Mrs. Hugh Fraser

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:

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:

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.