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.”