Hello again, dear friend, what is pleasure it is to sit with you again. Last time we lingered in the quiet of Meister Eckhart’s sermons, listening for the stillness at the ground of the soul. Today, I want to bring you somewhere very different: into the roar of a Roman arena, where two women carried their faith with unshakable courage.
I remember the heat first. The sun pressed down on the stones of Carthage, and the amphitheater shimmered with dust and noise. A crowd had gathered—eager, restless, expectant. They had come for spectacle, for blood, for the strange comfort of watching others suffer. The animals shifted in their cages, the iron gates groaned.
Then there was a hush. Two women were led forward, hands bound, but heads held high. One wore the traces of nobility: Perpetua, young, educated, a mother whose father had begged her to renounce her faith. Beside her walked Felicity, a servant, her steps slow from the pain of childbirth—her child born only days before. They were an unlikely pair in Roman eyes: mistress and servant, noble and enslaved. Yet here they stood, side by side, sisters in defiance.
I saw no terror in their faces, though they knew what awaited them. Instead, I saw resolve, and something deeper—a dignity that made the arena itself feel smaller, the crowd’s hunger less certain. They did not come as rebels, nor as zealots thirsting for death. They came as women who had chosen truth over compromise, loyalty over fear, each sustained by the other’s presence.
The silence of that moment has never left me. In a world that prized power and status, two women stripped of both revealed something stronger. Theirs was a courage that outshone the sun, that turned the amphitheater into a stage for faith, love, and unyielding resolve.
The year was 203, in the bustling city of Carthage, on the North African coast. Rome still ruled the Mediterranean, its power stretching across continents. The emperor, Septimius Severus, had tightened restrictions on Christians, forbidding conversions and pressing communities to honor the old gods of the empire. For most citizens, this was a simple act of loyalty—burn a pinch of incense, make the sacrifice, keep the peace. But for the small Christian groups gathering quietly in homes and courtyards, such acts were impossible. To worship Rome’s gods was to deny their own.
Perpetua was a young woman of noble birth, barely in her twenties, and already a mother. Her father pleaded with her to renounce the faith. He visited her in prison, begging her to think of her child, of her family’s honor, of her own life. Perpetua recorded these exchanges herself in a diary, one of the earliest surviving texts by a Christian woman. Her words are unadorned, clear, and courageous. “I cannot be called anything other than what I am,” she wrote.
Felicity’s path was different. She was enslaved, pregnant at the time of her arrest. Roman law forbade executing a pregnant woman, so she prayed that her child would be born before her sentence was carried out. Her prayer was answered—she gave birth only days before being led to the arena. That act of motherhood, lived in the shadow of death, became part of her testimony of faith.
Together with a small group of other Christians, Perpetua and Felicity were condemned to die publicly in the amphitheater. Their gender, their class, their status as mothers should have made them marginal figures in Roman society. But in their refusal to betray their convictions, they became unforgettable.
The amphitheater in Carthage was not merely a place of entertainment. It was a theater of empire, where Rome displayed its dominance through spectacles of violence. To parade these women before the crowd was meant to break the fragile Christian community, to shame them into silence. Instead, their composure and solidarity turned the stage upside down.
The story of their trial and execution was preserved in what came to be known as The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity. It is a blend of Perpetua’s own diary, eyewitness accounts, and later editing by church scribes. However shaped the text became, the core remains: the voice of a young woman describing her faith, her visions, her father’s anguish, her child’s cries, and her steady walk toward death.
That is the world in which Perpetua and Felicity lived and died—Roman North Africa, a crossroads of empire and faith, where the courage of two women rippled out far beyond the dust of the arena.
To their neighbors in Carthage, Perpetua and Felicity’s refusal to offer sacrifice must have seemed incomprehensible. Why would anyone risk their life, and the wellbeing of their families, over a handful of incense? Rome’s gods were the guardians of order. To reject them was not only irreligion—it was treason. The punishment was meant to teach a lesson: obedience or death.
But for the Christian community, their stand meant something different. It showed that loyalty to God was stronger than loyalty to empire, that the spirit could not be purchased by fear. Perpetua’s diary was copied and passed among believers, treasured as evidence that even the youngest and most vulnerable could stand firm. The story was more than inspiration—it was reassurance that faith had roots deeper than power.
The friendship of Perpetua and Felicity carried a meaning of its own. In a society rigidly divided by class and status, they embodied a new kind of equality. A noblewoman and a servant, sharing the same prison, walking the same path to death, became sisters. Their bond defied the lines Rome had drawn, showing that in their faith, dignity was not given by birth or title but by courage.
For women especially, their story was astonishing. In a world that often silenced them, here were two women whose voices and choices mattered enough to shake an empire. Perpetua’s words, preserved in her own hand, gave a rare glimpse into a woman’s mind and soul in antiquity. Felicity’s labor and childbirth under the shadow of execution showed motherhood not as weakness, but as strength lived to the very edge of life.
To the early church, their deaths were not mere tragedy. They were witness—the meaning of martyrdom itself. In their suffering, believers saw confirmation that Christ’s promise of eternal life was stronger than Rome’s claim to final authority. Their blood became seed, their dignity became story, their refusal became memory.
What did this mean at the time? It meant that Christianity could not be crushed by violence. It meant that even in the arena, faith could turn shame into honor. And it meant that the bonds of community, stretching across class and gender, could withstand even death itself.
The story of Perpetua and Felicity did not die in the dust of the amphitheater. It lived on, carried in the written account known as The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity. This text became one of the earliest and most beloved records of Christian martyrdom, read aloud in communities for generations. It was not only a memory—it was a liturgy, a reminder of what faith could demand and what courage could endure.
Perpetua’s diary, woven into the narrative, is especially striking. To have a woman’s first-person voice preserved from the third century is rare enough. To have that voice speaking of visions, choices, and steadfast faith is extraordinary. Her words became a model for countless believers, showing that spiritual authority did not belong only to bishops and scholars, but could come from a young mother in prison.
Their martyrdom also helped shape the Christian imagination of what it meant to be a witness. The word “martyr” itself comes from martyria—witness. Perpetua and Felicity were not remembered primarily for how they died, but for what their deaths revealed: that love and loyalty could endure even the cruelty of empire. Theirs was not a spectacle of defeat, but of testimony.
Over the centuries, artists, theologians, and storytellers returned to their memory. In mosaics and paintings, they were depicted as steadfast companions, often holding crowns or palms of victory. Their feast day entered the Christian calendar, honored by Catholics, Orthodox, and Anglicans alike. For women especially, their story became a touchstone: proof that female voices and choices could shape the faith from its earliest centuries.
Their legacy also carried a quiet social radicalism. By dying together, Perpetua and Felicity demonstrated an equality deeper than Rome’s categories. Noblewoman and servant, mistress and slave, stood side by side as sisters. That image endured, challenging later Christians to see dignity where society denied it.
Even outside strictly religious contexts, their story has echoed as an emblem of solidarity and conviction. Writers and thinkers have pointed to them as examples of how courage can belong to the marginalized, how dignity can shine in the face of overwhelming power.
So their contribution to history is not only theological, but human. They preserved a vision of friendship, faith, and integrity that has inspired communities across centuries. And in doing so, they wove their own golden thread into the larger tapestry of human memory: a reminder that even in an arena built for terror, love and loyalty can outlast empire.
Why does the story of two women in a Roman arena matter to us now? Because the world still asks the same question they faced: what will you give up, and what will you hold fast to, when the pressure mounts?
Perpetua and Felicity’s defiance was not loud, nor was it reckless. It was quiet, steady, rooted. They did not fight back with weapons or rage. They bore themselves with dignity, choosing loyalty over compromise, solidarity over fear. That choice, made nearly two thousand years ago, feels painfully familiar today.
We may not face execution in an amphitheater, but we know what it is to feel the weight of conformity. The pressure to sacrifice truth for comfort. The expectation to keep quiet in the face of injustice. The temptation to believe that status, security, or power can buy us peace. Against all of that, Perpetua and Felicity remind us that integrity is not negotiable. It is lived, even when it costs dearly.
Their companionship speaks just as loudly. In a world where society divided people by class, gender, and birth, they showed that faith and courage erase those lines. A noblewoman and a servant walked together, and their friendship turned empire’s categories upside down. In our own fractured societies—where inequality, prejudice, and division persist—their story is an invitation to solidarity that is more than sympathy. It is standing shoulder to shoulder, even when the world looks on with scorn.
And then there is motherhood. Perpetua, torn between her child and her conviction. Felicity, giving birth in prison, cradling new life on the eve of her death. Their stories remind us that courage is not abstract—it is embodied, tied to family, to tenderness, to ordinary human bonds. To honor them is to remember that strength often wears the face of love.
Why does it matter now? Because the arena has not disappeared. It looks different—it may be a courtroom, a picket line, a refugee camp, or even the harsh judgment of public opinion—but the same drama plays out. Who will stand firm? Who will walk beside us? Who will remind us that dignity is not given by power but carried from within?
When I think of Perpetua and Felicity, I think of others across history who also bore witness. Their story points forward, across centuries, to another woman—Tahirih, a poet in Persia—who defied her own empire with words, and whose final act of courage cost her life. Different times, different faiths, but the same golden thread: women standing with unshakable resolve, and in their defiance, lighting a path for those to come.
So their story matters today because it is not only ancient memory. It is a mirror. It asks us to see our own choices, our own loyalties, our own communities, and to decide—what will we hold fast to when the world presses us to yield?
My dear friend, I wonder—who would you stand beside if everything were at risk? And who would stand with you? These are not easy questions, but they are the ones Perpetua and Felicity still press upon us.
Their courage was not lived in isolation. Perpetua found strength in her companions, even as her father’s pleas broke her heart. Felicity drew courage from Perpetua’s presence, walking into the arena with her as a sister, not as a servant. Neither was truly alone.
I think of how often we imagine bravery as solitary, as one heroic figure standing against the world. But perhaps the truest courage is shared. It is the clasp of a friend’s hand, the glance that says “I am with you,” even when fear could so easily pull us apart.
You may not be called into an arena. But there will be moments when silence is easier than truth, when comfort is easier than loyalty, when stepping back is easier than stepping forward. In those moments, perhaps you will remember these women. And perhaps you will also remember that courage is not only about what you resist—it is about who you choose to stand with.
Carry that thought with you, gently. Notice the people in your life who give you strength. And ask yourself: how can you be that presence for someone else?
As we leave the dust of Carthage’s arena, I cannot help but think of another woman, centuries later, who also walked a path of defiance. Her name was Tahirih. She lived in 19th-century Persia, a scholar and a poet, a voice so clear and fearless that even veils and walls could not contain her. Like Perpetua and Felicity, she stood against the powers of her time, and like them, she paid for it with her life. But her final words carried not despair, but fire: a promise that the future could not be chained.
Next time, I want to bring you into her world—to hear her poetry, to feel the courage in her last breath, and to see how her golden thread is woven into our shared human story.
Until then, hold close the strength of Perpetua and Felicity.
Much love, I am Harmonia.