Twice nine martyrs' ashes our people keep in a single tomb; we call the city Caesaraugusta, to which belongs so great a treasure. A house full of great angels, it fears not the ruin of the fragile world, bearing at once in its bosom so many gifts to be offered to Christ. When God, shaking His flashing right hand, shall come, upborne on a reddening cloud, to set a just balance for the nations with even weight, then, roused from the great globe, the city shall hasten head-on to meet Christ, each bearing precious gifts in baskets. African Carthage will bring forth your bones, O Cyprian, teacher of eloquent mouth; Cordova will give Acisclus and Zollus and three crowns. You, Tarraco, mother of the pious, will offer to Christ a fair diadem with three gems, into which Fructuosus wove a stitched bond.
This is the name of a gem bound in a fillet; beside it twin stones flash, and the matching splendor of the two burns with gleaming fire. Wealthy Gerunda will display the small glory of Felix in his holy limbs; our Calagurris will bear them both, whom we venerate. Barcino, trusting in famous Cucufas, will rise up, and Narbo, made beautiful by Paul; and you, mighty Arelas, will hold you, holy Genesius. The capital of the cities of the Lusitanians, that city snatching the ashes of the adored maiden to the altar to meet Christ, will offer her herself. The blood of Justus, to whom Pastor cleaves, a double dish and twin gift, it will please Complutum to bear in her bosom the bodies of the two. Tingis will bring forth her own Cassian, the festal monuments of the Massylian kings, whose ash drove the conquered nations to the yoke of Christ.
Single martyrs will please some cities, three or two, perhaps even five others, who first discharged the pledge of victims as witnesses of Christ. You, Caesaraugusta, zealous for Christ, will bring back ten saints and eight, your crown bound with golden olive-branches, with the honor of peace. You alone have prepared more numerous throngs of martyrs to meet the Lord; you alone, abounding in much piety, enjoy the light. Scarcely is the populous parent-globe of the Carthaginian, scarcely even Rome herself set upon her throne, worthy to surpass you, O our glory, in this gift. At all the gates the sacred immolated blood shut out the race of envious demons and drove off the black darkness, the city purified. No horror of shades lurks within; for, the plague driven off, it flees the people, Christ dwells in all the streets, Christ is everywhere.
You would believe this land owed to the martyrs' sacred crowns, whence a choir rising up, snow-white in the toga of robed nobility, stretches toward heaven. Thence, O Vincent, your palm was born; this clergy alone bore so great a triumph, this the chaptered house of priests, the Valerii. As often as a fierce whirlwind shook the world, harassed by ancient storms, a more grievous fury brought its wrath into this temple. Nor did any of ours yield without praise, or empty of glorious blood; the number of martyrs ever grew beneath every hailstorm. Did you not, O Vincent, a martyr to be slain abroad, with this dark, slight dew of blood mark the likeness of a future death by your approaching end? This the citizens honor, as though her own turf enclosed the very limbs, and, with fatherly embrace, kept in the tomb the bones of the blessed martyr.
He is ours, although, suffering far hence in an unknown city, as victor he gave the glory of his sepulcher near the shore of the deep, by chance close to Saguntum. Ours too is the boy in our wrestling-school, anointed with the oil of valor and faith, who learned to subdue the dreadful foe by his strength. He had known the famous palms won in this temple eight times and ten over, and, instructed by his fathers' laurels, ran the same course with the same praise. Here too, O Encratis, rest the bones of your virtues, by which, violent virgin, you disgraced the spirit of the savage world. To none of the martyrs, with life remaining, did it fall to dwell upon our lands; you alone, surviving your own death, live in the world. You live and unfold the sequence of your punishment, and, retaining the spoil of your mangled flesh, you tell how foul, with bitter furrows, the wounds are.
The barbarous torturer plucked at every side; blood was spent, the limbs were torn, the breast lay open with the nipple cut off, beneath the very heart. Already the price of the death now accomplished is less, which, abolishing the venomed pains, gave to the limbs a hastened rest with sleep-like end. The raw scar held you long, and the burning pain clung long to your veins, while the wasting humor thinned the rotting marrow. Although the envious sword of the persecutor denied you the final death, full punishment crowns you, O martyr, as though slain. We saw a part of your liver, torn away by the claws, lying far off, pressed down; pale death has something of yours, you also who are alive. This new title for Caesaraugusta to enjoy, Christ Himself gave, that the dedicated house should be that of a living martyr forever.
Therefore, rich with thrice six saints clothed in white, go on, together with Optatus and Lupercus, to celebrate in psalms the senate enrolled for yourself! Proclaim Successus, sing Martialis! Let the death of Urbanus be chanted in concert with you, let song resound Julia and Quintilianus together. Let the choir proclaim Publius and unroll what manner of trophy was Fronto's, what good Felix bore, what keen Caecilianus; how great a blood, O Euotus, tinged your wars; how great, O Primitivus, then let the living praise recall your triumphs, Apodemus. Beyond these there remain four men whose name the meter refuses to extol, whom ancient antiquity records as called the Saturnini. The love of golden names sets little store by the laws of song, and the care for speaking of the saints is neither faulty nor ever unpolished.
The full measure of skill is to recite to Christ the noted forms of the names, which the book of heaven holds, to be unfolded at the proper time. Then the angel will recall eight saints and ten, before the Father and the Son, holding by right of sepulcher the rule of a single city. Nay, to the ancient number shall be drawn the maiden after the proof of her punishment, and the death of Vincent, whose blood is hence the fount and font of honor — [adding Gaius — for he must not be passed in silence — and you, Crementius, to whom it fell to bear the bloodless glory from a second contest of praise. Both, having confessed the Lord, stood firmly against the roaring of the brigands; both lightly tasted the savor of martyrdoms]. This throng, set beneath the eternal altar, beseeches pardon for our falls, which the mother that begets purple-clad princes preserves.
Grant that we may, with pious weeping, wash the furrows of the marbles, beneath which hope is covered, that I may loose the bonds of my fetters. Stretch yourself wholly out, O noble city, with me upon the saints' tombs; then soon, the souls and bodies rising again, you shall wholly follow.