Countless ashes of the saints have we beheld in the city of Romulus, O Valerianus, holy in Christ. You ask for the titles cut into the tombs and each single name: it is hard for me to be able to recount them. So great a multitude of the righteous did impious fury swallow up, when Trojan Rome worshipped her ancestral gods. Very many sepulchres marked with little letters speak forth either the name of a martyr or some epigram, yet there are also dumb marbles, silent, enclosing voiceless tombs, which signify only the number. How great the bodies of men that lie in heaped-up mounds, one may know, though you read no names of theirs. Sixty there, buried beneath one mass, were the relics of men, I remember to have learned—whose appellations Christ alone has ascertained, inasmuch as He has joined them to His own friendship.
While I survey this place with my eyes and follow, wherever they may lie hidden, the inscriptions of ancient things through the monuments, I find Hippolytus, who once as a presbyter had clung to the schism of Novatus, denying that our ways were to be followed, yet advanced even to the noble mark of martyrdom, bore away the shining rewards of a bloody execution. Nor marvel that an old man once endowed with the office of a perverse dogma should attain the catholic faith. When now, as victor, he was being snatched away by the raging enemy, his soul exulting at the destruction of the flesh, he went amid the love of his people, with many accompanying; consulted as to which sect were the better, he answered: 'Flee, O wretched ones, the accursed schisms of Novatus; restore yourselves to the catholic peoples! Let one faith flourish, founded in the ancient temple, which Paul holds fast and which the chair of Peter holds.
What I have taught, I am grieved to have taught: a venerable martyr I behold, which I deemed to be far from the worship of God.' When with these words he had turned the people aside from the left-hand path and shown them to follow where the right way calls, and offered himself as a leader of the right course, the very man who before had been the author of error, spurning the windings—he is set before the mad governor, who was then harrying the Christians at the Tiberine mouths. For on that day Rome had withdrawn itself, that he might shake the very suburban peoples with the plague, not content to stain the soil within the walls of lofty Rome with the constant slaughters of the righteous. When he beheld the Janiculum already drenched, the forums, the rostra, the Subura flooded with the deluge of blood, he had carried his rage to the shore of the Tyrrhenian coast and to whatever places the sea-harbour holds nearest.
Amid executioners and crowded throngs of officials he sat, lifted higher upon a built-up throne; he burned to deliver to perfidy the disciples of the faith and the rebels against detestable idolatry. He had ordered the ranks—shaggy with the filth of prison—to stand over against him, to be tortured in dreadful ways. Hence the rattle of dragged chains, hence the hiss of leather scourges, the crash of clattering rods, the claw fixed in the hollow lattice-work of the ribs to lay open deep recesses and to tear the liver. And now, with the torturers wearied, the judge fell into fury, raging at the fruitless inquiry—for none was found among the servants of Christ, amid such tortures, who would dare to defile his soul—thence the raving inquisitor said: 'Now, torturer, leave off the hook, if the inquiry is vain; do your work with death.
Strike off this man's head; let the cross lift that one into the air and offer his living eyes to the birds; seize these headlong and, bound, cast them into the fire—let there be a pyre that may devour many condemned at once. Lo, here are those whom you should hasten to set upon the leaky skiff, to drive out into the deep pools of the sea's midst. When the unsound boat has carried them, once taken aboard, across the raging water, and, battered, slipped beneath the swelling waves, let the loosened planks open up the rotting keel, and let them drink in shipwreck from every side. The scaly monster shall furnish a sepulchre in its slimy belly, the beast gorged on the consumed corpses.' As he ranted thus, suddenly before the lofty tribunal an old man is presented, entangled in bonds. The young men crowded round, crying out that he was himself the head of the Christian peoples:
if he were to wet—to quench—the head promptly, all the hearts of the common folk would of their own accord be consecrated to the Roman gods. They demand an unwonted kind of death and new-found punishments, by whose example the rest might tremble. He, sitting back with neck bent upward, said: 'What is he called?' They affirm that he is called Hippolytus. 'Then let him be Hippolytus: let him drive and disturb a team and perish, torn apart by wild horses.' Scarcely had he said this, when two beasts, ignorant of the rein, are forced to set their necks beneath the unaccustomed yoke—no kindly creatures, soothed by the master's caressing hand, and trained beforehand to suffer the rider's command, but a herd of the plain, lately captured wild from the roaming drove, which a beast-like terror drives in its untamed heart. And now they had coupled the resisting pair with bonds and bound their mouths in a discordant compact:
in place of a pole there is a rope, which divides the backs of the two and, in the middle, touches each flank, and, stretching itself in length backward from the yoke behind the tracks, is drawn along, passes through, and reaches the soles of the feet. At its far end, where the worn rut of the hooves follows the retreating roads upon the topmost dust, a noose binds the man's legs and with a tenacious knot draws tight the soles of his feet and ties them with the cord. After they had sufficiently equipped for the martyr's punishment, with composed array, the lashes, the bonds, the beasts, they goad them with sudden shouts and with whips, and pierce their flanks with hostile spurs. The last word heard of the venerable old man was this: 'Let these snatch away my limbs; do You, O Christ, snatch away my soul!' The beasts burst forth eagerly and are borne along in blind wandering, wherever sound and shudder, wherever frenzy drives them.
Ferocity kindles them, impetus seizes them, and the crash urges them on, nor does the winged course feel the moving burden. Through woods, over rocks they rush; no river-bank delays them, nor does an opposing torrent restrain; they overthrow hedges and break through every obstacle; they make for the steep, the rugged; they leap across the heights. Torn bit by bit, as the body is shattered, the bristling field plucks the fragments upon thorn-bearing stocks. Part hangs from the topmost crags, part clings to the brambles; in one place the leaves grow red, in another the ground is wet. The wall has, smeared upon it, an emblem of the crime, on which the many-coloured pigment sets forth all the horror; painted above the tomb, the scene thrives in liquid shades, depicting the bloody limbs of the dragged man. I have seen the dripping points of the rocks, most excellent father, and the crimson marks set upon the briars.
A skilled hand had counterfeited, by imitation, the green thickets and the reddish gore with vermilion. One could see, with the joints rent, the limbs scattered, lying in no order through uncertain places. He had added dear ones following with step and tears, where the byway points out the broken path that strayed. Stunned with grief and with searching eyes they went, and filled their bosoms with the mangled flesh. One embraces the snowy head and cherishes the reverend white hairs in his soft lap; another gathers the shoulders, the severed hands, the arms and forearms, the knees, and the bare fragments of the legs. With little cloaks, too, the thirsty sands are dried, lest any dew remain in the soaked dust. And if any blood, with warm sprinkling, settles upon the stakes, a pressed sponge snatches up all of it.
Nor now does the dense wood retain anything of the holy body, nor defraud it of full funeral rites. And when, with the parts reviewed, that number was made complete which had been the count of the whole body, and the cleansed wilds owed nothing of the entire man, the leaves and crags having been wiped clean, a place is chosen, to be measured out for a tomb. They leave Ostia; Rome is pleasing, to hold the holy ashes. Not far off, by the cultivated suburbs at the outer rampart, a crypt lies open, sunk in lurking pits. The downward path into its hiding-place teaches one to go by steps that bend back through the windings, with the light fading away. For at the very first doors it enters with a gaping aperture from the top, and the daylight illumines the threshold of the vestibule.
Thence, when by easy progress the dark night of the place has seemed to blacken through the doubtful cavern, openings let into the lofty roofs meet you, which cast clear rays down upon the grottoes. However doubtful the recesses they weave on this side and that, narrow halls beneath shadowy porticoes, yet, beneath the hollowed bowels of the cut mountain, frequent light penetrates through the bored vault. Thus is it granted to discern the radiance of the absent sun through the subterranean passages, and to enjoy its lights. To such hidden places is the body of Hippolytus entrusted, hard by where an altar dedicated to God is set. That table, bestower of the sacrament and likewise faithful guardian of its own martyr, set there, keeps the bones in the tomb against the hope of the eternal Vindicator, and likewise feeds the dwellers by the Tiber with holy banquets.
Wondrous is the holiness of the place, and the altar, ready for those who pray, aids the hopes of men with calm prosperity. Here, sick in soul and body through corruptions, how often have I prayed, prostrate, and won relief! That I rejoice in my return, that it has been permitted, venerable priest, to embrace you again, that I write these very things—I know that I owe it to Hippolytus, to whom Christ our God has granted the power to grant whatever any man asks. That little shrine which holds within it those relics of the soul flashes with solid silver. A wealthy hand has fixed in front gleaming plates on a smooth surface, such as a hollowed mirror shines with; nor content to cover the entrance with Parian stones, it has added bright talents for adorning the work. In the morning men run together to pay their greeting: all the youth adore; they come, they return, even until the setting of the sun.
The love of religion gathers into one wedge, mingled together, the Latin and the foreign peoples. They fix kisses pressed upon the bright metal, they pour out balsam, they wet their faces with weeping. And now, when the year renews itself, the months having run their course, and the festal passion brings back the natal day, how great the throngs you may think are gathered in zealous rivalry, and what vows assemble to celebrate God! Imperial Rome pours forth and spills out her Quirites; in equal eagerness the plebeian phalanx confounds the patricians, with their bosses level, the distinction of nobles being cast aside as faith presses headlong. No less does the white-robed host spread itself from the Alban gates and is led in long ranks; the murmurs of the various ways exult on this side and that; the native folk and the Picene and the Etruscan come.
The fierce Samnite hastens, and the Campanian, dweller of lofty Capua, and now the man of Nola is present; each one, glad with his sweet wife and with his children, longs to make the swift journey. Scarcely do the open plains contain the joys of the peoples, and the dense cohort sticks fast even in great spaces. There is no doubt that that crypt is too narrow for such hosts, though it lie open with an ample mouth. But there stands beside it another thing, a temple, which such a multitude may then approach, noble in royal worship, lofty with high walls and mighty in proud majesty, and opulent with gifts. A double row of columns sustains the panelled ceiling of the roof, set beneath gilded beams.
Slender recesses are added beneath a lower roof, which curve out the row of sides continuously; but a broader way opens up the middle expanses, rising aloft with a higher peak of lofty roof-ridge. Beneath the facing front a tribunal is raised on high by steps, whence the bishop proclaims God. The house, laboring, scarcely receives the surging waves, and, narrow, seethes with the crowded doorways, opening its maternal bosom, wherein it may store its nurslings and, heaped up, cherish in its lap the offspring it has brought forth. If I remember well, most beautiful Rome honours this place on the Ides of the month of August, as she herself calls the day in ancient fashion; which you too, holy master, I would wish to reckon among the yearly festivals. Believe it: he will bring health-bearing risings to those who venerate, restoring the rewards of an honoured light.
Among the solemn days of Cyprian, or of Chelidonius and Eulalia, let this one too run its course for you. So may Christ the omnipotent hear you praying on behalf of the people, whose life is entrusted to you; so may the wolf be shut out from your full sheepfold, and may no captured ewe-lamb diminish your flock; so may you, a diligent shepherd, bring me back at the last—a sick sheep remaining on the grassy plain; so, when you have filled the folds with milk-white lambs, may you yourself too, caught up, be a companion to holy Hippolytus.