They nailed St. Peter to the cross, and lifted it with his head downwards; but while the brutal heathen laughed, and the fear of death could not suppress the wail of the Christians, he said only—and they were the last words of the great Apostle—‘I rejoice that ye crucify me thus, for my Master’s sake. I am much unworthy to die in the same manner as He died.’
The old man passed speedily and almost painlessly away, and in the glimmering, flashing sky, over which, in the far distance, began to roll the chariot wheels of gathering storm, the brethren thought that they saw the wings of angels and shadows of the avengers.
The Christians always perplexed and irritated their pagan persecutors by behaving in a manner the very opposite to what was expected. After their first shuddering emotion at witnessing the martyrdom of their great Apostle, they seemed rather radiant than depressed. But the reason for this was that their young deacon, Clemens, speaking to them in Greek, said, ‘I see him, not head downwards, but upright on the cross, and the angels crown him with roses and lilies, and the Lord is putting a book into his hands from which he reads.’
It was natural that they should desire to keep his mortal remains. Marcellus, who had been a pupil of Simon Magus, but whom Peter had converted, obtained his body from the executioner for a great sum of money, bathed it in milk and wine, and had it embalmed. That night they conveyed it to a spot, secretly remembered, at the foot of the Vatican hill.
Marcellus watched by the grave that night; but as he watched he thought that the Apostle came to him in vision, and said, ‘Let the dead bury their dead. Preach thou the gospel of God.’ On that spot was reared the humble ‘trophy,’ or memorial cell, which the presbyter Gaius saw there in the second century. Thence, in due time, the relics were removed to that unequalled shrine, where the tomb which enclosed them is encircled by ever-burning lights, and visited century after century by the devotion of tens of thousands. Fools counted his life madness and his end to be without honour. How is he numbered among the children of God, and his lot is among the saints!
The procession which accompanied the Apostle John had taken longer to arrive at the scene of martyrdom. The awful heat of the morning, the more crowded parts of the city through which they had to pass, the greater throngs which accompanied them, had caused delay. The Apostle walked with firm step in the midst of the ten soldiers. Though his hands were tied behind his back, his appearance struck all beholders with involuntary dread. The high forehead, the long hair which streamed over his shoulders, the perfect self-possession, the beauty of holiness, gave to his movements an unconscious majesty. His face was mostly lifted heavenward in prayer, but whenever he turned on those around him his bright and searching glance their eyes fell before him. If any began to jeer at him and utter words of ribald blasphemy, he had but to look towards them, and in spite of themselves they stopped short. An unwonted hush fell on the throng which surged around the soldiers—a silence of which the multitudes themselves could give no account.
‘He is a sorcerer, that is certain,’ said Tullius Senecio as he looked down on the passing procession from a window in the house of Crispinilla.
‘He must be,’ she answered. ‘I never saw the crowd of the Forum so strangely quiet.’
‘Let me see the Christian,’ said a boy in the crowd. ‘Soldier, lift me up that I may see him.’
‘What, Gervasius? How camest thou here? But thou art a soldier’s son, and I will humour thee,’ said the decurio. ‘Thy father and I were comrades in Palestine, and it was once his lot to see a scene after which he never had one happy day.’