18 - In the Catacombs

Crives Fastanus was a gladiator who was pardoned and set free by Claudius Caesar. Sometime later he was given a position as an attendant in Nero’s circus on the Vaticanum. Now in his mid-fifties, he looked back on a life that consisted mostly of mortal struggles with four-footed and two-footed beasts and that he had persevered only because his astounding physique had endured far beyond the age at which gladiators were expected to make a good showing in the arena. But for every victorious combat, there was a sign on his body, a memento he would carry to his grave.

Indeed his body was a record, for it was covered with a network of scars, old sword wounds and the marks of teeth and claws. His nose was flat, one eye was slit and the other was missing. There was a hole in one cheek, constantly whimpering. In preserving his own life, he’d taken many others, slashed so many bodies that he lost all feeling with regard to the death of a human being. The sight of a man in his last agonies moved him about as much as the sight of a dying insect.

Yet, here was Crives Fastanus walking anxiously through the alleys of the Trans-Tiber, asking every coppersmith and sandal sewer, in a low, gentle voice, “Can you tell me where I can find Miriam the perfume mixer?”

The men he asked invariably started back from him. His vast, naked breast was like a ruined battlefield, his mighty arms were like battering rams, and his one eye emitted a dull, heavy light. His helmet showed him to be a gladiator, and the bronze tablet proclaimed him a servant in the imperial household, an attendant in Nero’s circus. And every Jew in the Trans-Tiber knew that regular meetings of Jewish Christians occurred in Miriam’s house.

Therefore every man who answered him told him no.

The Jews weren’t really sure why Miriam hadn’t been arrested, for her house was as well known among the Christians of Rome as that of Priscilla and Aquila had been in the past. So they thought this might be a belated attempt to take her. But that made no sense since a lone man would not set out to make arrests. Besides, there was something in this giant elderly man’s bearing. His voice was rough, but low and pleading.

Finally he found someone who would talk with him. Mordecai, a Christian, sold pots from a stall on the Tiber banks.

“How do you know that name?” Mordecai asked cautiously.
“One of the Christians gave it to me before he was driven into the arena.”
“Why would a Christian betray one of his kind to you?”
“I begged him for it, do you hear? I want to be one of them.”
“You want to be a Christian?”

Mordecai shrank away from the old gladiator.

“You heard me.”
“But don’t you see,” asked Mordecai, lowering his voice, “what they do to them?”
“I would rather die with you than live as I have lived till now.”

The pottery merchant remained silent, turning this over in his mind. Was this the trick of a spy? It couldn’t be. The man’s face might be brutal, but it was utterly devoid of cunning. And even the brutality was softened by something shining from within.

“You say a Christian gave you the name.”

“Yes. I was among those who drove him into the arena with the whip, and I envied him. I’ve seen many men die in pain in the arena over the years. But I’ve never seen men die as these men and women died, with a song on their lips and joy in their eyes. I want to be one of them, you hear me? I asked this Christian to give me the name of one to whom I could turn, who would take me into the company of Christians.”

Quickly Mordecai made up his mind. He turned his stall over to a neighbor and led Crives Fastanus to Miriam’s house.


A gathering of the faithful met in the little apartment on the top floor of the old house, and their clothes were torn in mourning for those who would never again break bread in this place. Miriam and her visitors sat on the floor, according to custom, for it was less than a week since her two sons and their wives had been put to death.

The few leaders who remained were there also. There was Rufus, one of the founders of the congregation, and his mother, an old woman with sorrowful eyes. She came from Jerusalem, and it had been her lifelong dream to return to the Holy City. There was Linus, a middle-aged man with a stern, strong face set in a black beard. He’d begun to reorganize the remnants of the congregation on the very day following the dread slaughter in the circus. Eubulus and Pudens helped him. There were others, too, and they sat barefoot on the ground with Miriam.

Their voices were low, and they didn’t talk about the martyrs or the past, but about the congregation and the future. After the slaughter they feared that there would be a great falling off of converts. The congregation would remain a tiny group, perhaps even scattered abroad, as in the days of Claudius. They discussed plans for bringing together those who remained alive and taking them to the Via Appia quarter, where Simon Peter was hiding. Perhaps he could comfort them.

As they sat thus talking, there was a knock at the door. Mordecai, the Jew, who was one of them, entered leading Crives Fastanus, who’d been whipping Christian prisoners just a few days before.

Many of the lives lost had been due to spies, so the group was not easily convinced that the old gladiator had pure intentions. But Crives Fastanus lay at their feet with his face turned to the floor, and begged them in a broken voice to believe him.

“I come,” he cried, “from the lovely land of Galatia. It’s a green land where the moss on the stones makes you think of spring. I was just a child when they snatched me from my mother’s side, and from that day on I’ve lived in the midst of blood. They taught me to fight and to preserve my life by taking the lives of others. Indeed, I lived only to take the lives of others. I believed that the greatest happiness was to be alive and that nothing mattered but whatever helped me to stay alive.

“I believed this until I saw your men and women dying with songs on their lips and joy in their hearts. And then I knew my belief had been a false one, and there is greater happiness than life. There is eternal happiness. I beg you, take me back to the springtime of my childhood, to the heavenly fields where the good shepherd, Jesus Christ, feeds his flock. I want to be one of his sheep.”

“When did you hear them speak this way?”

“During their imprisonment and in the hour of their death. I heard them sing of green pastures by still waters, and of the shepherd. All my life I’ve sent men to their death, but I never heard one go with a song on his lips. And before the last of them were driven into the arena, I begged them to take compassion on me and tell me who could make me one of them. There was a man who believed me, and he gave me the name of a woman I could talk to. Please don’t turn your faces from me, but lead me to the good shepherd, Jesus Christ, whose name I’ve learned to call on.”

The believers looked at each other, and one said, “Surely God has sent the tormentors to take the places of the martyrs in the congregation. Blessed be the Name of God!”

They received the gladiator into the faith that day and taught him all the signs of the faithful.

* * * * *

As it was with Crives Fastanus, so it was with many others who’d witnessed the deaths in the arena by day and on the campus at night. It was the first time masses of Romans heard the song of hope and triumph from those entering the shadows of the underworld, and many of them were seized with an irresistible desire to learn the secret of the faith that transformed the darkness of the underworld into the light of everlasting life.


Figures came stealing through the streets while Rome slept. They came from rich homes and they came from crowded shelters where the homeless lived. There were Jews and Gentiles, freedmen and slaves. They exchanged the secret signs of the faith, drawing the symbol of a fish in the air, or an anchor on the ground, and they whispered instructions to each other. The gathering was to take place on the Via Appia where they would break bread, eat the common meal, and hear words of comfort from Simon Peter.

And so it was that the fears of the congregational leaders were proved false; for the torment visited on the believers only strengthened the growth of the faith. It was as if a competition had set in tacitly between the two powers, the cruelty of Nero and the love of Christ over the heart of man. It turned out that the greater the danger to the Christian congregation, the larger were the numbers that were drawn to it.

Among the non-Christian Jews the deaths of the Christians created a profound impression. Martyrdom itself was part of the Jewish tradition, so the newcomers, who died as Jewish martyrs had died from time immemorial, came to be regarded as brothers.

The Jewish synagogue, legal by Roman law, became the cover to the Christian faith. It was to a Jewish synagogue in the catacombs that the Christians were now hurrying. They slipped through the darkness across the Sublicius bridge, down from the Aventine hill, and even from the slopes of the Palatine toward the Porta Capena and the Via Appia.

Now these particular catacombs were new and not yet known to Tigellinus’ spies and so provided a second layer of protection to the believers’ secret meetings. There was a large subterranean hall at the center of the catacombs, from which extended the labyrinthine corridors. Funeral services were held here, as were congregational assemblies and anniversary services for the dead. The walls were decorated with sacred designs, candelabra, citrus fruits, grapes and palm branches. Images of the ram’s horn, the shofar, appeared here and there. It was the symbol of the resurrection that would come with Christ. There were drawings of Abraham and Isaac, representing the sacrifice, and of Jonah in the belly of the fish. Here the Christians found refuge and a place of worship under the light of oil lamps.

On this first re-assembly of Christians after the great calamity, there were strange and moving encounters. Servants and masters who had no idea that the other was of the faith came face to face as brothers. Men and women who’d hidden their inner lives from each other out of fear of betrayal embraced and wept with joy. The blood Nero shed, the sword he still held over the community, drew the Christians together in a bond that was stronger than ever. More than brothers and sisters of one family, they were more like members of one body. No one knew when he would be called on to testify for Christ, but they all knew that sooner or later death would be their common portion. And beyond death, which was but a gate, rebirth and everlasting life would be their common portion.

When the believers had taken their places, Simon Peter was brought in from his hiding place. They crowded around him as he spoke. He said a prayer and then observed a time of silence with all the others, on their knees with faces buried on the ground. After a long pause, bread was broken and distributed and the cup of wine was passed from hand to hand. They all felt they were sanctified and united in Christ and in his sufferings.

* * * * *

One night the hall of the catacombs was surrounded by a band of legionaries. Tigellinus’ spies had discovered the secret meeting place of the Christians. There was no cry of terror, or sign of panic, when the soldiers broke into the service. The worshippers remained where they were, their faces pressed against the cold stone, their thoughts stubbornly given to Christ. And even when they were chained and dragged out into the night, they said not a word, but meditated on their faith.

Among the prisoners were the disciple Simon Peter and the one-time gladiator Crives Fastanus.