Perpetua’s Prison Diary

If the old accounts of faith are collected and written down — the ones that both testify to God’s grace and build people up, so that reading them is almost like living through the events again, and God is honored and people are made strong — then why should new instances not be collected too, when they serve both purposes just as well? If for no other reason, then for this one: that these present examples will themselves be ancient one day, and useful to those who come after, even though in their own time they are thought to carry less weight, because of the reverence people assume is owed to whatever is old.

But let those look to it who judge that the power of the Holy Spirit is one thing in one age and something else in the next. Later things ought in fact to count for more, since they stand nearer the very last times, in keeping with the abundance of grace poured out on the final stretch appointed for the world. For: “In the last days, says the Lord, I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh, and their sons and their daughters will prophesy. And on my servants, men and women alike, I will pour out my Spirit; and your young men will see visions, and your old men will dream dreams.”

And so we — who acknowledge and honor present-day visions exactly as we honor the prophecies, since visions were promised to us in the same way, and who take the other powers of the Holy Spirit to be an agency working in the church, the very thing he was sent for, dealing out every gift to everyone as the Lord assigned to each — we are bound to collect these things in writing and to remember them by reading them aloud, to God’s glory. We do it so that no weakness or loss of nerve in the faith may suppose that God’s grace lived only among people of long ago, whether in raising up martyrs or in granting revelations. For God always brings about what he has promised: as evidence to those who do not believe, and as a benefit to those who do.

And so we too declare to you what we have heard and handled with our own hands, brothers and little children, so that you who had a part in these events may be reminded of them again, to the Lord’s glory, and so that you who know them only by report may share in fellowship with the blessed martyrs, and through them with the Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory and honor forever and ever. Amen.

A group of young catechumens was arrested: Revocatus and Felicitas, a fellow slave of his, along with Saturninus and Secundulus. With them was Vivia Perpetua — well born, well educated, honorably married — who had a father and a mother and two brothers, one of them a catechumen like herself, and a son still at the breast. She was about twenty-two years old. From here on she tells the whole course of her martyrdom herself, exactly as she left it written in her own hand and out of her own mind. [c]

While we were still in the hands of those hunting us down, my father, out of his love for me, kept trying to talk me round and knock me loose from the faith. I said to him: “Father, do you see this pot lying here — a little water jar, say, or whatever it is?” “I see it,” he said. “Can it be called by any other name than what it is?” “No,” he said. “Then neither can I call myself anything but what I am: a Christian.” That word set my father off, and he threw himself at me as though he would tear my eyes out. But he only hurt me, and he went away beaten, and the devil’s arguments with him. Then for a few days I was without my father, and I thanked the Lord; his being gone was a relief to me.

In that same short stretch of days we were baptized, and the Spirit told me to ask nothing of that water except endurance in the body. A few days after that we were taken down into the prison, and I was terrified, because I had never known such darkness. What a day that was — the crushing heat from all the bodies packed in, and the rough handling by the soldiers! On top of everything, I was in agony over my baby. Tertius and Pomponius were there, the blessed deacons who looked after us, and they had arranged by a payment for us to be let out for a few hours into a better part of the prison and get some relief. So we came out of the cell, and everyone had a little time to himself. I nursed my child, who was already weak with hunger. Anxious for him, I spoke to my mother and tried to steady my brother, and I put my son in their care. It wore me down to see them worn down for my sake. I carried that worry for many days, and then I obtained permission for my baby to stay in the prison with me. At once my strength came back and I was relieved of the strain and the worry over him, and the prison turned into a palace to me, so that I would rather have been there than anywhere else.

Then my brother said to me: “My dear sister, you already stand in great honor — great enough that you may ask for a vision and be shown whether this is going to end in death or in release.” And I, knowing that I was on speaking terms with the Lord, whose kindness to me I had found so great, promised him boldly: “Tomorrow I will tell you.” So I asked, and this is what was shown me. I saw a golden ladder of extraordinary height, reaching all the way up to heaven, and so narrow that people could only go up it one at a time. Iron weapons of every kind were fastened along its sides — swords, spears, hooks, daggers — so that anyone who climbed carelessly, or without watching where he was going, would be torn open and leave his flesh hanging on the iron. And at the foot of the ladder a dragon of astonishing size lay crouching, waiting for those who came to climb, and frightening them off.

Saturus went up first. He was the one who later turned himself in of his own accord, for our sake, since he had not been with us when we were seized. He reached the top of the ladder, turned back toward me, and said: “Perpetua, I am waiting for you — but watch out that the dragon does not bite you.” And I said: “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, he will not hurt me.” And out from under the ladder, as though it were afraid of me, the dragon slowly lifted its head; and as I stepped on the first rung, I stepped on its head.

Then I went up, and I saw an immense stretch of garden, and in the middle of it a white-haired man sitting in a shepherd’s clothes, a big man, milking sheep; and standing all around him were many thousands dressed in white. He raised his head, looked at me, and said: “You are welcome, daughter.” And he called me over, and out of the cheese he was making as he milked he gave me what looked like a small piece of cake. I took it with my hands cupped together, and I ate it, and everyone standing around said, “Amen.” At the sound of their voices I woke, still tasting a sweetness I cannot describe. I told my brother about it at once, and we understood that it was going to be a death, and from that moment we stopped putting any hope in this world.

A few days later word went round that we were going to be given a hearing. And my father came to me from the city, worn out with worry. He came up to break me down, and said: “Have pity on my grey hairs, daughter. Have pity on your father, if I deserve to be called your father by you. If I brought you up with these hands to the prime of your life, if I favored you over all your brothers — do not hand me over to the contempt of the whole town. Think of your brothers, think of your mother and your aunt, think of your son, who will not be able to go on living once you are gone. Give up this determination of yours, and do not ruin us all; not one of us will be able to speak freely again if anything happens to you.” That is what my father said, out of love for me, kissing my hands and throwing himself down at my feet; and in tears he called me not daughter but “my lady.” And I grieved over my father’s grey head, that of my whole family he alone would not be glad at what I was about to suffer. And I comforted him: “On that platform, whatever God wants will happen. You know that we are not in our own hands but in God’s.” And he went away from me in grief. [k]

On another day, while we were at dinner, we were suddenly hauled off to be heard, and we came to the town hall. Word ran at once through the neighborhood around the public square, and an enormous crowd gathered. We were put up on the platform. The others were questioned and confessed. Then they came to me, and at that moment my father appeared with my little boy, pulled me down off the step, and said in a pleading voice: “Have pity on your baby.” And Hilarianus the procurator, who had only just been given the power of life and death in place of the proconsul Minucius Timinianus, who had died, said: “Spare your father’s grey hairs. Spare your little boy’s infancy. Offer the sacrifice for the well-being of the emperors.” And I answered: “I will not.” Hilarianus said: “Are you a Christian?” And I answered: “I am a Christian.” And because my father kept standing there to break me down from the faith, Hilarianus ordered him thrown to the ground and beaten with rods. My father’s misfortune hurt me as though I had been beaten myself; that is how I grieved for his wretched old age.

Then the procurator passed sentence on all of us and condemned us to the wild beasts, and we went back down to the prison in good spirits. Because my child was used to nursing from me and staying with me in the cell, I sent Pomponius the deacon to my father to ask for the baby. But my father would not hand him over. And as God willed it, the child no longer wanted the breast, and my breasts gave me no trouble — so that I would not be tormented at once by worry over my baby and by pain in my body.

A few days later, while we were all at prayer, suddenly, in the middle of the prayer, a word came out of me and I spoke the name Dinocrates. I was amazed, because that name had never once come into my mind until then, and it grieved me to remember what had happened to him. And I knew immediately that I was in a position to ask on his behalf, and that I was being called on to do it. So I began to plead for him in earnest, and to cry out to the Lord with groaning. That very night, without delay, this was shown me in a vision. I saw Dinocrates coming out of a dark place where there were a number of others as well. He was burning and desperately thirsty, his face filthy and his color pale, and he still had on his face the wound he had when he died. This Dinocrates was my brother by birth, seven years old, who died wretchedly of a disease — his face so eaten away by the sore that his death disgusted everyone who saw it. He was the one I had prayed for. Between him and me there was a wide gap, so that neither of us could come near the other. And in the same place where Dinocrates was there stood a pool full of water, with a rim higher than the boy was tall; and Dinocrates was straining upward as though to drink. It grieved me that the pool had water in it and still, because of the height of the rim, he could not drink. Then I woke, and I knew that my brother was in trouble. But I trusted that my prayer would bring help where he was suffering, and I prayed for him every day until we were moved over into the camp prison — for we were to fight at the soldiers’ games. It was the birthday of Geta Caesar. And I made my prayer for my brother day and night, groaning and weeping that he might be granted to me.

Then, on the day we were kept in the stocks, this was shown me. I saw that the place I had seen before in darkness was now bright, and Dinocrates, his body clean and well dressed, was refreshing himself. Where the wound had been, I saw a scar; and the pool I had seen before now had its rim lowered to the boy’s navel. Water was drawn from it without stopping, and on the rim stood a cup full of water. Dinocrates came up and began to drink from it, and the cup never ran dry. When he had had enough, he went off from the water to play, delighted, the way children do. Then I woke. And I understood that he had been moved out of the place of punishment.

Again, a few days later, Pudens — a soldier, the deputy officer in charge of the prison — began to hold us in great respect, because he saw that a great power of God was in us, and he let many of the brothers in to see us, so that we and they could encourage one another. And when the day of the games came near, my father came in to me, worn down with suffering, and began tearing out his beard and throwing himself on the ground and lying face down and cursing his years and saying things that would have moved anything alive. I grieved for his unhappy old age. [q]

The day before we were to fight, I saw in a vision that Pomponius the deacon had come here to the gate of the prison and was knocking hard on it. I went out to him and opened it, and he was dressed in a white robe richly worked, and he wore many calliculae. And he said to me: “Perpetua, we are waiting for you. Come!” He held out his hand to me, and we set off through rough, twisting country. We barely reached the amphitheater, out of breath, and then he led me into the middle of the arena and said to me: “Do not be afraid. I am here with you, and I am working alongside you.” And he left.

I stared in astonishment at the enormous crowd. And because I knew I had been handed over to the wild beasts, I was surprised that no beasts were let loose on me. Instead, out came an Egyptian against me, hideous to look at, with his helpers, to fight me. And to me there came handsome young men, as my helpers and supporters. I was stripped, and I became a man. My supporters began to rub me down with oil, as they do before a match, and I saw that Egyptian on the other side rolling in the sand. Then a man came out of astonishing height, so tall that he stood higher than the top of the amphitheater. He wore a loose tunic and a purple robe with two bands running down the middle of his chest, and calliculae of various shapes made of gold and silver; and he carried a rod, like a trainer of gladiators, and a green branch with golden apples on it. He called for silence and said: “If this Egyptian beats this woman, he is to kill her with the sword; and if she beats him, she is to receive this branch.” Then he stepped back.

We came at each other and began throwing blows. He kept trying to get hold of my feet; I kept striking at his face with my heels. Then I was lifted up into the air and began hitting down at him as if I were not standing on the ground at all. But when I saw the fight dragging on, I locked my hands together, laced my fingers, and took hold of his head; and he fell on his face, and I stepped on his head. The people began to shout and my supporters to cheer. And I went up to the trainer and took the branch, and he kissed me and said to me: “Peace be with you, daughter.” And I began walking in triumph toward the Gate of Life. Then I woke, and I realized that I was not going to fight with wild beasts but against the devil. Still, I knew the victory was waiting for me. This much I have written, up to the day before the games. What happens at the games themselves, let whoever wants to write it.