THE VIATICUM.
A true contrast to the fury and discord without, was the scene within
the prison. Peace, serenity, cheerfulness, and joy reigned there; and
the rough stone walls and vaults re-echoed to the chant of psalmody, in
which Pancratius was precentor, and in which depth called out to depth;
for the prisoners in the lower dungeon responded to those above, and
kept up the alternation of verses, in those psalms which the
circumstances naturally suggested.
The eve of “fighting with,” that is being torn to pieces by, wild
beasts, was always a day of greater liberty. The friends of the intended
victims were admitted to see them; and the Christians boldly took full
advantage of the permission to flock to the prison, and commend
themselves to the prayers of the blessed confessors of Christ. At
evening they were led forth to enjoy what was called the free supper,
that is, an abundant, and even luxurious, public feast. The table was
surrounded by pagans, curious to watch the conduct and looks of the
morrow’s combatants. But they could discern neither the bravado and
boisterousness, nor the dejection and bitterness of ordinary culprits.
To the guests it was truly an _agape_, or love-feast; for they supped
with calm joyfulness amidst cheerful conversation. Pancratius, however,
once or twice reproved the unfeeling curiosity, and rude remarks of the
crowd, saying, “To-morrow is not sufficient for you, because you love to
look upon the objects of your future hatred. To-day you are our friends;
to-morrow our foes. But mark well our countenances, that you may know
them again in the day of judgment.” Many retired at this rebuke, and not
a few were led by it to conversion.[171]
But while the persecutors thus prepared a feast for the bodies of their
victims, the Church, their mother, had been preparing a much more dainty
banquet for the souls of her children. They had been constantly attended
on by the deacons, particularly Reparatus, who would gladly have joined
their company. But his duty forbade this at present. After, therefore,
having provided as well as possible for their temporal wants, he had
arranged with the pious priest Dionysius, who still dwelt in the house
of Agnes, to send, towards evening, sufficient portions of the Bread of
Life, to feed, early in the morning of their battle, the champions of
Christ. Although the deacons bore the consecrated elements from the
principal church to others, where they were only distributed by the
titulars, the office of conveying them to the martyrs in prison, and
even to the dying, was committed to inferior ministers. On this day,
that the hostile passions of heathen Rome were unusually excited by the
coming slaughter of so many Christian victims, it was a work of more
than common danger to discharge this duty. For the revelations of
Torquatus had made it known that Fulvius had carefully noted all the
ministers of the sanctuary, and given a description of them to his
numerous active spies. Hence they could scarcely venture out by day,
unless thoroughly disguised.
The sacred Bread was prepared, and the priest turned round from the
altar on which it was placed, to see who would be its safest bearer.
Before any other could step forward, the young acolyte Tarcisius knelt
at his feet. With his hands extended before him, ready to receive the
sacred deposit, with a countenance beautiful in its lovely innocence as
an angel’s, he seemed to entreat for preference, and even to claim it.
“Thou art too young, my child,” said the kind priest, filled with
admiration of the picture before him.
“My youth, holy father, will be my best protection. Oh! do not refuse me
this great honor.” The tears stood in the boy’s eyes, and his cheeks
glowed with a modest emotion as he spoke these words. He stretched forth
his hands eagerly, and his entreaty was so full of fervor and courage
that the plea was irresistible. The priest took the Divine Mysteries
wrapped up carefully in a linen cloth, then in an outer covering, and
put them on his palms, saying:
“Remember, Tarcisius, what a treasure is intrusted to thy feeble care.
Avoid public places as thou goest along; and remember that holy things
must not be delivered to dogs, nor pearls be cast before swine. Thou
wilt keep safely God’s sacred gifts?”
“I will die rather than betray them,” answered the holy youth, as he
folded the heavenly trust in the bosom of his tunic, and with cheerful
reverence started on his journey. There was a gravity beyond the usual
expression of his years stamped upon his countenance, as he tripped
lightly along the streets, avoiding equally the more public, and the too
low, thoroughfares.
As he was approaching the door of a large mansion, its mistress, a rich
lady without children, saw him coming, and was struck with his beauty
and sweetness, as, with arms folded on his breast, he was hastening on.
“Stay, one moment, dear child,” she said, putting herself in his way:
“tell me thy name, and where do thy parents live?”
“I am Tarcisius, an orphan boy,” he replied, looking up, smilingly;
“and I have no home, save one which it might be displeasing to thee to
hear.”
“Then come into my house and rest; I wish to speak to thee. Oh, that I
had a child like thee!”
“Not now, noble lady, not now. I have intrusted to me a most solemn and
sacred duty, and I must not tarry a moment in its performance.”
“Then promise to come to me to-morrow; this is my house.”
“If I am alive, I will,” answered the boy with a kindled look, which
made him appear to her as a messenger from a higher sphere. She watched
him a long time, and after some deliberation determined to follow him.
Soon, however, she heard a tumult with horrid cries, which made her
pause, on her way, until they had ceased, when she went on again.
In the meantime, Tarcisius, with his thoughts fixed on better things
than her inheritance, hastened on, and shortly came into an open space,
where boys, just escaped from school, were beginning to play.
“We just want one to make up the game; where shall we get him?” said
their leader.
“Capital!” exclaimed another, “here comes Tarcisius, whom I have not
seen for an age. He used to be an excellent hand at all sports. Come,
Tarcisius,” he added, stopping him by seizing his arm, “whither so fast?
take a part in our game, that’s a good fellow.”
“I can’t, Petilius, now; I really can’t. I am going on business of great
importance.”
“But you shall,” exclaimed the first speaker, a strong and bullying
youth, laying hold of him. “I will have no sulking, when I want any
thing done. So come, join us at once.”
“I entreat you,” said the poor boy feelingly, “do let me go.”
“No such thing,” replied the other. “What is that you seem to be
carrying so carefully in your bosom? A letter, I suppose; well, it will
not addle by being for half an hour out of its nest. Give it to me, and
I will put it by safe while we play.” And he snatched at the sacred
deposit in his breast.
“Never, never,” answered the child, looking up towards heaven.
“I _will_ see it,” insisted the other rudely; “I will know what is this
wonderful secret.” And he commenced pulling him roughly about. A crowd
of men from the neighborhood soon got round; and all asked eagerly what
was the matter. They saw a boy, who, with folded arms, seemed endowed
with a supernatural strength, as he resisted every effort of one much
bigger and stronger, to make him reveal what he was bearing. Cuffs,
pulls, blows, kicks seemed to have no effect. He bore them all without a
murmur, or an attempt to retaliate; but he unflinchingly kept his
purpose.
“What is it? what can it be?” one began to ask the other; when Fulvius
chanced to pass by, and joined the circle round the combatants. He at
once recognized Tarcisius, having seen him at the Ordination; and being
asked, as a better-dressed man, the same question, he replied
contemptuously, as he turned on his heel, “What is it? Why, only a
Christian ass, bearing the mysteries.”[172]
This was enough. Fulvius, while he scorned such unprofitable prey, knew
well the effect of his word. Heathen curiosity, to see the mysteries of
the Christians revealed, and to insult them, was aroused, and a general
demand was made to Tarcisius, to yield up his charge. “Never with life,”
was his only reply. A heavy blow from a smith’s fist nearly stunned him,
while the blood flowed from the wound. Another and another followed,
till, covered with bruises, but with his arms crossed fast upon his
breast, he fell heavily on the ground. The mob closed upon him, and were
just seizing him, to tear open his thrice-holy trust, when they felt
themselves pushed aside, right and left, by some giant strength. Some
went reeling to the further side of the square, others were spun round
and round, they knew not how, till they fell where they were, and the
rest retired before a tall, athletic officer, who was the author of this
overthrow. He had no sooner cleared the ground, than he was on his
knees, and with tears in his eyes, raised up the bruised and fainting
boy, as tenderly as a mother could have done, and in most gentle tones
asked him, “Are you much hurt, Tarcisius?”
“Never mind me, Quadratus,” answered he, opening his eyes with a smile;
“but I am carrying the divine mysteries; take care of them.”
The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold reverence, as if
bearing, not only the sweet victim of a youthful sacrifice, a martyr’s
relics, but the very King and Lord of Martyrs, and the divine Victim of
eternal salvation. The child’s head leaned in confidence on the stout
soldier’s neck, but his arms and hands never left their watchful custody
of the confided gift; and his gallant bearer felt no weight in the
hallowed double burden which he carried. No one stopped him, till a lady
met him and stared amazedly at him. She drew nearer, and looked closer
at what he carried. “Is it possible?” she exclaimed with terror, “is
that Tarcisius, whom I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely? Who
can have done this?”
“Madam,” replied Quadratus, “they have murdered him because he was a
Christian.”
The lady looked for an instant on the child’s countenance. He opened his
eyes upon her, smiled, and expired. From that look came the light of
faith: she hastened to be a Christian likewise.
The venerable Dionysius could hardly see for weeping, as he removed the
child’s hands, and took from his bosom, unviolated, the Holy of holies;
and he thought he looked more like
[Illustration: “Is it possible?” she exclaimed with terror, “is that
Tarcisius, whom I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely?”]
an angel now, sleeping the martyr’s slumber, than he did when living
scarcely an hour before. Quadratus himself bore him to the cemetery of
Callistus, where he was buried amidst the admiration of older believers;
and later the holy Pope Damasus composed for him an epitaph, which no
one can read, without concluding that the belief in the real presence of
Our Lord’s Body in the Blessed Eucharist was the same then as now:
“Tarcisium sanctum Christi sacramenta gerentem,
Cum male sana manus peteret vulgare profanis;
Ipse animam potius voluit dimittere cæsus
Prodere quam canibus rabidis cœlestia membra.”[173]
He is mentioned in the Roman martyrology, on the 15th of August, as
commemorated in the cemetery of Callistus; whence his relics were, in
due time, translated to the church of St. Sylvester in Campo, as an old
inscription declares.
News of this occurrence did not reach the prisoners till after their
feast; and perhaps the alarm that they were to be deprived of the
spiritual food to which they looked forward for strength, was the only
one that could have overcast, even slightly, the serenity of their
souls. At this moment Sebastian entered, and perceived at once that some
unpleasant news had arrived, and as quickly divined what it was; for
Quadratus had already informed him of all. He cheered up, therefore, the
confessors of Christ; assured them that they should not be deprived of
their coveted food; then whispered a few words to Reparatus the deacon,
who flew out immediately with a look of bright intelligence.
Sebastian, being known to the guards, had passed freely in, and out of,
the prison daily; and had been indefatigable in his care of its inmates.
But now he was come to take his last farewell of his dearest friend,
Pancratius, who had longed for this interview. They drew to one side,
when the youth began:
“Well, Sebastian, do you remember when we heard the wild beasts roar,
from your window, and looked at the many gaping arches of the
amphitheatre, as open for the Christian’s triumph?”
“Yes, my dear boy; I remember that evening well, and it seemed to me as
if your heart anticipated then, the scenes that await you to-morrow.”
“It did, in truth. I felt an inward assurance that I should be one of
the first to appease the roaring fury of those deputies of human
cruelty. But now that the time is come, I can hardly believe myself
worthy of so immense an honor. What can I have done, Sebastian, not
indeed to deserve it, but to be chosen out as the object of so great a
grace?”
“You know, Pancratius, that it is not he who willeth, nor he that
runneth, but God who hath mercy, that maketh the election. But tell me
rather, how do you now feel about to-morrow’s glorious destiny?”
“To tell the truth, it seems to me so magnificent, so far beyond my
right to claim, that sometimes it appears more like a vision than a
certainty. Does it not sound almost incredible to you, that I, who this
night am in a cold, dark, and dismal prison, shall be, before another
sun has set, listening to the harping of angelic lyres, walking in the
procession of white-robed Saints, inhaling the perfume of celestial
incense, and drinking from the crystal waters of the stream of life? Is
it not too like what one may read or hear about another, but hardly
dares to think is to be, in a few hours, real of himself?”
“And nothing more than you have described, Pancratius?”
“Oh, yes, far more; far more than one can name without presumption. That
I, a boy just come out of school, who have done nothing for Christ as
yet, should be able to say, ‘Sometime to-morrow, I shall see Him face to
face, and adore Him, and shall receive from Him a palm and a crown, yea,
and an affectionate embrace,’--I feel is so like a beautiful hope, that
it startles me to think it will soon be _that_ no longer. And yet,
Sebastian,” he continued fervently, seizing both his friend’s hands, “it
is true; it is true!”
“And more still, Pancratius.”
“Yes, Sebastian, more still, and more. To close one’s eyes upon the
faces of men, and open them in full gaze on the face of God; to shut
them upon ten thousand countenances scowling on you with hatred,
contempt, and fury, from every step of the amphitheatre, and unclose
them instantly upon that one sunlike intelligence, whose splendor would
dazzle or scorch, did not its beams surround, and embrace, and welcome
us; to dart them at once into the furnace of God’s heart, and plunge
into its burning ocean of mercy and love without fear of destruction:
surely, Sebastian, it sounds like presumption in me to say, that
to-morrow--nay, hush! the watchman from the capitol is proclaiming
midnight--that to-day, to-day, I shall enjoy all this!”
“Happy Pancratius!” exclaimed the soldier, “you anticipate already by
some hours the raptures to come.”
“And do you know, dear Sebastian,” continued the youth, as if
unconscious of the interruption, “it looks to me so good and merciful in
God, to grant me such a death. How much more willingly must one at my
age face it, when it puts an end to all that is hateful on earth, when
it extinguishes but the sight of hideous beasts and sinning men,
scarcely less frightful than they, and hushes only the fiend-like yells
of both! How much more trying would it be to part with the last tender
look of a mother like mine, and shut one’s ears to the sweet plaint of
her patient voice! True, I shall see her and hear her, for the last
time, as we have arranged, to-day before my fight: but I know she will
not unnerve me.”
A tear had made its way into the affectionate boy’s eye; but he
suppressed it, and said with a gay tone:
“But, Sebastian, you have not fulfilled your promise,--your double
promise to me,--to tell me the secrets you concealed from me. This is
your last opportunity; so, come, let me know all.”
“Do you remember well what the secrets were?”
“Right well, indeed, for they have much perplexed me. First on that
night of the meeting in your apartments, you said there was one motive
strong enough to check your ardent desire to die for Christ; and lately
you refused to give me your reason for despatching me hastily to
Campania, and joined this secret to the other: how, I cannot conceive.”
“Yet they form but one. I had promised to watch over your true welfare,
Pancratius: it was a duty of friendship and love that I had assumed. I
saw your eagerness after martyrdom; I knew the ardent temperament of
your youthful heart; I dreaded lest you should commit yourself by some
over-daring action which might tarnish, even as lightly as a breath does
finely-tempered steel, the purity of your desire, or tip with a passing
blight one single leaf of your palm. I determined, therefore, to
restrain my own earnest longings, till I had seen you safe through
danger. Was this right?”
“Oh, it was too kind of you, dear Sebastian; it was nobly kind. But how
is this connected with my journey?”
“If I had not sent you away, you would have been seized for your boldly
tearing down the edict, or your rebuke of the judge in his court. You
would have been certainly condemned, and
[Illustration: Each one, approaching devoutly, and with tears of
gratitude, received from his consecrated hand his share,--that is, the
whole of the mystical food.]
would have suffered for Christ; but your sentence would have proclaimed
a different, and a civil, offence; that of rebellion against the
emperors. And moreover, my dear boy, you would have been singled out for
a triumph. You would have been pointed at by the very heathens with
honor, as a gallant and daring youth; you might have been disturbed,
even in your conflict, by a transient cloud of pride; at any rate, you
would have been spared that ignominy which forms the distinctive merit
and the special glory of dying for simply being a Christian.”
“Quite true, Sebastian,” said Pancratius with a blush.
“But when I saw you,” continued the soldier, “taken in the performance
of a generous act of charity towards the confessors of Christ; when I
saw you dragged through the streets, chained to a galley-slave, as a
common culprit; when I saw you pelted and hooted, like other believers;
when I heard sentence pronounced on you in common with the rest, because
you are a Christian, and for nothing else, I felt that my task was
ended; I would not have raised a finger to save you.”
“How like God’s love has yours been to me,--so wise, so generous, and so
unsparing!” sobbed out Pancratius, as he threw himself on the soldier’s
neck; then continued: “Promise me one thing more: that this day you will
keep near me to the end, and will secure my last legacy to my mother.”
“Even if it cost my life, I will not fail. We shall not be parted long,
Pancratius.”
The deacon now gave notice that all was ready for offering up the holy
oblation in the dungeon itself. The two youths looked round, and
Pancratius was indeed amazed. The holy priest Lucianus was laid
stretched on the floor, with his limbs painfully distended in the
_catasta_ or stocks, so that he could not rise. Upon his breast
Reparatus had spread the three linen cloths requisite for the altar; on
them was laid the unleavened bread, and the mingled chalice, which the
deacon steadied with his hand. The head of the aged priest was held up
as he read the accustomed prayers, and performed the prescribed
ceremonies of the oblation and consecration. And then each one,
approaching devoutly, and with tears of gratitude, received from his
consecrated hand his share,--that is, the whole of the Mystical
Food.[174]
Marvellous and beautiful instance of the power of adaptation in God’s
Church! Fixed as are her laws, her ingenious love finds means, through
their very relaxation, to demonstrate their principles; nay, the very
exception presents only a sublimer application of them. Here was a
minister of God, and a dispenser of His mysteries, who for once was
privileged to be, more than others, like Him whom he represented,--at
once the Priest and the Altar. The Church prescribed that the Holy
Sacrifice should be offered only over the relics of martyrs; here was a
martyr, by a singular prerogative, permitted to offer it over his own
body. Yet living, he “lay beneath the feet of God.” The bosom still
heaved, and the heart panted under the Divine Mysteries, it is true; but
that was only part of the action of the minister: while self was already
dead, and the sacrifice of life was, in all but act, completed in him.
There was only Christ’s life within and without the sanctuary of the
breast.[175] Was ever viaticum for martyrs more worthily prepared?