apostle gently raised him up,
saying: “Read this book and believe. Thou wilt then be worthy of being
purified, and of beholding the Angel whom Cecilia promised that thou
shouldst see.”
The young man raised his eyes to the book and read, in the golden
letters, these words—as we of to-day read them when we raise our eyes
under the dome of St. Peter’s: “One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism; one
God and Father of all, Who is above all, through all, and in us all!”
The Apostle asked him, “Believest thou this, or dost thou yet doubt?”
And Valerianus, with his heart in the cry, exclaimed, “There is nothing
else more truly to be believed under Heaven!”
Then he found himself alone with Urban; the holy apparition had
vanished. Urban led him to the baptismal Font, washed his soul from
every stain of sin, gave him the Food of Angels, called down the Holy
Ghost upon him to clothe him in strength and virtue, put over his rich
robes the white garment of the Neophyte, and bade him return to his
bride.
The night had passed, and the sun had risen upon the city as he made
his way back through the streets where so many were dressed in white in
those days that his mystical garment attracted no unusual attention.
All was quiet in the great palace across the river. The slaves were
moving silently about their work so as not to disturb the slumbers of
their master and mistress in the remote chamber whence no sound had yet
issued, and if some looked up in surprise as Valerianus passed in, none
would dare to question him as to his early walk. Swiftly he went on,
and parted the hangings of the entrance to the chamber where Cecilia
had knelt motionless in prayer through the long night. There he paused
in awe and joy, for, standing close to her was the Angel of the Lord,
his wings effulgent plumes, his countenance a flame of radiance, while
in his hands he held two crowns, flashing with roses and snowy with
lilies.
These he gently placed on the bowed young heads, saying, in tones of
such music as Valerianus had never heard before: “Guard these crowns by
purity of heart and sanctity of body, for I have brought them to you
from the Paradise of God; and this shall be a sign to you—never shall
their beauty fade nor their sweet fragrance diminish, nor shall they
be visible to others save such as have pleased God by their purity as
you have pleased Him. And since thou, Valerianus, didst consent to the
course of chastity, Christ the Son of God hath sent me to thee, that
thou shouldst ask for whatever thou most desirest.”
Valerianus threw himself at the Angel’s feet, and thus besought
him: “Nothing in this life is sweeter to me than the love of my only
brother, and it is terrible to me that I, being liberated, must see my
brother still in danger of perdition. This one prayer will I set before
every other petition, and beseech God that He will deign to deliver my
brother Tiburtius as He has delivered me, and that He will make us both
perfect in the confession of His Name.”
At Valerianus’ request, the Angel’s face was transfigured with rapture.
“Since thou hast asked this,” he replied, “which Christ desires to
grant more than thou to receive, even as by His servant Cecilia thou
wast won to Him, so by thee shall thy brother be won, and both shall
obtain the Martyr’s palm.”
Then the Angel left them and returned to Heaven, and Cecilia and
Valerianus remained together, their hearts almost breaking with joy.
For long hours they talked of heavenly things, and then, towards
the afternoon, their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of
Tiburtius, the gay, loving younger brother, who declared that he had
stayed away long enough and _must_ see his dear Valerianus! Advancing
towards his new sister, he bent down and lightly kissed her hair, and
then exclaimed, in delight at the exquisite fragrance emanating from
it: “Cecilia, I am full of wonder to know whence, at this season of the
year, comes this perfume of roses and lilies? For, even if I held real
roses and real lilies in my hands, they could not diffuse such sweet
odours on my senses. I declare to you that I feel as refreshed as if I
had just received new being!”
It was Valerianus who answered: “The enjoyment of this fragrance, which
has been granted to thee at my prayer, Tiburtius, shall, if thou wilt
now believe, be surpassed by the joy of seeing these heavenly flowers
and of knowing Him Whose Blood flows red as the rose, Whose Flesh is
white as lilies. We two wear crowns, invisible to thee now, woven of
flowers dazzling as purple, purer than snow.”
At these words the first faint dawn of things spiritual broke on the
mind of Tiburtius, but there was a struggle before it could pierce the
veil of contented materialism that had enveloped him all his life. “Art
thou dreaming, Valerianus?” he cried, “or is it possible that these
things are truth?”
“We have dreamed all our lives, brother,” was the reply. “Now we have
awaked, to see the truth.”
The colloquy goes on; Valerianus, with all the ardour of his recent
illumination upon him, trying to impart to his brother that which
he learned but a few hours earlier. Cecilia has kept silence before
the quick flow of question and answer, but at a given moment she
intervenes, and, with the calm majesty that so singularly invests all
her words and actions, says: “It is to me, dear Tiburtius, that you
should put these questions. Valerianus is new in the Faith—I have known
all its doctrines from my childhood.” And then comes that magnificent
unfolding of the truths of Christianity which sounds more like the
authoritative teaching of one of the Fathers of the Church than the
profession of faith of a young girl. No point seems left in doubt;
it is a luminous paraphrase of the Creed, adapted, with sublime tact
and wisdom, to the requirements of the youth nurtured in merely pagan
piety, surrounded with everything that could make this life attractive,
and utterly unconscious of the immortality that was in him.
That breaks on him as a new light, undreamt of before, but he does not
yield at once like Valerianus. He cries out in revolt when told that
in order to be purified he must take the same road, cast himself at the
feet of a poor proscribed old man hiding underground among the tombs of
despised victims. “But there is a price set on that old man’s head,” he
urges, “and, if we are known to hold any intercourse with him, we shall
be tortured and killed, and shall lose our lives here for a hope which
may be vain, after all!”
Cecilia had convinced him of the folly of worshipping idols made, as
she said, “of stone and metal dug and fashioned by criminals”; but
life, life as he knew it, was too sweet and real to be risked for
anything less than the certainty of a better one. “Is it possible,” he
breaks out, “that there can be another life after this one? Never have
I heard of such a doctrine!”
Few in Rome had. The very Barbarians held some misty hope of future
reward, some half-formed fear of future punishment; but the masters
of the world then, like so many of its masters now, had sunk so deep
in materialism that atheism was the only doctrine suited to their
voluntary blindness, and even gallant, honest young men like Tiburtius
and his brother had not a suspicion that any other could exist. Yet,
because they were honest, and their hearts were pure, they did not
turn their eyes away when the light was shown them. Cecilia went
on to explain the truths of our Redemption, her discourse evidently
intended not only to enlighten Tiburtius, but to amplify and perfect
for Valerianus the instruction received from Urban during the preceding
night. At last Tiburtius, all his doubts set at rest, threw himself,
with many tears, at her feet, crying: “If ever again I consider this
present life worth a thought or a wish, let me never obtain life
eternal! Let fools hold to the insensate pleasures that pass away—I,
who have lived until to-day without an object, will never henceforth
live without one.” Then, appealing to Valerianus, he implored: “Have
mercy on me, dearest brother, for I can bear no waiting. I fear delay.
I cannot carry this weight! I beseech thee, take me to the man of God,
that, purifying me, he may make me a partaker of the other life!”
Gladly Valerianus led him to Urban, who received him tenderly, baptised
him the next day, and kept him at his side for seven days following,
during which the generous boy’s ardour was inflamed by beholding the
crowded tombs of the martyrs, all marked by palm branches in sign of
victory. He returned to the palace by the Tiber, a giant in strength,
only desiring the hour when he should be called upon to confess Christ
before men. And then began that beautiful life of the three Saints,
which lasted indeed but a few months, but which must have been like a
foretaste of Heaven, a life all full of love of God and charity to man.
Cecilia gave much time and most of her wealth to the poor Christians,
among whom were great numbers of widows and orphans deprived of
their bread-winner by the ferocity of Almachius, who boasted, if I
remember rightly, that during his Prætorship he had caused the death
of more than five thousand Christians of the poorer sort. The chief
characteristics of Turcius Almachius were rapacity and cruelty. While
Alexander Severus was actually in Rome, the Emperor’s presence, and his
known dislike of bloodshed in times of peace, acted as a salutary curb
on the inclinations of the Prefect of the city; but in the year 230
Alexander was absent for a long time, apparently in Persia, since some
medals commemorating his victories there were struck with this date.
The civil power reposed entirely in the hands of Almachius, and he made
haste to use it to satisfy his virulent hatred of the Christians. In
this he found powerful allies among the people, whose feelings against
the new religion had been fomented by a thousand calumnies, amusingly
like those which the enemies of the Church pay such large sums to
have circulated now. No sooner had the Emperor departed than the storm
of the Prefect’s fury broke out; the Christians, chiefly poor people
with no one to defend them, were apprehended, tortured, and killed in
enormous numbers. The places of execution ran day after day with their
blood. But the rage of their official persecutor was not satisfied with
inflicting merely suffering and death. Knowing the great reverence with
which the followers of Christ regarded the bodies of the martyrs, he
issued an edict forbidding their burial. They were to lie where they
fell, and whosoever should attempt to give them sepulture was to be
condemned to share their fate.
So frightful was the slaughter at this time that the old underground
cemeteries were all choked with dead; but St. Calixtus, the predecessor
of Urban, had foreseen, or had perceived by prophetic revelation,
the coming necessity, and had prepared a vast new catacomb adjoining
the older ones along the Appian Way. It had not long to wait for its
glorious occupants. The Christians regarded the burial of the martyrs
as a most solemn duty, from which no danger to themselves was ever
allowed to deter them. Those who had money frequently paid great sums
to obtain the mangled remains, which they lovingly gathered together,
wrapped in spices and perfumes, and carried, at the risk of their
lives, into the sacred vaults of the Catacombs. Great numbers paid for
their devotion with their blood, but others always came forward to take
their places.
What was the surprise of the poor hunted Christians to behold, in that
spring of 230, two of the noblest and most brilliant young officers
in Rome present themselves day after day to assist in this perilous
duty! With all the courage of their rank and profession, Valerianus and
Tiburtius devoted themselves to saving the holy bodies from profanation
and spent their wealth lavishly in bestowing on them funeral honours.
Cecilia had long done all she could to assist in the pious work, but
the restrictions placed on noble ladies had so far saved her from
attracting the baneful notice of the Prefect. It was otherwise with
Valerianus and his brother. They were well known and could not pass
unperceived. Almachius was furious when he heard of their actions.
He was ready enough to persecute the poor; should the Emperor on his
return enquire into the sacrifice of so many thousands of his subjects,
the old excuse could be given—either they had raised a sedition, or
else the people had turned against them and the authorities had not
been able to control the popular fury. But when it came to wealthy
young officers of the Guard, everywhere respected and admired, a very
different sort of enquiry would be instituted, and the Prefect would
probably be severely reprimanded, if not actually punished, for having
laid hands upon them.
Yet, for his own sake, he must see that his orders were respected.
Doubtless these fashionable youths had been led away by foolish
enthusiasm and would see reason when the all-powerful Governor laid it
before them. He would send for them and give them a good lecture; they
would express their regret at having offended him, and then he would
let them go.
Little he knew the spirit of those gallant boys! When they stood
before him, he sought to appeal to their pride by asking them if it
were really true that they, men of patrician standing, were not only
squandering their fortune on low-born wretches, but were actually
giving their dead bodies honourable burial! Was it possible that nobles
had become the accomplices of criminals!
Tiburtius, the younger and more impulsive of the brothers, answered
him. “Would to God,” he cried, “that those whom you call our
accomplices would permit us to become their servants! They have
obtained the only reality. May we imitate their holiness and one day
follow in their footsteps!”
This was not what Almachius had expected, and he tried to soothe and
flatter the young man’s feelings by turning the conversation into
other channels, particularly by complimenting him on his remarkable
resemblance to his brother; but Tiburtius was not to be lured aside.
A strange dialogue on the philosophy of Christianity ensued, and then
the Governor, declaring that Tiburtius had lost his reason, smilingly
dismissed him and addressed himself, with no better fortune, to
Valerianus. His great object now was to prevent the young men from
making a public profession of their Christianity; one sees how the
crafty middle-aged man feared equally the risk of bringing them to
punishment and that of having his supremacy openly flouted before
the people. But all his cowardly efforts were in vain. Valerianus, in
presence of the multitudes that curiosity or sympathy had now gathered
around him, boldly declared that there was but one true God, and
that those who worshipped idols made by men were destined to eternal
punishment. Then, the impossible happened to silence him. Almachius
commanded that he, the free-born Roman noble, should be publicly
scourged. The sentence was executed on the spot, Tiburtius mourning
that he did not share it—his brother had preceded him in suffering for
Christ!
The greatest excitement prevailed. The sound of the lead-laden scourge
tearing the martyr’s flesh filled the air; a herald shouted, for
the benefit of the onlookers, “Beware of blaspheming the gods and
goddesses!” With a great effort, Valerianus made his voice heard above
the tumult. “Citizens of Rome,” he cried, “be not discouraged by the
sight of my torments from confessing the truth! Be firm in your faith
and believe in the one true, holy God! Destroy the false gods to whom
Almachius sacrifices, crush and annihilate them, for all who adore them
will be tormented everlastingly.”
In spite of the constancy of the brothers, Almachius, frightened at the
possible consequences of his acts, was at this point inclined to let
them go; but the Devil, in the shape of one Tarquinius, his assessor of
taxes, managed to whisper in his ear: “If you do not condemn them now,
they will give all their wealth to the poor, and there will be nothing
left for you—to confiscate.”
Instantly Avarice sprang to her throne in the ever docile soul of
Almachius. With much pomp and severity he pronounced sentence on the
“criminals.” They were to be led out to the Pagus Triopius, to the
Temple of Jupiter, by the fourth milestone of the Appian Way, and there
commanded to offer incense to the idol. If they refused, they were to
be beheaded and their bodies left where they should fall.