Missive on a Martyr
By Sonata Simonaitis-boyd
Dear Claudia,
If you are well, then I am well.
It has been two days since my arrival in Smyrna, and what I have seen of the city so far confirms what Father has told us: it truly is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen—second only, I would say, to our lovely Rome. My first day in the city consisted mainly of settling in and familiarizing myself with the surrounding area; I will send another letter detailing what I have seen once I have some more time to explore, along with some sketches if I can acquire them.
I know how much you love to hear about the games I attend on my travels, and so on the second day—that is to say, yesterday—I made my way down to the stadium. The sun was even more scorching than it is back in Rome, and I nearly left in the middle of the gladiator fights, but I pushed through to the very end of the day just for you, dear sister, so remember the things that your older brother does for you the next time you think to refuse his request for dried figs! But I will have you know that I was nearly as burnt from the sun at the end of the day as poor Marcus was during our trip to Lacedaemon last year! Even now, as I write from my shaded room, I can feel the heat in my face. But alas, my pinking cheeks are a small price to pay for the well-placed seat that I was able to acquire.
Unfortunately, I will have to forego an explanation of the earlier games as I have taken only a few pieces of papyrus with me and have yet to locate a merchant selling writing goods, and I wish to describe the final event in as much detail as possible; but let me not delay on the story any longer! I will recount the event to you as I remember it.
Just shy of the eighth hour—after the plays, and long after the gladiators, and longer still since we saw the beasts—the herald called for the execution of criminals. Only one man was brought out, nude and old enough to be our grandfather. I could not help but wonder, as I am sure you do now: What could this man have done to warrant his own death? He did not look fearful, though; in fact, his posture and expression belied his many years, and if I had not been able to trust my own eyes I might have believed that this was a man in his prime brought to stand before us.
The herald called out to us all that the man was named Polycarp, that he was a Christian, and that because of his refusal to make sacrifice to the gods, he is to die by fire.1 Truly, I will never understand those who constrain their worship to a single deity—if I only ever made sacrifice to Jupiter, king of the gods that he is, I would never feel comfortable traveling by sea again…and may I never enter a battle without the assurance that Mars was on my side! And what does it matter how much or how little you believe in any one of the gods? Surely it is most logical to offer sacrifice to them all regardless, for if one cannot help, then there will be another who can, and it would be folly to bet everything on the goodwill of only one being!
But let me not be distracted; at the herald’s words, the whole stadium took up a cheer—as did I, I will admit. As so often happens, I get swept up in the emotions of the crowd, and after a break from the violence to watch theater, it would not be untrue to say that we were all eager to come back to a little bloodshed. And save your lecture! If you had been there with me, you would have called for the pyre just as enthusiastically as any other, my sister.
But enough about the audience. A pyre was brought out for Polycarp the Christian, and he was bound to the post with rope instead of the usual nailing, oddly enough!2 I thought that the guards were fools who were setting themselves up for a chase once the fire burned through his bindings…but before they lit the pyre, Polycarp was offered the opportunity to say some last words, and made what sounded to be a final prayer to the Christian god, something along the lines of a resurrection and sacrifice and eternal glory3—I know, Claudia, that you like to hear about last words, and I apologize for not providing more concrete dialogue, but I truly could not parse much of what he said, and as good as my seat was, this man had clearly never held a job as an orator.
They lit the pyre and he burned, and then I thought that perhaps the guards were not so foolish as the nails would not have made a difference—Polycarp did not flinch. He did not struggle. He did not scream. It was almost as if he were not affected by the fire at all!4 The entire stadium was as silent as he but for the crackling of the flames as we all stared at the pyre. This was the very last thing that I would have expected, especially from such an old and frail-looking man, and even now I feel some sense of shame about myself when I think back to yesterday: here I am, complaining about my discomfort from a little sunburn, while old man Polycarp withstood the roaring flames with nary a peep! Indeed, even the most respected Roman generals would be hard-pressed to find one of their own men—or even, dare I say it, among themselves!—who could be so stoic in the face of such suffering.
But alas, the smell! As I have told you countless times—and I shall say it again for good measure—I am quite sensitive to smells, and I simply cannot stand that of burning flesh. It is cloying and hangs around in my nose and under my tongue for hours after; even now, if I swipe my tongue behind my teeth, I can almost taste what used to be Polycarp. Oh, that is a rather off-putting thought.
Well, the man’s actions—or, rather, lack thereof—were certainly impressive. Christian though he was, his ability to so calmly endure the fire was astounding and, in retrospect, brings to mind the story of Mucius Scaevola—you know of the one I reference, yes? The Roman soldier who willingly thrust his own hand into flames in contempt of the threats of the king Lars Porsenna, he the soldier who withstood the burn like it was nothing?5 As I think of it now, I cannot help but liken the two.
Would you believe that I am still not finished with my story? There is very little space left on my papyrus, so I will be quick. Polycarp was finally put to rest when one of the guards, barely out of reach of the fire, stabbed him with a sword.6 The flames were so thick that the only way we in the audience could even tell that Polycarp was wounded was by the blood left on the blade. Soon after, the fire was quenched and Polycarp and the pyre removed, and the chatter in the stadium built its way up from silence as we started discussing what we had just seen. In the moment, I think that many of us were quite disappointed by how anticlimactic the entire event had been, especially when we were used to much louder and more dramatic executions.
Polycarp’s was the only execution yesterday, and the games continued on as scheduled. Let me quickly say this: I overheard on my way out of the arena that during Polycarp’s trial, he was asked to say, “Away with the Atheists,” and he did so while gesturing at those overseeing the trial7—quite audacious of him! But if nothing else, it proves that he was as strong in conviction and spirit in life as he was in death.
Expect another letter from me soon (hopefully with the aforementioned sketches), by which point I should have stocked up sufficiently on writing materials. Give Mother, Father, and Marcus my love.
Farewell!
Aulus
The Martyrdom of Polycarp, trans. Kirsopp Lake (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1917), 327.
Martyrdom, 331.
Martyrdom, 331; Martyrdom, 333.
Martyrdom, 333.
Livy, History of Rome, Volume 1: Books 1-2, trans. B. O. Foster (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1919), 259.
Martyrdom, 333.
Martyrdom, 325.
Bibliography
The Apostolic Fathers, Volume 2: The Shepherd of Hermas; The Martyrdom of Polycarp; The Epistle to Diognetus. Translated by Kirsopp Lake. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1917.
Livy. History of Rome, Volume I: Books 1-2. Translated by B. O. Foster. Loeb Classical Library 114. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1919.