CHAPTER XXII.

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

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

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?