The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence (AD 258) as described by Pope Leo (ca. AD 450)

St. Lawrence Giving the Wealth to the Poor, by Jacopo Palma il Giovane, 1581.

August 10 is the feast of Saint Lawrence (Laurentius), a Deacon of the Roman Church, who was executed for the crime of professing Christ during the persecution of the emperor Valerian in AD 258. Lawrence went on to become one of the most celebrated martyrs of the early Church, and is commemorated by name in the traditional Canon of the Roman Catholic Mass.

Here is an early description of his martyrdom taken from a homily given by Pope Saint Leo the Great on the occasion of his feast day in the mid-5th century AD:

How gloriously strong in this most excellent manner of doctrine the blessed martyr Laurentius is, by whose sufferings today is marked, even his persecutors were able to feel, when they found that his wondrous courage, born principally of love for Christ, not only did not yield itself, but also strengthened others by the example of his endurance. 

For when the fury of the gentile potentates was raging against Christ's most chosen members, and attacked those especially who were of priestly rank, the wicked persecutor's wrath was vented on Laurentius the deacon, who was pre-eminent not only in the performance of the sacred rites, but also in the management of the church's property, promising himself double spoil from one man's capture: for if he forced him to surrender the sacred treasures, he would also drive him out of the pale of true religion. And so this man, so greedy of money and such a foe to the truth, arms himself with double weapon: with avarice to plunder the gold; with impiety to carry off Christ. He demands of the guileless guardian of the sanctuary that the church wealth on which his greedy mind was set should be brought to him. But the holy deacon showed him where he had them stored, by pointing to the many troops of poor saints, in the feeding and clothing of whom he had a store of riches which he could not lose, and which were the more entirely safe that the money had been spent on so holy a cause.

The baffled plunderer, therefore, frets, and blazing out into hatred of a religion, which had put riches to such a use, determines to pillage a still greater treasure by carrying off that sacred deposit, wherewith he was enriched, as he could find no solid hoard of money in his possession. He orders Laurentius to renounce Christ, and prepares to ply the deacon's stout courage with frightful tortures: and, when the first elicit nothing, fiercer follow. His limbs, torn and mangled by many cutting blows, are commanded to be broiled upon the fire in an iron framework, which was of itself already hot enough to burn him, and on which his limbs were turned from time to time, to make the torment fiercer, and the death more lingering.

You gain nothing, you prevail nothing, O savage cruelty. His mortal frame is released from your devices, and, when Laurentius departs to heaven, you are vanquished. The flame of Christ's love could not be overcome by your flames, and the fire which burnt outside was less keen than that which blazed within. [Taken from: Homilies of Pope Saint Leo the Great, Homily 85]

Saint Lawrence goes to his death. 5th century mosaic,
Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna, Italy.

Sozomen's Account of the Death of Valens

Gold solidus of Valens (AD 328-378)

In AD 378 on the 9th of August, the Roman Emperor Valens was killed following the catastrophic defeat at the battle of Adrianople at the hands of the invading Goths. In this battle, a Roman field army 40,000 strong was annihilated, leaving the Eastern provinces wide open and defenseless. It is often cited as the beginning of the end of the Roman Empire as the pre-eminent power in the Mediterranean world.

A detailed description of the battle and its aftermath may be found in the Roman Antiquities of Ammianus Marcellinus. Another account, written by Sozomen about 50 years after the event, contains some additional details surrounding the battle and the death of Valens that are not recorded in Marcellinus's account: 

Those in every city who maintained the Nicene doctrine now began to take courage, and more particularly the inhabitants of Alexandria in Egypt....The Emperor Valens [a follower of the Arian heresy] very naturally was so distracted by other affairs, that he had no leisure to attend to these transactions. He had no sooner arrived at Constantinople than he incurred the suspicion and hatred of the people. The barbarians were pillaging Thrace, and were even advancing to the very suburbs, and attempted to make an assault on the very walls, with no one to hinder them.

The city was indignant at this inertness; and the people even charged the emperor with being a party to their attack, because he did not sally forth, but delayed offering battle. At length, when he was present at the sports of the Hippodrome, the people openly and loudly accused him of neglecting the affairs of the state, and demanded arms that they might fight in their own defense. Valens, offended at these reproaches, immediately undertook an expedition against the barbarians; but he threatened to punish the insolence of the people on his return, and also to take vengeance on them for having formerly supported the tyrant Procopius.

When Valens was on the point of departing from Constantinople, Isaac, a monk of great virtue, who feared no danger in the cause of God, presented himself before him, and addressed him in the following words: "Give back, O emperor, to the orthodox, and to those who maintain the Nicene doctrines, the churches of which you have deprived them, and the victory will be yours."

The emperor was offended at this act of boldness, and commanded that Isaac should be arrested and kept in chains until his return, when he meant to bring him to justice for his temerity.

Isaac, however, replied, "You will not return unless you restore the churches."

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And so in fact it came to pass. For when Valens marched out with his army, the Goths retreated while pursued. In his advances he passed by Thrace, and came to Adrianople. When at not great distance from the barbarians, he found them encamped in a secure position; and yet he had the rashness to attack them before he had arranged his own legions in proper order. His cavalry was dispersed, his infantry compelled to retreat; and, pursued by the enemy, he dismounted from his horse, and with a few attendants entered into a small house or tower, where he secreted himself.

The barbarians were in full pursuit, and went beyond the tower, not suspecting that he had selected it for his place of concealment. As the last detachment of the barbarians was passing by the tower, the attendants of the emperor let fly a volley of arrows from their covert, which immediately led to the exclamation that Valens was concealed within the building. Those who were a little in advance heard this exclamation, and made known the news with a shout to those companions who were in advance of them; and thus the news was conveyed till it reached the detachments which were foremost in the pursuit. They returned, and encompassed the tower. They collected vast quantities of wood from the country around, which they piled up against the tower, and finally set fire to the mass. A wind which had happened to arise favored the progress of the conflagration; and in a short period the tower, with all that it contained, including the emperor and his attendants, was utterly destroyed. 

Valens was fifty years of age. He had reigned thirteen years conjointly with his brother, and three by himself. [Taken from The Ecclesiastical History of Sozomen, Book VI, Chapters 39 & 40] 

The Death of Trajan ~ August 8 ~ His correspondence with Pliny, and his legendary rescue from Hell.

Bust of Trajan from the British Museum.

Conqueror of Dacia. Subduer of Parthia. The Roman Emperor Marcus Ulpius Traianus — or Trajan as he is known to history — died on August 8 in the year AD 117.

By most measures, Trajan was a superior emperor. In his satirical work The Caesars, written in AD 361, the emperor Julian the Apostate puts these words into the mouth of Trajan in defense of his reign and exploits before the gods:

"O Zeus and ye other gods, when I took over the empire it was in a sort of lethargy and much disordered by the tyranny that had long prevailed at home, and by the insolent conduct of the Getae. I alone ventured to attack the tribes beyond the Danube, and I subdued the Getae, the most warlike race that ever existed...Of all the Emperors who came before me I was regarded as the mildest in the treatment of my subjects....Against the Parthians I thought I ought not to employ force until they had put themselves in the wrong, but when they did so I marched against them, undeterred by my age, though the laws would have allowed me to quit the service. Since then the facts are as I have said, do I not deserve to be honored before all the rest, first because I was so mild to my subjects, secondly because more than others I inspired terror in my country's foes, thirdly because I revered your daughter divine Philosophy?"

When Trajanus had finished this speech the gods decided that he excelled all the rest in clemency; and evidently this was a virtue peculiarly pleasing to them.

This summary of Trajan's career is largely accurate. Writing about 120 years after his death, Cassius Dio describes him further, saying:

Trajan was most conspicuous for his justice, for his bravery, and for the simplicity of his habits. He was strong in body, being in his forty-second year when he began to rule, so that in every enterprise he toiled almost as much as the others; and his mental powers were at their highest, so that he had neither the recklessness of youth nor the sluggishness of old age. He didn't envy nor slay anyone, but honored and exalted all good men without exception, and hence he neither feared nor hated any one of them. To slanders he paid very little heed and he was no slave of anger. He refrained equally from the money of others and from unjust murders. He expended vast sums on wars and vast sums on works of peace; and while making very many urgently needed repairs to roads and harbours and public buildings, he drained no one's blood for any of these undertakings. [Cassius Dio, Epitome of Book LXVIII]

Of his triumphant campaign against the Dacians, and his short-lived victory over the Parthians, few details have come down to us from the ancient historians. Most of what we have may be found in Cassius Dio's summary account linked above. Thanks to the works of his contemporary, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, or Pliny the Younger, we have some additional knowledge of his character. In a panegyric in praise of Trajan dating to about 111 AD, Pliny lauds the emperor's conquest of the Dacians, saying:

During the preceding reigns the barbarians had become insolent and no longer struggled to gain their liberty but fought to enslave us. But on your accession they were again inspired with fear and a willingness to obey your commands. For they saw that you were a general of the old stamp one of those who had earned their title on fields heaped high with slaughter or on seas resounding with the shouts of victory. The result is that we now accept hostages we do not buy them. Nor do we now make peace on disadvantageous terms in order to keep up the appearance of success. [Pliny's Panegyric in Praise of Trajan]

More famous is the fascinating correspondence between Pliny and Trajan, written about AD 112, wherein Pliny asks for advice in dealing with the sect known as the Christians, and Trajan offers a sage response. Below is Pliny's letter (excerpted), followed by the emperor's response:

Pliny to the Emperor Trajan.

It is my practice, my lord, to refer to you all matters concerning which I am in doubt. For who can better give guidance to my hesitation or inform my ignorance? I have never participated in trials of Christians. I therefore do not know what offenses it is the practice to punish or investigate, and to what extent, ....whether pardon is to be granted for repentance, or, if a man has once been a Christian, it does him no good to have ceased to be one....

In the case of those who were denounced to me as Christians, I have observed the following procedure: I interrogated these as to whether they were Christians; those who confessed I interrogated a second and a third time, threatening them with punishment; those who persisted I ordered executed. For I had no doubt that, whatever the nature of their creed, stubbornness and inflexible obstinacy surely deserve to be punished....

Soon accusations spread...and several incidents occurred. An anonymous document was published containing the names of many persons. Those who denied that they were or had been Christians, when they invoked the gods in words dictated by me, offered prayer with incense and wine to your image, which I had ordered to be brought for this purpose together with statues of the gods, and moreover cursed Christ—none of which those who are really Christians...can be forced to do—these I thought should be discharged. Others named by the informer declared that they were Christians, but then denied it, asserting that they had been but had ceased to be....They all worshipped your image and the statues of the gods, and cursed Christ.

They asserted, however, that the sum and substance of their fault or error had been that they were accustomed to meet on a fixed day before dawn and sing responsively a hymn to Christ as to a god, and to bind themselves by oath, not to some crime, but not to commit fraud, theft, or adultery, not falsify their trust, nor to refuse to return a trust when called upon to do so. When this was over, it was their custom to depart and to assemble again to partake of food—but ordinary and innocent food....

I therefore postponed the investigation and hastened to consult you....For the contagion of this superstition has spread not only to the cities but also to the villages and farms....

Trajan to Pliny

You observed proper procedure, my dear Pliny, in sifting the cases of those who had been denounced to you as Christians. For it is not possible to lay down any general rule to serve as a kind of fixed standard. They are not to be sought out; if they are denounced and proved guilty, they are to be punished, with this reservation, that whoever denies that he is a Christian and really proves it—that is, by worshiping our gods—even though he was under suspicion in the past, shall obtain pardon through repentance. But anonymously posted accusations ought to have no place in any prosecution. For this is both a dangerous kind of precedent and out of keeping with the spirit of our age.

[Click here to read Pliny's Letters, 96 (97) in full.] 

Trajan died at age 64 in the year AD 117. Cassius Dio records the circumstances of his death as follows:

Trajan was preparing to make a fresh expedition into Mesopotamia, but, as his malady began to afflict him sorely, he set out, intending to sail to Italy, leaving Publius Aelius Hadrian with the army in Syria....Trajan himself suspected that his sickness was due to poison that had been administered to him; but some state that it was because the blood, which descends every year into the lower parts of the body, was in his case checked in its flow. He had also suffered a stroke, so that a portion of his body was paralyzed, and he was dropsical all over. On coming to Selinus in Cilicia, which we also call Traianopolis, he suddenly expired, after reigning nineteen years, six months and fifteen days. [Cassius Dio, Epitome of Book LXVIII]

Detail from the "capital of justice" at the Palazzo Ducale in Venice, with an
inscription reading: "Emperor Trajan, who gave justice to the widow."

Because of his perceived clemency toward Christians, Trajan was often considered a virtuous pagan. Indeed, according to one story written down in the 9th century by John the Deacon, Trajan, though a pagan, was rescued from Hell. The legend says that while walking through the Forum of Trajan in Rome, Pope Saint Gregory the Great saw an inscription describing how Trajan had given justice to a poor widow. Feeling so moved, the Pope entered Saint Peter's and wept such tears of supplication, that a sign was given him that Trajan's soul had been released from torment, under condition that he never attempt to rescue another pagan from Hell again. This story gained such currency in the Middle Ages that it was included even in Dante's Divine Comedy, though later theologians and historians give the story no credence.

The epitaph of Pope Saint Hormisdas, written by his son, Pope Saint Silverius

Pope St. Hormisdas, from an antique engraving.

August 6 is the Feast Day of Pope Saint Hormisdas who reigned from AD 514 to 523. This was a difficult time for the Church when Italy was under the domination of the Arian Ostrogothic King, Theodoric, and the Eastern Roman Emperor, Anastasius, was a monophysite heretic. 

During Hormisdas's reign, in an attempt to end the Acacian Schism which had separated the eastern and western Churches, Hormisdas caused secret letters to be circulated in the east explaining the Catholic faith and proposing that the monophysites should be reconciled and do penance. According to the Liber Pontificalis, his efforts were in vain as long as Anastasius remained emperor in Constantinople. Indeed, Anastasius's response to the proposed penance was to say angrily: "We wish to command you not to lay commands upon us." Shortly thereafter, Anastasius died, "struck by the divine thunderbolt" as the author of the Liber relates.

A detailed description of Hormisdas's reign may be found in the Catholic Encyclopedia. 

Though his name is Persian in origin, the Liber Pontificalis says that Hormisdas was "by nationality a Campanian, son of Justus, from the town of Frisino"—modern day Frosinone about 30 miles south of Rome. He was a Pope and a saint as well as the father of a Pope and a saint. His son, Pope Saint Silverius wrote the following epitaph in verse on his tomb in the catacombs under Old Saint Peters in Rome:

Although my verses, father,
are unworthy of your sepulcher
and though your celebrated faith
has no need for eulogy,
accept, however, these praises,
to be read by a pilgrim
who for the love of Peter,
will be coming here from the ends of the world. 

You healed the body of your native country
lacerated by schism,
and restored the torn-off limbs
to their proper places.
Greece, defeated by holy power,
submitted herself to you,
happy in having regained her lost faith.
Africa, captive for many years,
rejoices over the bishops
she owes to your prayers. 

I, Silverius, have recorded this,
though it causes me sorrow,
in order that, engraved on a tombstone,
it may defy age

(Translation taken from Reardon: The Deaths of the Popes) 

Sadly, the original inscription was lost when Old Saint Peters was demolished to make way for the present monumental basilica of Saint Peter at the Vatican in the 17th century.

Silverius would go on to become Pope in his own right in AD 536. He would be deposed by Antonina and Belisarius (acting on behalf of Theodora), exiled, and later martyred by starvation on the island of Palmarola. 

Civil War Vets Aboard the Cruiser Olympia ~ Seamen Purdy and McCue Re-fight their Ancient Battle

Seaman Gilbert Purdy (standing) spinning yarns in 1888 at the age of 60.
He would serve until 1900.

As the US Navy transformed in the 1890s from an obsolete coast-defense force to a modern, sea-going steel fleet, there remained aboard the ships a few ancient salts who had been in the service as far back as the Civil War. Aboard the protected cruiser Olympia in 1896 were two men who had fought on opposite sides: Seamen Purdy and McCue. Indeed, Purdy had been aboard the USS Kearsarge and McCue aboard CSS Alabama when the two fought their famous duel off Cherbourg in 1864.

Following is an excerpt from the book, Three Years Behind the Guns, a rollicking, page-turning memoir originally written in 1908 by John Tisdale, where we meet Purdy and McCue. Though both elders now serve together aboard the flagship Olympia, the old wounds of the ancient conflict still rankle and occasionally burst into flame again more than 30 years later.

But though both men still feel the call of duty to their very marrow, they also see the day coming when they will disembark for good. Thus their yarns often turn to more contemplative, spiritual concerns.

SONG
The Kearsarge and the Alabama

It was early Sunday morning
     in the year of sixty-four.
The Alabama she cruised out
     along the Frenchman’s shore.
Long time she cruised about,
     long time she held her sway,
But now beneath the Frenchman’s shore
     she lies in Cherbourg Bay.

CHORUS
Hoist up the flag, boys.
     Long may she wave!
God bless America,
     The home of the brave!

This is one of about forty verses of an historic ballad. Old Purdy hums them over as he attends to his light duties as captain of the hold, or occasionally by request, sings them out lustily at the dog-watch. When Seaman McCue chances to be in a spiritous turn of mind he joins in the chorus.

Purdy and McCue! Living relics of the greatest naval battle of our Civil War. It is thirty-three years since they fought, one on the Kearsarge, the other on the Alabama. They were young men then, each defending a principle.

McCue was of the number picked up out of the water by the English yacht, Deerhound, when the Alabama went down with her flag of truce. The destruction of his beloved ship left a wound on the heart of the seaman that never healed. The war ended. Returning to his native land, he found the Confederacy dead and buried while a vital longing for the sea was consuming him. Reasoning that, though wronged, he had always been an American, he enlisted in the United States navy, where he has remained in uninterrupted service ever since.

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Seaman McCue (as he insists upon being called) is a little man with bright blue eyes peeping like spring violets through snowdrifts, for his hair and beard have retained the abundance of youth, though silvered to whiteness by the spray of the fleeting years. How many they have numbered none dare to ask, as Seaman McCue’s distaste for age is made manifest whenever he speaks of his old shipmates now serving on the Independence. They are invariably referred to as “the Guardo Stiffs.” Poor old seaman! It will break his heart, but I sadly fear this will be his last cruise. He is efficient in his duty—sweeping the starboard side of the gun-deck, where his life is rendered as miserable as a pack of young sea devils can make it. As fast as he sweeps someone tears and scatters papers after him just to hear him swear, and yet when the day came that we noticed Mac totter on the boom, and he took to coming from the cutter by the gangway, it was whispered he would be exchanged to one of the ships going home—it was then his tormentors came to his rescue.

They begged the officer to excuse him from pulling an oar, as someone off duty would do it for him. The officer hesitated a moment, when Young, editor of the Bounding Billow, the ship’s paper, and one of the keenest thorns that had pricked him, jumped into the old man’s place, and, lifting his oar, said, “I will pull for Seaman McCue for one hundred years.”

Mac has never uttered one word of thanks. Indeed, he showed much the same disposition he did on the morning of Admiral McNair’s first inspection. Coming upon him in the ranks, the admiral said: “Well, Seaman McCue, I think it about time we old fellows should be excused from duty.” But I think the act of Young entered into his heart, for, although there was little perceptible change in his general bearing, I think he went oftener to church, and I am sure he responded more willingly to the boys entreaty for a sea yarn.

Of Purdy? He must have been a giant when he manned the guns of the Kearsarge, but today he is bent at the waist, and the surfs of time have whitened him even as they have his shipmate.

One’s first sight of Purdy is startling, for in the middle of a high forehead there gleams a bright blue star, visible and outward sign of the star gang.

After the victory over the Alabama, twenty of the Kearsarge crew in solemn covenant swore they would never desert the navy while Uncle Sam had a plank afloat, and to render the vow binding they each consented to be tattooed in a manner that would unfit them for any other station in life. Purdy is the only member of the gang I have seen. I understand there are five or six of them still on the sea.

Purdy and McCue fighting their
battle over again.

These men are not only living relics of a great battle; they are animated encyclopedia of the navy, looking with small favor on modern warfare, jumping at an opportunity to refer to the good old times when they had “iron men and wooden ships,” leaving the inference that we are wooden men on iron ships. These are two of our veterans quietly filling the niches that Time has carved for them; but it is only necessary for some jolly young tar to say: “Today is the nineteenth of June,” directly the dead embers of dissension kindle into a flame amidst whose crackling may be heard the hissing sound of “rebel,” “liar,” “white flag,” and “traitor,” intermingled with seamen’s curses—an unfailing prelude to a rough and-tumble, hand-to-hand fight that might continue to the bitter end were it not that the tormentors who start the fray always step in and separate them. The next day they are as good friends as ever.

It is entirely out of deference to these veterans that I have had the Kearsarge and the Alabama tattooed on my right arm. And it is these good ships that will bear me, when I am old, away from the humdrum of life’s cares back to the blue, blue ocean where I will set me down to rest upon the fluke of a kedge anchor and hearken again to the simple stories told in good faith by Neptune’s own sons. I will listen to Seaman McCue’s deep sea voice as he tells again that he goes to church, not because he believes the Lord is always there, but because He might drop in during divine service, and when the roll was called he would hate to salute and answer “Absent, sir.”

But his faith in the divine presence on the old frigate California is like adamant. Mac was on her for three years, and during that time neither tide nor current had the least influence upon her. Anchor where they might, contrary to all natural laws she always turned her stern to the stream. What caused it? Nothing but the presence on board of the Savior of Men, Who was so angry when the proud ship was ignominiously sold into civil service that He then and there forsook her, and from that hour she turned about and swung with the stream just like other ships. Should one manifest a doubt he will say, “I suppose you would dispute the coming of Paddy White’s ghost for his Christmas rum on the Independence, even if you saw him with your own eyes flying like a white crane out of the cemetery back of the old powder magazine.”

And when I have smiled again at these homely tales from the lips of McCue I will recall that it was Purdy who first opened my eyes to a full understanding of the distress of the Ancient Mariner.

It is his firm belief (and he is not alone in it) that in every bird of the sea there dwells the immortal soul of a sailor.

Whenever I see the old man silently watching the sea-fowls as they skim over the waters I know that he is communing with his old shipmates. These hallucinations are so perfectly harmless, so rapturously enchanting, that I gave rein to my own fancy, and in its flight I recognized in the black-ringed gull upon the foretruck the reincarnation of the bo’s’n of the Kearsarge, and in the whispering winds in the rigging heard him shout: “Cast loose and provide,” just as he piped on the morning of June 19, 1864. 

I was unable to track down any additional information about Seaman McCue, but stories about Purdy are plentiful. In fact, there’s a page devoted to him on the Spanish-American War Centennial website. More info about Seaman Purdy may be found at TogetherWeServed.

Both of these fellows deserve our remembrance and prayers.

Olympia at Hong Kong, April 1898, painted dark gray prior to sailing for
the Philippines less than a month later.

"Rome, thou art punished now for having put Varro in command while Fabius still lived."

The Death of Aemelius Paulus by John Trumbull (1743). Click to enlarge.

The second day of August marks the darkest day in ancient Roman history. On that day, in 216 BC, the Roman legions under Gaius Terentius Varro and Lucius Aemilius Paulus were utterly crushed by the smaller army of Hannibal, grand general of Carthage, at Cannae in southern Italy.

The Battle of Cannae, one of the epochal battles of ancient history, was the climax of a series of victories won by Hannibal during his bold campaign in Italy. The Romans suffered over 40,000 killed out of an original force of about 80,000, with thousands more captured and turned to desertion. The consul Aemilius Paulus was also killed, and the scale of the disaster was so great that a panic ensued in Rome.

The most famous account of the battle is probably that of Titus Livius (Livy) written about 200 years after the fact. More contemporary is the account of the Greek historian, Polybius, written in the 2nd century BC, which was very likely Livy's main source for the battle.

Polybius explained how the Roman army followed Hannibal, who had taken the Roman supply depot of Cannae in Apulia, about 200 miles from Rome. The ground around Cannae is a broad flat plain, perfect for deploying Hannibal's superior cavalry forces. Recognizing his disadvantage, the consul Aemilius Paulus recommended a strategy of shadow and delay. Sadly, these types of tactics, made famous by the previous consul Fabius Maximus Cunctator (The Delayer), were in disrepute. The Romans demanded action—a decisive victory over the invaders—and Paulus's colleague as consul, Varro, would give it to them.

Polybius describes the discord between the two consuls, as Paulus resists the urge to battle, while Varro is irked by the inaction:

[Hannibal] drew out his men along the bank of the river [Aufidus], and showed that he was eager to give the enemy battle. But Aemilius, dissatisfied with his position, and seeing that the Carthaginians would soon be obliged to shift their quarters for the sake of supplies, kept quiet in his camps, strengthening both with extra guards. After waiting a considerable time, when no one came out to attack him, Hannibal put the rest of the army into camp again, but sent out his Numidian horse to attack the enemy's water parties from the lesser camp. These horsemen riding right up to the lines and preventing the watering, Gaius Terentius [Varro] became more than ever inflamed with the desire of fighting, and the soldiers were eager for a battle, and chafed at the delay. For there is nothing more intolerable to mankind than suspense; when a thing is once decided, men can but endure whatever out of the catalogue of evils it is their misfortune to undergo.

Having received command of the army on the following day, Varro promptly marched the legions out to fight. Polybius gives the following order of battle:

...Gaius Terentius got the army in motion from both the camps. Those from the larger camp he drew up in order of battle, as soon as he had got them across the river, and bringing up those of the smaller camp he placed them all in the same line, selecting the south as the aspect of the whole. The Roman horse he stationed on the right wing along the river, and their foot next them in the same line, placing the maniples, however, closer together than usual, and making the depth of each maniple several times greater than its front. The cavalry of the allies he stationed on the left wing, and the light-armed troops he placed slightly in advance of the whole army, which amounted with its allies to eighty thousand infantry and a little more than six thousand horse. 

At the same time Hannibal brought his Balearic slingers and spearmen across the river, and stationed them in advance of his main body; which he led out of their camp, and, getting them across the river at two spots, drew them up opposite the enemy. On his left wing, close to the river, he stationed the Iberian and Celtic horse opposite the Roman cavalry; and next to them half the Libyan heavy-armed foot; and next to them the Iberian and Celtic foot; next, the other half of the Libyans, and, on the right wing, the Numidian horse. Having now got them all into line he advanced with the central companies of the Iberians and Celts; and so arranged the other companies next these in regular gradations, that the whole line became crescent-shaped, diminishing in depth towards its extremities: his object being to have his Libyans as a reserve in the battle, and to commence the action with his Iberians and Celts.

The battle commences with skirmishes of the light troops on both sides, but develops quickly as the core Roman legionnaires aggressively advance into the Carthaginian center. Here is Polybius's account of Hannibal's famous pincer movement which led to the complete envelopment and destruction of the Roman army:

The legionaries took the place of the light-armed and closed with the enemy. For a short time the Iberian and Celtic lines stood their ground and fought gallantly. But, presently overpowered by the weight of the heavy-armed lines, they gave way and retired to the rear, thus breaking up the crescent. The Roman maniples followed with spirit, and easily cut their way through the enemy's line...

The Romans, however, going in pursuit of these troops, and hastily closing in towards the center and the part of the enemy which was giving ground, advanced so far, that the Libyan heavy-armed troops on either wing got on their flanks. Those on the right, facing to the left, charged from the right upon the Roman flank, while those who were on the left wing faced to the right, and, dressing by the left, charged their right flank, the exigency of the moment suggesting to them what they ought to do. Thus it came about, as Hannibal had planned, that the Romans were caught between two hostile lines of Libyans—thanks to their impetuous pursuit of the Celts.

Aemilius Paulus attempted to break the encirclement with a cavalry charge, but his forces were driven off by the heavy Carthaginian horse, and Paulus himself was killed. The result, for the encircled legions, was carnage:

As long as the Romans could keep an unbroken front, to turn first in one direction and then in another to meet the assaults of the enemy, they held out; but the outer files of the circle continually falling, and the circle becoming more and more contracted, they at last were all killed on the field—and among them Marcus Atilius and Gnaeus Servilius, the Consuls of the previous year, who had shown themselves brave men and worthy of Rome in the battle. While this struggle and carnage were going on, the Numidian horse were pursuing the fugitives, most of whom they cut down or hurled from their horses; but some few escaped into Venusia, among whom was Gaius Terentius, the Consul, who thus sought a flight, as disgraceful to himself, as his conduct in office had been disastrous to his country.

Hannibal Barca counting the
rings of the Roman knights killed 
at the Battle of Cannae, 
by Sébastien Slodtz (1704).

Writing in the 1st century AD, the Roman poet Silius Italicus (in his Punica) puts this lament into the mouth of Gaius Terentius Varro as he realizes the extent of the catastrophe:

“Rome, thou art punished now for having put Varro in command while Fabius still lived. But what means this divided mind, this change of fortune? Is it a trap laid for me by the Fates? I long to make an instant end of all things by taking my own life. But some god arrests my sword and keeps me alive that I may suffer even worse. Can I live and carry back to Rome these rods, broken and spattered with the blood of citizens? How shall I show my hated face through the towns of Italy? How shall I, a fugitive from battle, see Rome again? Hannibal himself could desire for me no more cruel punishment.”

In the face of this disastrous defeat, Hannibal expected the Romans to desire terms of peace. Though alarm and panic seized the city after the scale of the loss became known, the Romans quickly returned to steely resolve. Silius Italicus relates the Roman response:

But the senators and Fabius put sorrow in the background and turned quickly to other tasks. Slaves, chosen for their strength, were armed in haste….They were determined to bring, by any agency, the realm of Aeneas back to the land of the living, and to arm even bondsmen in defense of the Capitol….They took off from their own children the purple-bordered garment of boyhood and put armor on unaccustomed shoulders. Boys hid their faces behind the helmet, and were bidden to reach manhood in slaughter of the foe.

Likewise, when they were begged to ransom at an easy rate the multitude of Roman prisoners—and the number of petitioners rose to many thousands—they persisted, to the astonishment of Hannibal, in their refusal to redeem them. For they held it worse than any misdeed or any crime for an armed man to surrender….Such was the Rome in those days. And if it was fated that the Roman character should change when Carthage fell, would that Carthage were still standing!

As a result of the Roman defiance and determination to continue the fight, Hannibal was unable to follow up on his greatest victory. With the re-emergence of the Fabian strategy of delay, Hannibal found himself stymied in Italy, unable to properly besiege the city of Rome with the troops he had at hand. This gave the Romans time to recruit new legions, and make progress against Carthaginian strongholds and allies outside of Italy.

My name is Inigo Loyola. You attacked my Church. Prepare to be converted.

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In our flaccid, faithless modern era, when the superior of the Society of Jesus dances on the edge of heresy, and was presented on a Jesuit website as a “baptized Buddhist”, the feast of Saint Ignatius of Loyola can be bittersweet for those who devoutly love and uphold the traditional teachings of the Catholic Church. As we recall the beautiful, powerful spirituality of Ignatius and his staunch devotion to defending the Catholic faith against error, one can not help but mourn the fact that the order he founded—an order which spawned so many courageous saints over the centuries—is now largely moribund. The tongue-in-cheek joke told by many devout Catholics that certain institutions are “Jesuit, not Catholic” elicits few laughs beyond a bemused nod from those few of us who endured modern Jesuit education and managed to emerge with our faith intact.

The Society of Jesus today presents Ignatius in caricature. Modern “Ignatian ideals” blandly encourage people to be caring, tolerant, and understanding. It enjoins them to love diversity and be “men and women for others.” The spiritual aspects, however, are vague. Mentions of the name of Jesus are rare. Sacred Scripture is cherry-picked to support this anodyne, toothless gospel. Teaching from the Catechism is practically verboten. Indeed, after eight years of Jesuit education in the 1980s and 90s, I can honestly say that I didn’t even know what a “catechism” was. Nor did I know what the word “magisterium” meant. I had to figure these things out for myself when my formal education ended and my actual education began.

The real Ignatius, however, was the man who adopted the motto “Ad maiorem Dei gloriam inque hominum salutem.” Everything he did was for the greater glory of God and the salvation of mankind. The Gospel that he preached was that of Jesus Christ in its full, unadulterated glory. His primary mission was to confront the heretics of his day with logic and sound teaching, and convert them from their errors. As far as dealing with those who enabled or promoted error within Catholic institutions, Ignatius was actually very intolerant. In a letter to Saint Peter Canisius dated August 18, 1554, Ignatius fulminated:

"All public professors and all persons holding administrative positions at the University of Vienna or other universities should be stripped of those positions if they speak negatively about things pertaining to the Catholic religion. We feel the same about rectors, administrators, and teachers at private colleges lest those who should be guiding young people to godliness corrupt them instead. Hence those who are suspect should not be retained there lest they taint the young people. Those who are openly heretical should certainly not be retained. It also seems obvious that those students, if any, who seem incapable of reconsidering, should also be expelled. All schoolmasters and teachers should understand this and be fully aware of the fact that they will hold no position in the king's provinces unless they are, and comport themselves as, Catholics." 

If such a strategy were applied to Jesuit institutions in our own time, about 80% of their faculty and most of the administration would be fired, and the majority of the students would be expelled. How often we hear those who are given the responsibility of running Jesuit universities, lay and religious alike, declare that so-called "academic freedom" supersedes their duty to hold and teach the truths of the Catholic faith, and not tolerate the proliferation of error. It is well to remember that the Society of Jesus was not always so wishy-washy, as the above quote from their founder amply demonstrates.

In another letter to St. Peter Canisius, Ignatius explains why protestant errors have been able to advance, and reveals the mandate of the Society of Jesus, using particularly vivid language:

"Seeing the progress that the heretics have made in so short a time, spreading the poison of their evil teaching throughout so many countries and peoples, and making use of the verse of the Apostle to describe their progress, and their speech will eat its way like gangrene [2 Tim. 2:17], it would seem that our Society, having been accepted by Divine Providence among the efficacious means to repair such great damage, should not only be solicitous in preparing the proper remedies but should be ready to apply them, exerting itself to the utmost of its powers to preserve what is still sound and to restore what has fallen sick of the plague of heresy, especially in the northern countries.

The heretics have made their false theology popular and presented it in a way that is within the capacity of the common people. They preach it to the people and teach it in the schools, and scatter pamphlets that can be bought and understood by many; they influence people by their writings when they cannot reach them by preaching. Their success is largely due to the negligence of those who should have shown some interest, and the bad example and the ignorance of Catholics, especially the clergy, have made such ravages in the vineyard of the Lord. Hence it would seem that our Society should use the following means to end and cure the evils which the Church has suffered through these heretics."

Ignatius then gives suggestions on how to fight the heresies then raging, including the teaching of sound theology in Catholic institutions of higher learning, the creation of short catechisms for teaching the truths of the Church to children, the necessity of well-educated and moral priests to provide examples of virtue for the people, and the publication of pamphlets to specifically refute heretical errors.

These are the true Ignatian ideals as offered by Ignatius himself. Indeed, compassion and tolerance are to be used to assist those in error to understand the true teachings of Jesus Christ, not to confirm them in their errors, or to enable grotesquely sinful behavior because the true Gospel might be "hurtful" or "triggering." Ignatius knew that there is no compassion in enabling sin, nor is there understanding in condoning immoral behaviors.

Can anyone imagine our modern day Jesuits (with a few noteworthy exceptions) using such overtly and unapologetically Catholic language? Had Ignatius been born in 1991 instead of 1491, it is likely he would be rejected by the very order he founded as too "rigid". That, in itself, should tell us all we need to know.

May the Society of Jesus be both Jesuit and staunchly Catholic as it once was. May God send us courageous saints to reform the great religious order founded by Inigo Loyola and return it to its original mandate.

Saint Ignatius, pray for the conversion of your spiritual children.

Death of Constantius I, the father of Constantine the Great ~ Primary Accounts

A gold aureus of Constantius I Chlorus, ca. AD 303.

On July 24 (or July 25 in some sources), AD 306, the Roman emperor Flavius Valerius Constantius Chlorus passed into eternity at Eboracum (York) in Roman Britain at the age of 56.

Reputed to be related to the emperor Claudius II Gothicus, Constantius Chlorus was made a Caesar in AD 293 and was a junior member of Diocletian's original tetrarchy. He ruled as Augustus of the West after the resignation of Diocletian and Maximian in AD 305.

Of course, Constantius is best known as the father of Constantine the Great who followed him as emperor. But Constantine's succession was a close-run thing, considering he had resided in the East for much of his young life under the dubious protection of Diocletian and his Caesar, Galerius. In reality, it seems that Constantine was a hostage whom the eastern tetrarchs were using to exert influence over their colleague in the West. When Constantius fell ill in AD 305, and requested the presence of his son, it is perhaps not surprising that Galerius was not quick in granting permission.

Here are two accounts of the situation at the end of Constantius's life. In the first one, by Eusebius in his Life of the Blessed Emperor Constantine, is dramatic, but lacking in details:

The emperors then in power, observing [Constantine's] manly and vigorous figure and superior mind, were moved with feelings of jealousy and fear, and thenceforward carefully watched for an opportunity of inflicting some brand of disgrace on his character. But the young man, being aware of their designs, the details of which, through the providence of God, more than once came to him, sought safety in flight...

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Immediately, therefore, on his escape from the plots which had been thus insidiously laid for him, he made his way with all haste to his father, and arrived at length at the very time that he was lying at the point of death. As soon as Constantius saw his son thus unexpectedly in his presence, he leaped from his couch, embraced him tenderly, and, declaring that the only anxiety which had troubled him in the prospect of death, namely, that caused by the absence of his son, was now removed, he rendered thanks to God, saying that he now thought death better than the longest life, and at once completed the arrangement of his private affairs. Then, taking a final leave of the circle of sons and daughters by whom he was surrounded, in his own palace, and on the imperial couch, he bequeathed the empire, according to the law of nature, to his eldest son, and breathed his last. [Life of the Blessed Emperor Constantine, Book I, Chapters XX-XXI]

It should be pointed out here that Constantius had a total of seven children, with Constantine being the eldest from his first marriage with Helena, whom he was forced to repudiate in order to take the throne. His second marriage with Theodora, the daughter of the senior Western emperor, Maximian, produced a further six children, including Julius Constantius who was the father of the Emperor Julian the Apostate.

Lactantius's account of Constantine's escape to his ailing father, while also dramatic, contains a few additional details:

Constantius, having become exceedingly ill, wrote to Galerius, and requested that his son Constantine might be sent to see him. He had made a like request long before, but in vain; for Galerius meant nothing less than to grant it. On the contrary, he laid repeated snares for the life of that young man, because he durst not use open violence, lest he should stir up civil wars against himself, and incur that which he most dreaded, the hate and resentment of the army. Under pretence of manly exercise and recreation, he made him combat with wild beasts. But this device was frustrated, for the power of God protected Constantine, and in the very moment of jeopardy rescued him from the hands of Galerius.

At length, Galerius, when he could no longer avoid complying with the request of Constantius, one evening gave Constantine a warrant to depart, and commanded him to set out next morning with the imperial despatches. Galerius meant either to find some pretext for detaining Constantine, or to forward orders to Severus for arresting him on the road. Constantine discerned his purpose; and therefore, after supper, when the emperor was gone to rest, he hasted away, carried off from the principal stages all the horses maintained at the public expense, and escaped. Next day the emperor, having purposely remained in his bed-chamber until noon, ordered Constantine to be called into his presence; but he learnt that Constantine had set out immediately after supper. Outrageous with passion, he ordered horses to be made ready, that Constantine might be pursued and dragged back; and hearing that all the horses had been carried off from the great road, he could hardly refrain from tears. Meanwhile Constantine, journeying with incredible rapidity, reached his father, who was already about to expire. Constantius recommended his son to the soldiers, delivered the sovereign authority into his hands, and then died, as his wish had long been, in peace and quiet. [Lactantius, Of the Manner in Which the Persecutors Died, Chapter XXIV].

Both of these accounts seem to be remiss in mentioning that Constantine reached his father not at the brink of death, but just as the latter was embarking on a new campaign in Britain. The two then campaigned in the far north together for over a year, achieved a victory, and then returned to York where Constantius perished. For these facts, we are indebted to the Latin Panegyricist of AD 310, who wrote:

The day would end before my speech, if I were to recapitulate all the deeds of your father…For it was not that he who had accomplished so many great feats thought it worthwhile to acquire—I won’t mention the forests and swamps of the Caledonians and the other Picts—either nearby Hibernia or Farthest Thule, or the Isles of the Blest themselves, if they exist, but rather…when he was about to join the gods, he gazed upon the Ocean…so that when about to enjoy thereafter perpetual light, he might now see there almost continuous daylight.

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What is more, he was immediately asked his opinion as to whom he would decree the command, and he spoke as befitted Constantius Pius: for manifestly you were chosen, O Emperor, by your father’s vote….For you were summoned even then to the rescue of the State by the votes of the immortals at the very time when your father was crossing the sea to Britain, and your sudden arrival illuminated the fleet which was already making sail, so that you seemed not to have been conveyed by the public post, but to have flown in some divine chariot. [Nixon and Rodgers, In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, page 277].

The praise of the panegyricist may sound over-the-top to modern ears, but the accomplishments of Constantius I Chlorus should not be understated. He lived a largely commendable life, was an able defender of the Roman Empire, a tolerant man in an age of grotesque anti-Christian persecution, and the sire of a heroic son who would go on to be ranked among the greatest Roman emperors.

Three Years Behind the Guns of USFS Olympia

I am happy to present the preface for a brand new edition of the classic Three Years Behind the Guns. Originally published in 1908, this book is a gritty, rambunctious memoir describing a young sailor's life aboard USFS Olympia from 1895 through 1898, including his first-hand account of the battle of Manila Bay.

The book is a treasure, and anyone with an interest in naval history in general, or the museum ship Olympia in particular, should read it. The publisher is donating part of the proceeds to the upkeep of the ship.

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May 1, 1898 is often cited as the exact date when the United States of America transformed from a relatively minor regional power, to a bona fide player on the world stage. On that day, the U.S. Asiatic Squadron under Commodore George Dewey in his flagship Olympia, utterly crushed the fleet of the fast-fading Spanish empire at Manila Bay in the Philippines.

Though it was penned during these heady days, Three Years Behind the Guns is not so much a chronicle of this turning point in history, as it is the unique perspective of one young sailor on the events leading up to it. It is a pithy memoir of life aboard a man-o’-war as the age of “wooden ships and iron men” was giving way to the era of big guns, heavy steel, and high speed. Of these new ships, the protected cruiser Olympia was both a prototype and an outstanding example. Though our author is the main character of this memoir, U.S.F.S. Olympia is the leading lady.

Little is known about the author of Three Years Behind the Guns. On the earliest editions of the book, he is listed cryptically as “L. G. T.” In later editions, he is identified as “Lieu Tisdale.” A check of Olympia’s crew roster at Manila Bay, however, reveals no one of that precise name. Instead, there is a listing for “John B. Tisdale, Landsman.” This is probably our fellow, given that within the book itself, he is addressed on numerous occasions as “Jack” by his shipmates, a Japanese girl, and even by himself while soliloquizing. The reason he chose to publish the book anonymously is unknown. [Olympia's crew roster at Manila Bay may be found here.]

Since the days of Ulysses, sailors have been known for their tall-tales, and our Jack is no exception. His numerous anecdotes sparkle with wit and verve, even when they sound suspiciously apocryphal. The reader will find literal fish-stories here—such as when Jack captures a two-foot-long flying fish on the deck or when a shipmate nearly loses a toe while doing some illicit angling. But there are also descriptions of more somber events that are easily verified by outside sources, such as the death Coxswain John Johnson who was killed during gunnery practice, and the wreck of the steamer On-Wo with the loss of 255 passengers and crew. Jack and his Olympian crewmates pulled 38 survivors from the water and were commended for their efforts.

Olympia in a typhoon.

Perhaps the most impressive thumbs-up for the memoir’s authenticity comes from none other than Admiral Dewey himself, the hero of Manila Bay. In an antique advertisement, the admiral provides a generous endorsement of the book, saying: “Many of my friends and I have read it with the greatest interest. I can vouch for many of the facts; and the description of the Battle of Manila Bay is one of the best I have ever seen published. The type and active life of our American seamen is well and interestingly portrayed, and the book is well worth the attention of both young and old.”

When originally published in 1908—ten years after the battle—Jack’s anonymous memoir met with critical acclaim. The New York Times called it: “An intimate record of life aboard an American man-of-war, and is written with such detail, vivacity, and the knack for vivid expression that it keeps one turning pages until the last one is reached. This Jackie has keen eyes and quick ears, and can put the things he saw and thought about into particularly vigorous English.”

The New York Observer added: “Though sufficiently simple and direct in style to hold the interest of the young reader, this book will be found by grown-ups to be absorbing as a novel.”

When first published, the book was billed as a behind-the-scenes look at life aboard a modern American warship at a time when the U.S. was building giant dreadnought battleships by the dozen and recruiting thousands of young fellows to man them. But time and technology were flying by and within another decade, the catastrophe of the Great War had thrown into eclipse the comparatively minor incident of the Spanish-American War. The subsequent epic struggle of World War II with its colossal ships, ocean-spanning battles and city-shattering weaponry made Dewey’s victory at Manila Bay seem as ancient and obscure as Trafalgar or Salamis.

I believe that the modern reader, particularly the student of history, will find Three Years Behind the Guns even more captivating than the reader of 110 years ago. For young readers of today whose grandparents were born during the 1950s, reading about life aboard a warship from the 1890s is like a visit to an old Victorian mansion. If you’ve toured Dewey’s Olympia in Philadelphia where she exists to this day, you know that is a literal truth. The lovely dark wood paneling and antique furniture in the officers’ quarters contrasts sharply with the painted steel and spartan decks of the crew areas, and the grime and oppressive atmosphere of the engineering spaces. This is the scene where the authentic “steam punk” of Tisdale’s story plays out, complete with coming-of-age hijinks, grinding machinery, clouds of black smoke and moments of sad contemplation.

Like Olympia herself, Three Years Behind the Guns is a hybrid—part solid fact, part work of art. Both ship and book are unique historical artifacts of a bygone era, which is one of the reasons why a portion of the sales of this book will be donated to the continuing upkeep of U.S.F.S. Olympia and her steward, the Independence Seaport Museum in Philadelphia. Such beautiful mementos deserve to be maintained if for no other reason than as concrete reminders of how we got here.

A sailor on board Olympia.

This new edition of this classic work will be published in a format that is easily accessible for modern readers. The text is practically untouched from the original. Jack’s unique voice and witty observations come through loud and clear as they did over a century before. His vivid account breathes life into Olympia which he knew not as a retired museum ship, but as the powerful, hardy seahawk that she was in her prime. “The flag-ship is a thing alive,” he wrote. “It has parts and being. We have heard it breathe, and who will question that in Captain Reed, it has both brain and soul?” 

Tisdale originally dedicated Three Years Behind the Guns to “every man who has walked the decks of a man-of-war.” This new edition should be dedicated in particular to the repose of the soul of John B. Tisdale. He was a man who not only walked the decks, but who recorded his impressions with such trenchant good humor and eloquent detail, that people a century and more afterwards might feel as if they are walking along right beside him.

Indeed, if you every find yourself aboard Olympia, go and look for him. You may glimpse his shade still standing faithfully at his post—behind the guns.

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To pre-order Three Years Behind the Guns on Amazon.com (due to publish, July 28, 2017), click here.

When Saint Benedict met Totila, King of the Goths

Totila kneels before Saint Benedict by Spinello Aretino (1388).

In the mid 6th century, the Eastern Roman Emperor, Justinian I, launched a campaign to reconquer the lost province of Italy for the Empire. Though his great general, Belisarius, was able to cripple the Gothic kingdom in Italy and capture its capital at Ravenna, he not able to complete the conquest at that time. Soon after he returned to Constantinople, a fierce new Gothic king arose, Totila by name, who revived the fortunes of the Goths and very nearly undid all of the gains made by Belisarius.

One of the lesser known acts of Totila was his visit the famous abbot Benedict at his monastery at Monte Cassino. This event was not recorded in Procopius, the primary classical historian of the age, but rather in the Dialogues of Saint Gregory the Great. The Dialogues include the oldest extant biography of the Saint Benedict and this account may be found therein. Since July 11 is the feast day of Saint Benedict, it seems fitting to present Pope Gregory's description of this extraordinary encounter:

In the time of the Goths, when Totila, their king, understood that the holy man had the spirit of prophecy, as he was going towards his monastery, he remained in a place somewhat far off, and beforehand sent the father word of his coming: to whom answer was returned, that he might come at his pleasure. The king, as he was a man wickedly disposed, thought he would try whether the man of God were a prophet, as it was reported, or no.

A certain man of his guard he had, called Riggo, upon whom he caused his own shoes to be put, and to be apparelled with his other princely robes, commanding him to go as it were himself to the man of God; and to give the better colour to this device, he sent three to attend upon him, who especially were |74 always about the king: to wit, Vultericus, Rudericus, and Blindinus; charging them that in the presence of the servant of God, they should be next about him, and behave themselves in such sort as though he had been king Totila indeed: and that diligently they should do unto him all other services, to the end that both by such dutiful kind of behavior, as also by his purple robes, he might verily be taken for the king himself. Riggo, furnished with that brave apparel, and accompanied with many courtiers, came unto the Abbey: at which time the man of God sat a little way off, and when Riggo was come so near that he might well understand what the man of God said, then, in the hearing of them all, he spake thus: "Put off, my good son, put off that apparel, for that which thou hast on, is none of thine."

Riggo, hearing this, fell straightways down to the ground, and was very much afraid, for presuming to go about to mock so worthy a man, and all his attendants and servitors fell down likewise to the earth, and after they were up again, they durst not approach any nearer to his presence: but returned back to their king, telling him with fear, how quickly they were discovered. [Dialogues, Book II, Chapter 14]

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After his strategem failed, Totila approached the abbot in his own right and sought an interview with him. Things did not go as well as he might have hoped:

Then Totila himself in person went unto the man of God; and seeing him sitting afar off, he durst not come near, but fell down to the ground: whom the holy man (speaking to him twice or thrice) desired to rise up and at length came unto him, and with his own hands lifted him up from the earth, where he lay prostrate: and then, entering into talk, he reprehended him for his wicked deeds, and in few words told him all that which should befall him, saying: "Much wickedness do you daily commit, and many great sins have you done: now at length give over your sinful life. Into the city of Rome shall you enter, and over the sea shall you pass: nine years shall you reign, and in the tenth shall you leave this mortal life."

The king, hearing these things, was wonderfully afraid, and desiring the holy man to commend him to God in his prayers, he departed: and from that time forward he was nothing so cruel as before he had been. Not long after he went to Rome, sailed over into Sicily, and, in the tenth year of his reign, he lost his kingdom together with his life. [Dialogues, Book II, Chapter 15]

Procopius records that Totila, while besieging the city of Rome in AD 546, had a bishop's hands cut off, and furthermore threatened to raze the city to the ground and execute the entire Roman senate. Soon afterwards, he thought better of his threats, and when he finally took the city he spared both its inhabitants and its monuments. Procopius attributes this clemency to a letter written by his adversary, Belisarius, which read, in part: 

"[Rome's] monuments belong to posterity, and an outrage committed upon them will rightly be regarded as a great injustice to all future generations...Remember that your reputation in the eyes of the world is at stake." [Procopius, History of the Wars, VII, xii]

It's quite possible that this letter turned aside the wrath of Totila. However, it could also be that the Goth king's moderation was brought about by a stern warning given to him by the holy founder of Western monasticism, Saint Benedict of Nursia.

"At the age of 20, I committed a crime of passion." ~ The confession of Alessandro Serenelli

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July 6 is the feast day of Saint Maria Goretti, a girl of 11 who was brutally murdered because she refused to submit to the sexual advances of Alessandro Serenelli, age 20. Having been stabbed 14 times, Maria survived another day while surgeons tried in vain to save her. During this time, she forgave her attacker and expressed hope that he would be with her someday in heaven. Maria died of her wounds on July 6, 1902.

Nearly 60 years later, Alessandro Serenelli wrote an amazing letter. It was found in a sealed envelope after his death, and reads as follows:

I am now almost 80 years old. I am close to the end of my days.

Looking back at my past, I recognize that in my early youth I followed a false road—an evil path that led to my ruin.  

Through the content of printed magazines, immoral shows, and bad examples in the media, I saw the majority of the young people of my day following evil without even thinking twice. Unworried, I did the same thing.

There were faithful and practicing Christian believers around me, but I paid no attention to them. I was blinded by a brute impulse that pushed me down the wrong way of living.  At the age of 20, I committed a crime of passion, the memory of which still horrifies me today. Maria Goretti, now a saint, was my good angel whom God placed in my path to save me. Her words both of rebuke and forgiveness are still imprinted in my heart. She prayed for me, interceding for her killer. Thirty years in prison followed.

The only known photo of
Maria Goretti.

If I had not been a minor in Italian law I would have been sentenced to life in prison. Nevertheless, I accepted the sentence I received as something I deserved. 

Resigned, I atoned for my sin. Little Maria was truly my light, my protectress. With her help, I served those 27 years in prison well. When society accepted me back among its members, I tried to live honestly. With angelic charity, the sons of St. Francis, the minor Capuchins of the Marches, welcomed me among them not as a servant, but as a brother. I have lived with them for 24 years. Now I look serenely to the time in which I will be admitted to the vision of God, to embrace my dear ones once again, and to be close to my guardian angel, Maria Goretti, and her dear mother, Assunta.

May all who read this letter of mine desire to follow the blessed teaching of avoiding evil and following the good. May all believe with the faith of little children that religion with its precepts is not something one can do without. Rather, it is true comfort, and the only sure way in all of life’s circumstances—even in the most painful. 

Peace and all good. 

Alessandro Serenelli
Macerata, Italy 5 May 1961 

We were fortunate enough to have the relics of St. Maria Goretti at our parish a few years ago, thanks to the Pilgrimage of Mercy Tour of the Major Relics. Their website is an excellent source of information about Saint Maria, as well as Alessandro Serenelli.

The major relics of St. Maria Goretti.