The Red Lamp

Welcome again, friends!

I am grateful for your patience.  This story was long in the making, but I hope what long effort has produced will be at least, on the whole, agreeable to your literary appetites.  No work is perfect.  Today I would like you to meet the boy who was the inspiration and underlying force behind "The Boy Monk," one of my better stories (if I may be permitted to judge).  I have always been drawn to this youth and his story, which, though it took place long ago (it is true history), we know little about.  It seemed only meet, therefore, that he-who-has-long-inspired-me should have his own story told now.  Below I present to you "The Red Lamp," and afterwards a note on the real event behind this work.  I pray it may please and edify.

God be with you all!  

Caitliceach Cailín

The Red Lamp

A Story on St. Tarcisius

By Caitlin Clancy

Copyright 2013

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirituis Sancto.  Amen.

I was there that night, the night he died.  How well I remember it.  He was my cousin – and my friend.  I owe him my life, and because of him I am going to lose it.  There are four walls around me now; four walls and a locked door that, when it opens, will decide my fate.  I will lose my life; that much is certain.  The question remains whether I will lose my soul. 

Outside I can hear pounding feet and cheers of derision, scorn, perverse enjoyment – yes, they always revel in the Circus.  They know not what they do, and for that I pity them, though they did not pity him.  The years have passed and the world has changed since that night, but not for us.  And not for him.

The sun was still abed when I crept into the tunnels that morning.  Around me the bodies of the faithful were entombed in the walls; we laid them to sleep here that the pagans might not defile their remains.  They believed in destroying the body after death, but we are forbidden, out of mindfulness and reverence for the promise of our Resurrection.  I hope for that now as I did then.  It was dark inside. 

I felt my way along the walls to an alcove where a handful of people had already gathered.  My lame foot always made me the last to everything.  I laid my crutch aside and knelt quietly at the back just as the Holy Father entered, vested in red, with a single acolyte carrying a small oil lamp before him.  That was he – my cousin, Tarcisius.  We were the same age, both of us: about as many years as I had fingers, though we never kept careful count.  He stepped forward to where the lamp illumined his face, accentuating eyes of vivid blue.  He was taller than I, and handsome, with a bright smile, a quick wit, and he was always the best at games.  He embodied all I aspired to be at that time – little did I know that these were but the least of his virtues!

The Holy Father bent and kissed the stone table, and together we all entered into the holy mysteries.  As was the custom of my then-youthful mind, despite all efforts to the contrary, my thoughts quickly strayed.  The low, monotonous murmurs from the chair of Peter slowly slipped from my ears, lost gradually as wine from a leaking skin.  My wayward eyes, turning from their right task, began to explore the half-dark recesses of the room, as though seeking at once hungrily and fearfully for sight of spirits that such a powerful ceremony as this must surely draw close.  It is hard sometimes to forget one’s pagan past.    

With a sudden jerk I came to myself, and hurriedly whispered a mea culpa.  Before me, the Holy Father stood at the altar, a man transformed.  The blood hue of his robe shot up like a mighty burst of flame in the flickering light, rising with his voice in a powerful crescendo that climaxed at a point above his head where hovered – held in his gentle hands – a small, white object that was bread no longer.  For a second or two I froze, mesmerized.  Then, as I returned to myself, I looked to see if my cousin, too, was riveted by the scene as I was. 

Tarcisius knelt at an angle to me, and I could not properly see his whole face.  By the bend of his head and the direction of his glance, however, he seemed to be examining the flame of his lamp, which swayed and moved as thought it were a living thing.  I wondered at that.  Was this boredom?  Or was it reverence?  I could not say.  My cousin was impossible to read sometimes.   

            Ita Missa est.  The Holy Father intoned the words solemnly, slowly.  Deo Gratias, we responded.  I rose to leave, but only to find that my lame foot – my dreadful, awful, terribly misshapen foot – had gone stiff and would not be stood upon.  I sunk back to my knees and bowed my head, holding in the few tears that welled up from the pain.  I pretended to pray as the others filed past me.  Out they went, out into the dark tunnel from which the light of the world shone forth into a realm of lions and swords and crosses – a world that lurked above us, always too near for comfort.  When I was quite sure I was alone, I tried again to stand.  Leaning on the wall and using my crutch, I cast my weight all on one foot, then tried to even it out with the other.  At once my ankle buckled and I slipped, pitching headfirst toward the floor.  Just as I was about to cry out, anticipating the rough-hewn earth striking my head, a pair of arms grabbed hold of me, jerking me to a halt and then easing me to the floor. 

            “That’d be a nasty way to go,” he commented, a touch of merriment mixed with his sympathy.  I turned onto my side and saw my cousin’s sparkling eyes grinning at me from his otherwise serious, yet still boyish face.  His lamp rested on the floor beside him.

“Now if you’re going to fall,” he counseled me, sitting me up and putting on an air of mock seriousness, “you’ve got to do it better.  You must throw your arms above your head and make awful moaning sounds, like this.”  And without another word my cousin turned and flung himself onto the floor in a ridiculous and exaggerated posture, uttering preposterous noises that I think not even a dying animal would have thought to make.  The corners of my mouth twitched upward of their own accord, and soon his antics had me laughing in spite of myself.  Quadratus, a Praetorian guard and a secret convert, poked his head around the corner and looked at us quizzically.  Evidently he was not as quick to leave as most of the others. 

When he saw Tarcisius flailing on the floor, though, he merely raised his eyebrows and motioned that we should be quiet.  He disappeared back down the tunnel, shaking his head, which he always said was going grey from getting us out of scrapes.  I don’t know what he could have been thinking of, though.  Tarcisius and I never got into any trouble.  Except for the day we went to the races, and Tarcisius pushed us both through the crowd so that we stumbled onto the track just as the horses came around the turn.  And I suppose there was the time he took Publius’ chariot and we both tried to drive it through the marketplace….  And then the time we played with the boy at the dyer’s shop and Tarcisius wanted to see how to use the dyes….  And then there was –

“Come on,” Tarcisius said, his own laughter subsiding as he offered me a hand.  He got me on my feet again – I murmured my thanks, grinning still – and braced me as I limped down the tunnel.  A few minutes later, we emerged into a field lit by the early daylight and stopped to rest.

            “Your lamp’s gone out,” I observed, pointing to the wispy smoke which now took the place of flames issuing from the small clay spout.  Tarcisius held the lamp up in his free hand and looked at it with interest for a moment.

“Yes, I suppose it has,” he said.  And then, with a small smile, “Or not.”  He held the lamp up for my inspection.  Much to my surprise, I observed there a tiny red glow within the wick, burning still – waiting to be brought to life.  He breathed on it gently.  I watched, curious, and was rewarded by the sight of a little tongue of flame springing up to consume the fibers.

            “Claudius!”  I jumped and dropped the skein of wool I had been preparing.  My thoughts had been on Tarcisius’ gesture ever since starting work that morning in my uncle’s shop.  I suppose my thinking had also made me slow.  I am generally a thoughtful person, and often I forget what goes on around me in my eagerness to tease from the mysteries of the world the living riddles that are truth.  My uncle said it was laziness, but I could not think him right, even then.  I think –

            “Claudius!” 

“Yes?” I cringed. 

“By the gods, boy!” he growled, “I’ll have it out of your hide if you’re slow today – by Jupiter, I’ll turn you in as a Christian.  Is that ready yet or not?”  I quailed within, but managed to answer something that earned me only a hard cuff.  From the corner of the shop, I saw Tarcisius watch with an expression of concern, but he did not intervene.  We had learned long ago that our uncle – who, though never a fervent believer in the gods, nevertheless maintained a Valerian hatred of Christ – was not to be obstructed from ordinary violence.  The risk that he might learn what his nephews really were was too great.  It was bad enough that one of them was lame. 

I worked the rest of that day as though my life depended on it – and it very nearly did.  You could never tell how serious uncle’s threats were.  That night, sitting by the window of the upper room where Tarcisius and I slept, I wondered how long this kind of life would go on.  Would we always be uneasy, uncertain, unsafe?  I sighed and rested my head on the sill.  The sky was a brilliant red tonight.  Red like the flame of Tarcisius’ lamp, red like the robes of the priest, red like the blood of the Lamb, red like –

“You still awake?”

I turned at the sound of Tarcisius’ voice.  He lay on his bedroll, staring at the ceiling.  “Yes,” I replied, “ ‘course I am.”  Then I grinned, wanting to goad him playfully, “But you’re asleep, so I can’t talk to you.”  I waited eagerly for the repost that was sure to come.  There was no one who liked better to deliver a playful jab than my cousin.  Then: 

“Oh, yes,” he replied, eyes closed.  I saw a faint smile trace his features, but the mirth he had shown this morning was gone.  His tone betrayed the fact that his mind was not on games and jokes – a rarity at this time of day.  Or any time of day, really.   

“What is it?”  I asked. 

“Nothing really,” he began, then paused.  Whatever was on his mind, though, I could tell it was far from “nothing.”  “Do you ever get the feeling that God…” he started again, but his voice trailed off. 

“The feeling that God what?” I asked.  He shook his head at me and rolled over. 

“It’s nothing.  Good night, Claudius.”  I think I murmured a vague “good night” also, but his manner so confused me that I cannot now recall.  I took one last look at the sunset, and then I, too, slept, letting the intense, crimson conflagration play against my eyelids.  Red like a dying flame.   

The next morning I rose early, but not as early as Tarcisius.  As ever, my dutiful cousin had gone to prepare himself for serving.  I always wondered what took him so long; surely he didn’t need an hour to light a lamp?  Like as not he was out plotting some mischief for the Aedile’s sons, I thought, with whom we played often.  He was forever enacting new pranks.  Indeed, life often seemed to be one great joke for Tarcisius.  As I reflected further, however, I supposed that he might also use the extra time to pray.  I had come across him once, when I went out far earlier than I was accustomed, lying prostrate – silent and alone – before the altar.  I think it was the only time I ever saw him pray, aside from at the Lord’s Supper.  I wondered at that. 

I dressed myself quietly and crept downstairs and out of the house without waking uncle – no easy task for a cripple, to be sure.  I would have to be back before he rose, too.  I thanked God for making him a late sleeper. 

Down in the tunnels, among the saints again, I found myself shaking.  I could not put a finger on why.  Goodness knows how many times I had been here before, and despite the increase of persecution no one had ever been caught coming here.  Why was I so suddenly terrified?  I looked to the left and my eyes were involuntarily drawn to one of the dozen or so graves that lined the wall.  Though I could read but poorly, I knew this one contained the body of a boy even younger than I was.  Simon.  I had known him, though only a little.  We didn’t play together much.  Still, I could not help remembering the story they told me.  He went to the market one day and, a devout but foolish child, decided to throw stones at a statue of Jupiter.  They dragged him away to the games and they – well, they…they killed him.  It was awful.  I shuddered and hurried on.

I slipped into the back of the small room just in time.  Tarcisius entered with the Holy Father, who was vested in red as before.  The confluence of the martyr’s color with the foreboding in my heart stirred me, but not enough.

Ita Missa est.  Deo Gratias.  I readied myself to leave, but was arrested by the Holy Father, who stood with one hand held up for silence. 

“And who will take the Sacrament to the imprisoned?” he asked, his voice soft but heavy on the silence.  Everyone stood quietly, remembering those that were to die in the Circus tomorrow.  Some of them had gotten a message out to us yesterday, begging for Viaticum.  Bread for the Journey.  The hush of our small group remained unbroken, and there followed a tense moment.  My heart raced. 

Why did not John speak up?  He was a young deacon, and had always been the one to go when things of this kind had happened before.  He was brave and clever.  If anyone could accomplish this task, he could.  A quick glance around the room, however, assured me he was absent.  I dared not ask why.

“Send me.”  A single voice broke the silence.  It was rich and deep, yet youthful.  A strong voice.  A purposeful voice.  Yet still – somehow – a gentle one.  I felt myself roused at the sound, as thought awakened to a new reality, and I looked around for the handsome, powerful warrior to whom I felt the voice must belong.  Then I saw him.  Tarcisius had gotten down on his knees and taken a corner of the Holy Father’s vestment in his hand.  I gaped.  Every facet of his aspect was changed.  No longer did I see in him the laughing, witty, adventurous playmate to which I was accustomed.  In his place I saw a man within a boy’s body, a child with a lordly bearing.  Surely this must be – not Tarcisius – but David, Jesse’s son, begging to face the Philistine?  And his face – his face!  It radiated love.  I was stunned.  I think everyone must have seen some glimpse of what I saw, because for a long moment no one dared to move. 

“My son,” the Holy Father began, “you are brave, but very young, and – ”

“Yes,” Tarcisius interjected calmly, “and who would suspect me?”  There was more talk: more fervent attempts at dissuasion and yet more passionate, but still obedient, insistence.  Eventually the Holy Father yielded, though reluctantly, and allowed Tarcisius to go.  The look on my cousin’s face was one of solemnest joy. 

I walked back with Tarcisius to our uncle’s house.  I could not believe what I had seen, and desperately wanted to ask him so many things.  So, naturally, I could not find any words at all.

“I’ll go to them this evening,” he said quietly, as though sensing my questions.  He did not look at me directly.  “I’ve been in the prisons once before – with John.  This shouldn’t be very difficult.”  By the tone of his voice he was merely trying to reassure me. 

“Let me come with you?”  I asked, but in truth part of me hoped he would refuse.  I did not want to go.  I did not want to be caught and dragged away to the Circus.  I did not want to die.  I could not bear the thought even of joining my brethren and friends, already condemned, who would prove their love for Christ tomorrow.  Coward, my conscience whispered.  Tarcisius walked on but did not answer.  He seemed absorbed in thought and I am not sure he heard me.  But we had reached our uncle’s shop now, and our conversation ceased.  Ashamed at my own reluctance, I determined to ask him again later.

I worked automatically that day.  My mind scarcely knew what my hands did, so frightened was I.  My distraction cost me many a mistake, and I had to do most of my work over again.  But I could not, could not stop thinking.  An hour before suppertime Tarcisius suddenly disappeared.  I did not notice until my uncle shouted something about how long his whelp of a nephew was taking on his errand.  As soon as the words escaped his snarling lips my stomach turned over.  He had gone.  I must go after him.  But I was petrified.

I think it was a full minute before I could even reach for my crutch.  Somehow I managed it, and headed for the door without a word.

“Just where are you –” my uncle began.

“Out,” I said hurriedly, making for the road as fast as I could hobble, “to help Tarcis –” 

He uttered a loud oath and began to come after me, shouting.  I practically leapt out the door, but in my haste my crutch slipped and I went sprawling.  I hit the ground and grimaced in pain.  I waited for the string of curses, or perhaps a blow, that was sure to follow my ungainly exit.  When nothing happened, I looked up.  My uncle was standing over me in the doorway, his expression confused and even a little hurt.  Or perhaps I merely imagined it. 

“On your way, boy,” he said gruffly, but in a somewhat gentler tone, hauling me to my feet.  He shoved the crutch under my arm and pushed me onto the road, though not so hard as before.  He turned and went inside without another word.  I was perplexed, but knew I could not afford to linger and contemplate this unprecedented change.  I turned down the street I thought Tarcisius most likely to have taken, and set off as quickly as I could.

I was blowing hard by the time I reached the edge of town.  If he was not already too far ahead of me, he must come this way before he could get to the prisons.  The buildings were scattered more widely here, and I had a fairly good view up a number of streets.  Not far ahead I saw about a dozen boys playing; it looked like a rough game.  I had met them before.  They were friendly to Tarcisius because he could compete with them – he was a challenge to them.  He could beat any of them at most every game, and they respected that.  They were less courteous to me.  When he was with me, though, they always treated me civilly.  But I was alone this time. 

I saw the oldest one, a big dark-haired boy named Antonius, notice me.  He pointed and the others, quickly losing interest in their game, turned to look.  Only Dionysius did not.  He was Antonius’s younger brother, but they were nothing alike.  Dionysius was mild and quiet, but a shrewd child despite his appearances.  I think his mother, a Greek, gave him that.  I had long been sure he knew I was Christian, but I marveled that he said nothing of it to anyone.  The boys started towards me.

Just then he hurried around the corner, arms clamped across his breast, as though clutching something precious to his chest – it was Tarcisius.  He saw the boys and he saw me, and he stopped short, surprised.    

“Tarcisius!” Antonius cried gladly, stepping forward,  “Come join us!  You can be on a side with Marcus and me.”  Tarcisius stood speechless for a moment.  Clearly this scenario had caught him off guard.  I tried to step in and help.  Why am I so often the fool?

“Tarcisius is – on an errand,” I ventured, putting myself forward.  “But if you need another person for Marcus’ side I can…” my voice faltered, realizing how ridiculous I sounded.  A few of the boys snickered.

“I can’t play now,” Tarcisius said slowly, carefully.  “But in an hour or two I can meet you at the –”

“But Tarcisius!” Antonius interrupted.  “Why not now?  Errands be hanged – no,” the corners of his mouth twisted into an odd grin, “crucified.  But come on, Tarcisius!  For Marcus.”  When Tarcisius did not reply, the other boys began to call out “For Marcus!  For Marcus!  For Marcus!”  In a matter of seconds it became a chant, and the intensity was fast growing as Tarcisius tried to think of an answer.  I looked at the boys and suddenly I recognized the glint in their fevered pagan eyes.  It was a look I had seen before in their parents and elders – a look they had when they entered the Circus or began the Bacchic rites.  It was frenzy.  It was madness.  It was a terrible thirst.    

“Tarcisius –” I began, feeling terrified as I never had been before.

“Wait!  What’s that he’s holding?” someone cried.  No, I thought.  Please not that.  They had noticed the object of my cousin’s errand, which was still clutched tightly to his chest, wrapped carefully in a pale cloth.  The Hosts. 

My heart pounded, and my mind knew nothing but terror.  They had surely seen John come this way before, running the same errand.  In the same way.  To the same place.  John had not been there that morning.  I was sure they knew.  In fact, I was surprised they had not already seen and realized we were –

“Christian!”  Antonius shrieked wildly, leaping forward.  I screamed something – I can no longer recall what – and tried to prevent him.  To no avail – the boys surged forward, excited to a state beyond all thought or reason.  They had swung wide the door on their inherited prejudice, and anger burst forth like an ill-summoned fury.  There was evil in their eyes, and battle-lust emblazoned on their now grotesque faces.  They were not boys but mongrel dogs now, the worst sort from the gutter – and they were baying for our blood.  But mostly his. 

I started forward, hoping to reach Tarcisius amid the chaos, but one of the boys swept my crutch from me and broke it over my head.  I hit the ground hard, stunned.  Black and colored spots rushed before my vision.  I spat blood.  They were all around me for a moment, screaming and screeching as they laughed, sounding not unlike the vile gods – the evil spirits – whom I had once forsaken for Christ.  It was as if they had come to exact revenge.  For an instant I felt that I could almost hear their ancient voices amid the tumult of the children, hissing and cursing and reveling in His agony.  And ours, too.  They were exultant.  They were mad.

My eyes cleared a little and the noise moved a short distance away; they were chasing him and leaving me here, broken.  Tarcisius, I thought weakly.  Then it began – softly at first, then louder and more hideous.  A rain of dull thuds, one after another after another after another.  The boys quieted enough for a low, agonized moan to emerge beneath their tormenting babble – and babble it was, for in their insanity they lost the power of true speech.  I turned onto my side to see what was happening, and the pain that coursed through me made the world black for a moment.  When my vision came back I wished ardently that it had gone forever.  Now I knew what the thudding sounds were, and it sickened me. 

Stones, bricks, potsherds – anything they could lay hands on they seized up and threw methodically, almost ritually, at his writhing form.  He could not get up.  He could not crawl.  He certainly could not run.  He could only lie there, and let them kill him bit by bit.  His tightly crossed arms never left his chest, even to defend himself.  He was doing all he could to defend the only worthy thing he had left, or ever would have. 

I could not move.  I could not cry out.  I could not help.  I forced myself to look away, and that is when I saw him.  Dionysius was standing apart from the boys, paler than I had ever seen a human being.  He had seemed at first to try and follow them.  I think he attempted to drum up in himself something of the heathen passions that he saw in those around him, perhaps considering himself weak if he did not feel as they did.  But something in him, something nobler, refused to submit to this, and as the massacre progressed he seemed less and less able to participate.  Three times I saw him raise his hand, the same jagged-edged stone clutched tightly in it.  Three times he seemed to work up his courage and harden his expression.  Three times he let his arm fall to his side, the stone still between his fingers.  Finally, there came a moment when a very large stone struck Tarcisius directly in the chest.  He opened his eyes for an instant, gasping, and he looked the fearful boy in the face – I could only just make out that their eyes met.  Dionysius ran.  I watched as he cast himself behind a broken wall and huddled there, helpless and hidden.  I pitied him.

I do not know how many minutes they labored, pelting him mercilessly.  I do know that somehow it ended, and the boys wandered away one by one, bored with their cruel game.  At last Antonius, the dark-haired brute who had begun the stoning, flung a last pebble hatefully at Tarcisius’ immobile form and sauntered off.  Heaving and wheezing, I began to drag myself from where I lay.  After many long, agonizing minutes I finally reached his side.  At about the same time, Dionysius emerged from behind the wall, his unthrown stone still clutched in his shaking hand.  He dropped it and came up beside me.  I felt sick as I looked at my cousin’s wounds – they were everywhere and deep.  His head, his hands, his feet, his side…  For a moment, as I gazed at his chest, I saw there a faint rise and fall of shallow breathing.  Hope flickered in me, but it was vain.  I saw his eyes closed in pain and his lips forming silent words.  Into thy hands…

“Truly, he was the son of a god,” Dionysius said hoarsely.  The pale boy turned to face me and I saw that even his pagan cheeks were wet.  “Wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” I choked, “a son of God.”  I do not know how long I sat there, stunned, or how many of my tears splashed silently on his peaceful form.  Perhaps it was not very long at all.  When I looked up Dionysius was gone, but two men were hurrying towards me, framed by a sunset that blazed red like a smoldering lamp-wick.  I did not move, so grieved was I that I could not now be frightened.  They might do with me whatever they willed; I would not leave Tarcisius.

As it happened, it was only the priest, Thomas, and with him Quadratus, the guard who was a convert like me.  Though none of us said anything, I knew it was Dionysius who had told them where to come.  Tenderly, the priest lifted Tarcisius’ limp body and proceeded swiftly to a back alley where we could not be seen.  Without a word, Quadratus swept me up and followed after.  I looked back over his shoulder as he carried me off, and I saw in the dust of the road the long linen wick of my cousin’s lamp.  Why he had carried it with him only Heaven knows.  Its white length was now entirely red with blood, and at its tip – I only saw it for an instant – I thought it glimmered, as though a new flame drew life from it once more.  But I must have imagined that.

It was a long way back, and I do not remember most of it.  Somehow we arrived at the tunnel where my cousin and I had emerged, alive and together, just that morning.  I clung to Quadratus’ shoulder and had to duck my head as we entered.  In the small room below we met the Holy Father.  He looked old and mournful.  I cannot blame him for Tarcisius’ death, though I wish he did not blame himself.  Grieved as we all were, the fault was not to be found in any of us here – or at least that is how I saw it.  He stretched out his arms and received the body of his brave acolyte from his faithful priest.  As he laid the boy in his lap, Tarcisius’ arms, which till this moment had been immobile and clutching the Host tightly to his breast, fell away, and there came an audible gasp.  I blinked.  I think everyone saw it.  There, where the Host should have been, was a piece of cloth folded up in a place by itself, outside of Tarcisius’ garments.  You could see from the look of it that it was empty. 

I looked to my cousin’s face then – I do not know what drew me, but it was not mere grief – and what I beheld made me slip from Quadratus’ arms to the floor, awed and even more faint than before.  His wounds were gone.  His face was calm and peaceful, and something in that peace radiated a wild, uncontainable joy.  I felt utterly stupefied then, and I think I have never quite recovered.  But that was a long time ago.

How strange our two fates, Tarcisius!  How strange they should be so different, yet so much the same.  You were a young boy whom no one should have suspected.  I am an old cripple whom no one ought to have noticed.  Yet we were found out, both of us – discovered that we may glorify Him, if we hold fast.  You have done so.  I have not – yet.  You are His forever, according to the love you bore for Him; the love you professed to the end.  I, too, am His forever, according to the order of Melchizedek.  I owe you my life, for I would not be here but for your example.  And so I am going to die because of what you did for me – and for that I thank you.  I hope to join you now, dear cousin.  Pray that I too may be given that same love which drove you into torment and death, faithful still!  That same love that made me a shepherd in His service, that allowed me to say this, my Last Supper before I die.  I cradle that-which-will-be-God in my hands: Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meum.  I now hold Him whom you died for.  I have tried to follow where you went, worthy child, though you are greater than I.  You were young in death, but older – much older – in wisdom.  I, though grey-bearded, am always too much the child.  And now in my hands, the cup: Hic Est Enim Calix Sanguinis Mei, I murmur.  I hear their footsteps in the hall; I will be tested now.  Farewell, then, holy youth, until we meet again!  I consume my Lord; the Bread from Heaven that you could not bring to the prisons of Valerian has at last reached this prisoner in the dungeon of Diocletian.  Your sacrifice, cousin, was not in vain.  Your task, though thwarted, was accomplished.  I drain the cup; His blood flows in my veins for the last time.  Farewell, farewell!  I will make your last prayer and His my own.  The door of my cell opens.  It is finished.

  Ita Missa est.  Deo Gratias.    

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Author’s Note:

Not much is known with certainty about St. Tarcisius.  The only real information about him that we possess comes from a poem by Pope Damasus, in which the Holy Father describes the boy’s stoning at the hands of a pagan rabble.  Some say that these pagans were his playmates.  The accounts that I have read vary somewhat as to the details of his life and death, but they agree in that he died defending the Blessed Sacrament, which he was taking to Christians who were imprisoned.  It would seem that he was a Roman acolyte – very possibly the Pope’s own acolyte – during the mid-third or early fourth century A.D. (some have also suggested that he may have been a deacon).  It is conjectured that he died in the persecution of Valerian, and the general consensus seems to be that he was roughly between the ages of eight and twelve at the time of his martyrdom.  In his trials he never surrendered his precious burden, and only when his dead or at least dying did he release his hold upon the Hosts.  For this story, I have elected to follow those who say that the Hosts were not actually found on his body at all, having disappeared – perhaps to become one with his own flesh and thus make one offering to God.  I have also chosen to include the Praetorian guard Quadratus as a minor character, though I have found him mentioned only in a papal audience given by Pope Benedict XVI.  Aside from Tarcisius, Quadratus, and the Holy Father, all the characters in the story are either purely products of my imagination or else real people about whom nothing is known (like the boys who stone Tarcisius).  The story itself is told through the memories of Tarcisius’ fictional cousin Claudius, a cripple and an imprisoned priest who recalls his last days with his martyr-cousin while saying his last Mass before execution.  Through his perspective I hope to give a better and more lifelike perspective of St. Tarcisius than the bare details we have about him offer on their own.  Lastly, it seemed fitting that the story of this Eucharistic martyr be dependent on and enveloped within the Eucharistic Sacrifice itself.  Thus, by fitting the story of Tarcisius’ death into the context of the Mass, I wish to show the unity between his sacrifice and offering of himself to God to God’s offering and sacrifice of His Son to Himself for all men.  Therefore, by this manner of presentation I hope the significance and gravity of Tarcisius’ action will be adequately accentuated, and his imitation of Christ readily perceived.  Finally, I hope that this, my first real attempt at historical fiction, can bring to life one of the Church’s greater though lesser-known sons.  His feast day is August 15. 

St. Tarcisius, pray for us!

Sources Consulted

Bittle, Berchmans O.M.F.Cap. “St. Tarcisius, Martyr.” A Saint a Day. n. pag. Milwaukee:

Bruce Publishing Company, 1958. Eternal Word Television Network. Web. 7. Aug.       2013. <http://www.ewtn.com/library/mary/tarcisi.htm >.

Kirsch, Johann Peter. “St. Tarsicius.” The Catholic Encyclopedia. Vol. 14. New York:

Robert Appleton Company, 1912. Web. 6 Aug. 2013.  <http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/14461a.htm >.

Pauer, James F. (president). Latin Liturgy Association. N.p. Web. 6 Aug. 2013.

< http://www.latinliturgy.com/id18.htm >. 

Pope Benedict XVI. General Audience. Saint Tarcisius. 4 Aug. 2010. Web. 7 Aug. 2013.

<http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/benedict_xvi/audiences/2010/documents/hf_ben-xvi_aud_20100804_en.html >.

Stevens, Rev. Clifford. “St. Tarcisius.” The One Year Book of Saints. n. pag. Huntington:

Our Sunday Visitor Books, n.d. Eternal Word Televison Network. Web. 6 Aug.

2013. <http://www.ewtn.com/library/mary/tarcis.htm>.