Some stories are carved in stone, others whispered in cloisters, and a few, like that of Nazarius and Celsus, live in the space between truth and desire. Their bones were found lying side by side in a forgotten garden outside Milan, the elder and the younger arranged as if sleep had taken them together. Ambrosius called them martyrs; others called them companions; I, Zeto, who washed their bones, saw something gentler still
The Bones of the Beautiful – A Tale of Nazarius and Celsus
as told by Zeto, servant of Ambrosius, Bishop of Milan
I’ve served the Bishop Ambrosius for many years, long enough to know that saints aren’t always born, sometimes they’re created, and sometimes, if the moment requires it, they’re paired. It doubles their value
I, Zeto, once a palace servant and a eunuch in the bishop’s household, have seen more bones than most men see bread. Bones to be washed, bones to be wrapped, bones to be displayed. Bones to be believed in when the time is right.
It was in the summer of the consulship of Tatianus and Symmachus that Ambrosius sent me to the garden outside the city walls, where workmen had struck stone and found beneath it a hollow place. “Go,” he said, “and tell me what lies there.” His voice was calm, but I knew that he hoped for something more than earth and roots. A bishop must feed his people, and relics are a kind of food.
The tomb was simple and not deep, the sort used by families of modest means. Two bodies lay within, one older, one younger. The older man’s skull bore the clean mark of a blade; the younger’s ribs were cracked as if by blows. Their garments had rotted, but their bones were whole, and the air around them carried that strange sweetness that sometimes clings to the dead.
The workmen crossed themselves. I didn’t. I have seen too much to be startled by bones.
Ambrosius arrived before sunset that day. He knelt beside the tomb, his face lit by the last gold of the day. “Nazarius,” he murmured, touching the elder skull. “and Celsus.” He touched the younger. “Companions in life, companions in death.”
I said nothing. I had never heard of these men.
Ambrosius had a gift for names, and an even greater gift for stories. By the time the moon rose, he had woven a tale of a Roman-born preacher, Nazarius, who travelled the provinces proclaiming the new faith, and a young man, Celsus, who followed him with the devotion of a son, or perhaps something deeper, though Ambrosius didn’t say so aloud. The bishop spoke of their courage, their trials, their steadfastness. He spoke of their beauty, too, for Ambrosius understood the power of a handsome martyr. A saint must be desirable if he is to be desired by the crowds.
“Zeto,” he said, “these two will strengthen Milan. The people need examples of fidelity. Two men, bound together in faith, what better sign of unity?”
I bowed, though I wondered privately whether unity was the only thing he sought. A pair of martyrs, one older, one younger, both pleasing to the eye even in death, such relics would draw crowds, and crowds bring devotion, and devotion brings authority. I have lived long enough to know that holiness and usefulness often walk hand in hand.
We carried the bodies to the new basilica of the Apostles. I washed the bones myself, as is my duty. Nazarius’s skull was smooth and noble; Celsus’s jaw still held the shape of youth. As I worked, I imagined their lives, although not the pious tales Ambrosius would soon proclaim as truth, but something more human. Two men travelling together through forests and mountains, sharing bread, sharing danger, sharing warmth on cold nights. Nazarius, seasoned and steady; Celsus, eager and bright. A companionship forged in faith and maybe in affection.
Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps they were strangers thrown together by chance, but bones speak to me, and these two spoke of closeness.
When the day of the official translation came, the basilica was filled to bursting. Ambrosius preached with fire, telling of the martyrs’ courage, their purity, their brotherhood. He held up a vial of blood said to be found in the tomb, still red, he said, as if spilled that very day. The people gasped. I knew well enough that coloured pigments can keep colour in sealed containers for years, but I didn’t speak. A eunuch learns silence early.
The bones were laid in their new resting place, side by side. Women wept. Men knelt. A child cried out that he saw light around the skulls. Ambrosius smiled, and the story grew.
Later, when the crowds had gone, I stood alone before the shrine. The candles flickered, casting shadows that made the two skulls seem almost alive. I thought of the life they might have shared, the tenderness that might have existed between them. The Church speaks often of brotherhood, but I have seen enough of men to know that love takes many forms, and not all of them fit neatly into sermons.
Ambrosius entered quietly. “You have done well, Zeto,” he said. “These saints will strengthen the faithful.”
“Will they?” I asked. “Or will they strengthen the bishop, I thought?”
He looked at me, his mind thinking of the years ahead. “The people need beauty. They need stories. They need to see what devotion looks like.”
“If devotion looks like two men who loved one another?” I said softly.
Ambrosius didn’t answer. He placed his hand on the shrine and whispered a prayer. Then he left me alone with the bones.
I remain their keeper still. I polish the reliquaries, light the lamps, watch the pilgrims come and go as they leave coins. Some seek miracles. Some seek comfort. Some seek nothing more than the thought of two beautiful men who died together and now lie together, their story shaped by a bishop, their memory curated by a eunuch.
Were they saints? Were they lovers? Were they simply two men caught in the machinery of empire and faith?
I can’t say. Two bodies were found and a dead body doesn’t own anything, even the story of their own lives. After their discovery anything could be said about them.
I know this, whatever they were in life, in death they have become something else, symbols, commodities, objects of devotion with parts sent to this bishop and other fragments sent to another bishop, and, beneath the gold and incense, beneath the sermons and processions, their bones still lie side by side, as they did in the earth of a simple grave.
That, perhaps, is the truest relic of all.
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