When I was planning my trip to Rome, I briefly considered stopping by the home of my ancestors, Villa San Sebastiano. It was only an hour and a half away. I researched the public transportation options, but the plan was soon thwarted. No trains stopped there, and I certainly couldn’t rent a car with my limited Italian. I wasn’t too disappointed, but content enough knowing I’d be that close by.

I’d nearly forgotten about the almost-impromptu plans as we traveled the country, with so much else to see. We visited catacombs one evening later in the trip, the bus rumbling over cobblestone streets barely wide enough to contain it. When we came to a bumpy stop in front of the basilica, I was greeted with a surprising sign on its stone wall: catacombe s. sebastiano

No, we hadn’t reached the village; instead, we stepped into the basilica that bore his name, the resting place of his tomb.

Despite everything, I didn’t know a lot about St. Sebastian. I knew he was martyred by being shot by an arrow, that very same arrow on display in the basilica. I knew he had at least two Italian villages named after him. But what was his life? Who was the man whose tomb I knelt before, who made me emotional simply for being my ancestor’s patron?

After some quick research, I learned we don’t know much about him. There’s a vague idea of where he grew up (Milan, maybe?), and that he enlisted in the Roman Army. It was the 3rd century A.D., an era of Christian persecution, with the emperor infamous for putting them to death. Sebastian never revealed that he was, in fact, a Christian himself, but enlisted to save others from persecution. He rose to a captain of the Praetorian Guard, whose job was to protect the emperor. Despite his hidden faith, he secretly shared the Word and helped many to conversion.

Of course, he was eventually discovered. His position meant little; in fact, the emperor likely wasn’t pleased to have such a traitor in his ranks. Sebastian was ordered to be tied to a tree for target practice, thus pierced by innumerable arrows.

But—and this is a fact I didn’t know—the arrows didn’t kill him. Miraculously, he was still alive, and nursed back to health by a fellow Christian. He wouldn’t keep to the shadows now, though: He called out the emperor for his cruelty against Christians (imagine his surprise to find Sebastian still alive), but that bold move sealed his fate again. Sebastian’s “second execution” was his final, being clubbed to death and thrown into the sewer. (His body was later found, and secretly buried in the catacombs that ultimately bore his name.)

At the tomb, I rummage through my purse for loose change. I dropped a fifty cent piece into the offering box and lit a candle. The real types, with wicks, rather than the now-popular LEDs. I didn’t leave an offering at many churches on that trip—there had been so many of them—but for this one, it seemed right.