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Title: The Roman Traitor (Vol. 2 of 2)

Author:
    Henry William Herbert


Release Date: April 18, 2008 [Ebook #25096]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROMAN TRAITOR (VOL. 2 OF 2)***





                           THE ROMAN TRAITOR:

                                   OR

                 THE DAYS OF CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.


                      A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.


                         BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT
        AUTHOR OF "CROMWELL," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," "BROTHERS," ETC.



                       Why not a Borgia or a Catiline?—POPE.





VOLUME II.



          This is one of the most powerful Roman stories  in  the  English
          language,  and  is of itself sufficient to stamp the writer as a
          powerful man. The  dark  intrigues  of  the  days  which  Cæsar,
          Sallust  and  Cicero  made illustrious; when Cataline defied and
          almost defeated the Senate;  when  the  plots  which  ultimately
          overthrew the Roman Republic were being formed, are described in
          a masterly manner. The book deserves a permanent position by the
          side  of  the  great _Bellum Catalinarium_ of Sallust, and if we
          mistake not will not fail to  occupy  a  prominent  place  among
          those produced in America.


Philadelphia:
T. B. Peterson, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET





       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
                             T. B. PETERSON,
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
                for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.




PHILADELPHIA:
STEREOTYPED BY GEORGE CHARLES,
No. 9 Sansom Street.





CONTENTS




VOLUME I.


CHAPTER                    PAGE
     I.   THE MEN             9
    II.   THE MEASURES       25
   III.   THE LOVERS         37
    IV.   THE CONSUL         51
     V.   THE CAMPUS         69
    VI.   THE FALSE LOVE     89
   VII.   THE OATH          108
  VIII.   THE TRUE LOVE     121
    IX.   THE AMBUSH        137
     X.   THE WANTON        146
    XI.   THE RELEASE       166
   XII.   THE FORGE         183
  XIII.   THE DISCLOSURE    197
   XIV.   THE WARNINGS      209
    XV.   THE CONFESSION    223
   XVI.   THE SENATE        235




VOLUME II.


    I.   THE OLD PATRICIAN      3
   II.   THE CONSULAR          12
         COMITIA
  III.   THE PERIL             21
   IV.   THE CRISIS            29
    V.   THE ORATION           38
   VI.   THE FLIGHT            54
  VII.   THE AMBASSADORS       65
 VIII.   THE LATIN VILLA       75
   IX.   THE MULVIAN BRIDGE    88
    X.   THE ARREST           101
   XI.   THE YOUNG            113
         PATRICIAN
  XII.   THE ROMAN FATHER     123
 XIII.   THE DOOM             136
  XIV.   THE TULLIANUM        150
   XV.   THE CAMP IN THE      158
         APPENINES
  XVI.   THE WATCHTOWER OF    168
         USELLA
 XVII.   TIDINGS FROM ROME    185
XVIII.   THE RESCUE           192
  XIX.   THE EVE OF BATTLE    205
   XX.   THE FIELD OF         216
         PISTORIA
  XXI.   THE BATTLE           223
 XXII.   A NIGHT OF HORROR    234






                            THE ROMAN TRAITOR;

                             OR, THE DAYS OF

                        CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.

                       A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.





CHAPTER I.


THE OLD PATRICIAN.


        A Roman father of the olden time.
                  MS. PLAY.

In a small street, not far from the Sacred Way and the Roman Forum, there
was a large house, occupying the whole of one _insula_, as the space
contained between four intersecting streets was called by the ancients.

But, although by its great size and a certain rude magnificence, arising
from the massy stone-work of its walls, and the solemn antiquity of the
old Oscan columns which adorned its entrance, it might be recognised at
once as the abode of some Patrician family; it was as different in many
respects from the abodes of the aristocracy of that day, as if it had been
erected in a different age and country.

It had no stately colonnades of foreign marbles, no tesselated pavement to
the vestibule, no glowing frescoes on the walls, no long lines of exterior
windows, glittering with the new luxury of glass. All was decorous, it is
true; but all, at the same time, was stern, and grave, and singular for
its antique simplicity.

On either hand of the entrance, there was, in accordance with the custom
of centuries long past, when Rome’s Consulars were tillers of the ground,
a large shop with an open front, devoted to the sale of the produce of the
owner’s farm. And, strange to say, although the custom had been long
disused in these degenerate times, it seemed that the owner of this
time-honored mansion adhered sturdily to the ancient usage of his race.

For, in one of these large cold unadorned vaults, a tall grayheaded slave,
a rural laborer, as it required no second glance to perceive, was
presiding over piles of cheese, stone-jars of honey, baskets of autumn
fruits, and sacks of grain, by the red light of a large smoky flambeau;
while a younger man, who from his resemblance to the other might safely be
pronounced his son, was keeping an account of the sales by a somewhat
complicated system of tallies.

In the other apartment, two youths, slaves likewise from the suburban or
rustic farm, were giving samples, to such as wished to buy, of different
qualities of wine from several amphora or earthen pitchers, which stood on
a stone counter forming the sill of the low-browed window.

It was late in the evening already, and the streets were rapidly growing
dark; yet there were many passengers abroad, more perhaps than was usual
at that hour; and now and then, a little group would form about one or the
other of the windows, cheapening and purchasing provisions, and chatting
for a few minutes, after their business was finished, with their gossips.

These groups were composed altogether of the lowest order of the free
citizens of Rome, artizans, and small shop keepers, and here and there a
woman of low origin, or perhaps a slave, the house steward of some noble
family, mingling half reluctantly with his superiors. For the time had not
arrived, when the soft eunuchs of the East, and the bold bravoes of the
heroic North, favorites and tools of some licentious lord, dared to insult
the freeborn men of Rome, or gloried in the badges of their servitude.

The conversation ran, as it was natural to expect, on the probable results
of the next day’s election; and it was a little remarkable, that among
these, who should have been the supporters of the democratic faction,
there appeared to be far more of alarm and of suspicion, concerning the
objects of Catiline, than of enthusiasm for the popular cause.

"He a man of the people, or the people’s friend!" said an old
grave-looking mechanic; "No, by the Gods! no more than the wolf is the
friend of the sheepfold!"

"He may hate the nobles," said another, "or envy the great rich houses;
but he loves nothing of the people, unless it be their purses, if he can
get a chance to squeeze them"—

"Or their daughters," interrupted a third, "if they be fair and willing"—

"Little cares he for their good-will," cried yet a fourth, "so they are
young and handsome. It is but eight days since, that some of his gang
carried off Marcus’, the butcher’s, bride, Icilia, on the night of her
bridal. They kept her three days; and on the fourth sent her home
dishonored, with a scroll, ’that she was _now_ a fit wife for a butcher’!"

"By the Gods!" exclaimed one or two of the younger men, "who was it did
this thing?"

"One of the people’s friends!" answered the other, with a sneer.

"The people have no friends, since Caius Marius died," said the deep voice
of Fulvius Flaccus, as he passed casually through the crowd.

"But what befel the poor Icilia?" asked an old matron, who had been
listening with greedy sympathy to the dark tale.

"Why, Marcus would yet have taken her to his bosom, seeing she had no
share in the guilt; but she bore a heart too Roman to bring disgrace upon
one she loved, or to survive her honor. Icilia _is_ no longer."

"She died like Lucretia!" said an old man, who stood near, with a clouded
brow, which flashed into stormy light, as the same deep voice asked aloud,

"Shall she be so avenged?"

But the transient gleam faded instantly away, and the sad face was again
blank and rayless, as he replied—

"No—for who should avenge her?"

"The people! the people!" shouted several voices, for the mob was
gathering, and growing angry—

"The Roman People should avenge her!"

"Tush!" answered Fulvius Flaccus. "There is no Roman people!"

"And who are you," exclaimed two or three of the younger men, "that dare
tell us so?"

"The grandson," answered the republican, "of one, who, while there yet
_was_ a people, loved it"—

"His name? his name?" shouted many voices.

"He hath no name"—replied Fulvius. "He lost that, and his life together."

"Lost them for the people?" inquired the old man, whom he had first
addressed, and who had been scrutinizing him narrowly.

"And _by_ the people," answered the other. "For the people’s cause; and by
the people’s treason!—as is the case," he added, half scornfully, half
sadly, "with all who love the people."

"Hear him, my countrymen," said the old man. "Hear him. If there be any
one can save you, it is he. It is Fulvius, the son of Caius, the son of
Marcus—Flaccus. Hear him, I say, if he will only lead you."

"Lead us! speak to us! lead us!" shouted the fickle crowd. "Love us, good
Fulvius, as your fathers did of old."

"And die, for you, as they died!" replied the other, in a tone of
melancholy sarcasm. "Hark you, my masters," he added, "there are none now
against whom to lead you; and if there were, I think there would be none
to follow. Keep your palms unsoiled by the base bribes of the nobles! Keep
your ears closed to the base lies of the demagogues! Keep your hearts true
and honest! Keep your eyes open and watchful! Brawl not, one with the
other; but be faithful, as brethren should. Be grave, laborious, sober,
and above all things humble, as men who once were free and great, and now,
by their own fault, are fallen and degraded. Make yourselves fit to be led
gloriously; and, when the time shall come, there will be no lack of
glorious leaders!"

"But to-morrow? what shall we do to-morrow?" cried several voices; but
this time it was the elder men, who asked the question, "for whom shall we
vote to-morrow?"

"For the friend of the people!" answered Flaccus.

"Where shall we find him?" was the cry; "who is the friend of the people?"

"Not he who would arm them, one against the other," he replied. "Not he,
who would burn their workshops, and destroy their means of daily
sustenance! Not he, by all the Gods! who sports with the honor of their
wives, the virtue"—

But he was interrupted here, by a stern sullen hum among his audience,
increasing gradually to a fierce savage outcry. The mob swayed to and fro;
and it was evident that something was occurring in the midst, by which it
was tremendously excited.

Breaking off suddenly in his speech, the democrat leaped on a large block
of stone, standing at the corner of the large house in front of which the
multitude was gathered, and looked out anxiously, if he might descry the
cause of the tumult.

Nor was it long ere he succeeded.

A young man, tall and of a slender frame, with features singularly
handsome, was making his way, as best he could, with unsteady steps, and a
face haggard and pale with debauchery, through the tumultuous and angry
concourse.

His head, which had no other covering than its long curled and perfumed
locks, was crowned with a myrtle wreath; he wore a long loose
saffron-colored tunic richly embroidered, but ungirt, and flowing nearly
to his ankles; and from the dress, and the torch-bearers, who preceded
him, as well as from his wild eye and reeling gait, it was evident that he
was returning from some riotous banquet.

Fulvius instantly recognised him. It was a kinsman of his own, Aulus, the
son of Aulus Fulvius, the noblest of the survivors of his house, a senator
of the old school, a man of stern and rigid virtue, the owner of that
grand simple mansion, beside the door of which he stood.

But, though he recognised his cousin, he was at a loss for a while to
discover the cause of the tumult; ’till, suddenly, a word, a female name,
angrily murmured through the crowd, gave a clue to its meaning.

"Icilia! Icilia!"

Still, though the crowd swayed to and fro, and jostled, and shouted,
becoming evidently more angry every moment, it made way for the young
noble, who advanced fearlessly, with a sort of calm and scornful
insolence, contemning the rage which his own vile deed had awakened.

At length one of the mob, bolder than the rest, thrust himself in between
the torch bearers and their lord, and meeting the latter face to face,
cried out, so that all the crowd might hear,

"Lo! Aulus Fulvius! the violator of Icilia! the friend of the people!"

A loud roar of savage laughter followed; and then, encouraged by the
applause of his fellows, the man added,

"Vote for Aulus Fulvius, the friend of the people! vote for good Aulus,
and his virtuous friend Catiline!"

The hot blood flashed to the brow of the young noble, at the undisguised
scorn of the plebeian’s speech. Insolence he could have borne, but
contempt!—and contempt from a plebeian!

He raised his hand; and slight and unmuscular as he appeared, indignation
lent such vigor to that effeminate arm, that the blow which he dealt him
on the face, cast the burly mechanic headlong, with the blood spouting
from his mouth and nostrils.

A fearful roar of the mob, and a furious rush against the oppressor,
followed.

The torch-bearers fought for their master gallantly, with their tough
oaken staves; and the young man showed his patrician blood by his
patrician courage in the fray. Flaccus, too, wished and endeavored to
interpose, not so much that he cared to shield his unworthy kinsman, as
that he sought to preserve the energies of the people for a more noble
trial. The multitude, moreover, impeded one another by their own violent
impetuosity; and to this it was owing, more than to the defence of his
followers, or the intercession of the popular Flaccus, that the young
libertine was not torn to pieces, on the threshold of his own father’s
house.

The matter, however, was growing very serious—stones, staves, and torches
flew fast through the air—the crash of windows in the neighboring houses
was answered by the roar of the increasing mob, and every thing seemed to
portend a very dangerous tumult; when, at the same moment, the door of the
Fulvian House was thrown open, and the high-crested helmets of a cohort
were seen approaching, in a serried line, above the bare heads of the
multitude.

Order was restored very rapidly; for a pacific party had been rallying
around Fulvius Flaccus, and their efforts, added to the advance of the
levelled pila of the cohort, were almost instantly successful.

Nor did the sight, which was presented by the opening door of the Fulvian
mansion, lack its peculiar influence on the people.

An old man issued forth, alone, from the unfolded portals.

He was indeed extremely old; with hair as white as snow, and a long
venerable beard falling in waves of silver far down upon his chest. Yet
his eyebrows were black as night, and these, with the proud arch of his
Roman nose, and the glance of his eagle eyes, untamed by time or hardship,
almost denied the inference drawn from the white head and reverend chin.

His frame, which must once have been unusually powerful and athletic, was
now lean and emaciated; yet he held himself erect as a centennial pine on
Mount Algidus, and stood as firmly on his threshold, looking down on the
tumultuous concourse, which waved and fluctuated, like the smaller trees
of the mountain side, beneath him.

His dress was of the plain and narrow cut, peculiar to the good olden
time; yet it had the distinctive marks of the senatorial rank.

It was the virtuous, severe, old senator—the noblest, alas! soon to be the
last, of his noble race.

"What means this tumult?" he said in a deep firm sonorous voice,
"Wherefore is it, that ye shout thus, and hurl stones about a friendly
door! For shame! for shame! What is it that ye lack? Bread? Ye have had it
ever at my hands, without seeking it thus rudely."

"It is not bread, most noble Aulus, that we would have," cried the old
man, who had made himself somewhat conspicuous before, "but vengeance!"

"Vengeance, on whom, and for what?" exclaimed the noble Roman.

But ere his question could be answered, the crowd opened before him, and
his son stood revealed, sobered indeed by the danger he had run, but pale,
haggard, bleeding, covered with mud and filth, and supported by one of his
wounded slaves.

"Ah!" cried the old man, starting back aghast, "What is this? What fresh
crime? What recent infamy? What new pollution of our name?"

"Icilia! Icilia! vengeance for poor Icilia!" cried the mob once again; but
they now made no effort to inflict the punishment, for which they
clamored; so perfect was their confidence in the old man’s justice, even
against his own flesh and blood.

At the next moment a voice was heard, loud and clear as a silver trumpet,
calling upon the people to disperse.

It was the voice of Paullus, who now strode into the gap, left by the
opening concourse, glittering in the full panoply of a decurion of the
horse, thirty dismounted troopers arranging themselves in a glittering
line behind him.

At the sight of the soldiery, led by one whose face was familiar to him,
the audacity of the young man revived; and turning round with a light
laugh toward Arvina,

"Here is a precious coil," he said, "my Paullus, about a poor plebeian
harlot!"

"I never heard that Icilia was such," replied the young soldier sternly,
for the dark tale was but too well known; "nor must you look to me, Aulus
Fulvius, for countenance in deeds like these, although it be my duty to
protect you from violence! Come my friends," he continued, turning to the
multitude, "You must disperse, at once, to your several homes; if any have
been wronged by this man, he can have justice at the tribunal of the
Prætor! But there must be no violence!"

"Is this thing true, Aulus?" asked the old man, in tones so stern and
solemn, that the youth hung his head and was silent.

"Is this thing true?" the Senator repeated.

"Why, hath he not confessed it?" asked the old man, who had spoken so many
times before; and who had lingered with Fulvius Flaccus, and a few others
of the crowd. "It is true."

"Who art thou?" asked the old Patrician, a terrible suspicion crossing his
mind.

"The father of that daughter, whom thy son forcibly dishonored!"

"Enter!" replied the senator, throwing the door, in front of which he
stood, wide open, "thou shalt have justice!"

Then, casting a glance full of sad but resolute determination upon the
culprit, all whose audacity had passed away, he said in a graver tone,

"Enter thou likewise; thou shalt have punishment!"

"Punishment!" answered the proud youth, his eye flashing, "Punishment! and
from whom?"

"Punishment from thy father! wilt thou question it? Punishment, even unto
death, if thou shalt be found worthy to die!—the law is not dead, if it
have slept awhile! Enter!"

He dared not to reply—he dared not to refuse. Slow, sullen, and
crest-fallen, he crossed his father’s threshhold; but, as he did so, he
glared terribly on Paullus, and shook his hand at him, and cried in tones
of deadly hatred,

"This is thy doing! curses—curses upon thee! thou shalt rue it!"

Arvina smiled in calm contempt of his impotent resentment.

The culprit, the accuser, and the judge passed inward; the door closed
heavily behind them; the crowd dispersed; the soldiery marched onward; and
the street, in front of the Fulvian House, was left dark and silent.

An hour perhaps had passed, when the door was again opened, and the aged
plebeian, Icilia’s father, issued into the dark street.

"Scourged!" he cried, with a wild triumphant laugh, "Scourged, like a
slave, at his own father’s bidding! Rejoice, exult, Icilia! thy shame is
half avenged!"





CHAPTER II.


THE CONSULAR COMITIA.


                Your voices!
                  CORIOLANUS.

The morning had at length arrived, big with the fate of Rome. The morning
of the Consular elections.

The sun shone broad and bright over the gorgeous city, and the wide green
expanse of the field of Mars, whereon, from an hour before the first peep
of dawn, the mighty multitude of Roman citizens had stood assembled.

All the formalities had been performed successfully. The Consul Cicero,
who had gone forth beyond the walls to take the auspices, accompanied by
an augur, had declared the auguries favorable.

The separate enclosures, with the bridges, as they were termed, across
which the centuries must pass to give their votes, had been erected; the
distributors of the ballots, and the guardians of the ballot-boxes, had
been appointed.

And now, as the sun rushed up with his crown of living glory into the
cloudless arch of heaven, the brazen trumpets of the centuries pealed long
and loud, calling the civic army to its ranks, in order to commence their
voting.

That was the awful moment; and scarce a breast was there, but beat high
with hope or fear, or dark and vague anticipation.

The Consul and the friends of order were, perhaps, calmer and more
confident, than any others of that mighty concourse; for they were
satisfied with their preparations; they were firm in the support of the
patrician houses, and in the unanimity of the Roman knights conciliated by
Cicero.

Scarcely less confident were the conspirators; for with so much secrecy
had the arrangements of the Consul been made, that although Catiline knew
himself suspected, knew that his motives were perspicuous, and his
measures in some sort anticipated, he yet believed that the time was
propitious.

He hoped, and believed as fully as he hoped, that Cicero and his party,
content with the triumph they had obtained in the Senate, and with the
adjudication by that body of dictatorial power to the consuls, were now
deceived into the idea that the danger was already over.

Still, his fierce heart throbbed violently; and there was a feeling of hot
agonizing doubt blent with the truculent hope, the savage ambition, the
strong thirst of blood, which goaded him almost to madness.

From an early hour he had stood surrounded by his friends, the leaders of
that awful faction, hard by the portico of the _diribitorium_, or
pay-office, marking with a keen eye every group that entered the field of
Mars, and addressing those, whom he knew friendly to his measures, with
many a fiery word of greeting and encouragement.

Cassius and Lentulus, a little way behind him, leaned against the columns
of the gateway, with more than a thousand of the clients of their houses
lounging about in groups, seemingly inattentive, but really alive to every
word or glance of their leaders.

These men were all armed secretly with breast plates, and the puissant
Roman sword, beneath their peaceful togas.

These men, well-trained in the wars of Sylla, hardy and brave, and acting
in a body, were destined to commence the work of slaughter, by slaying the
Great Consul, so soon as he should open the comitia.

Cethegus had departed, already, to join his gladiators, who, to the number
of fifteen hundred, were gathered beyond the Janiculum, ready to act upon
the guard, and to beat down the standard which waved there, the signal of
election.

Statilius, Gabinius, and Cæparius, were ready with their armed households
and insurgent slaves, prepared at a moment’s notice to throw open the
prison doors, and fire the city in twelve places.

Fearless, unanimous, armed, and athirst for blood, the foes of the
republic stood, and marked with greedy eyes and visages inflamed and
fiery, their victims sweep through the gates, arrayed in their peaceful
robes, unarmed, as it would seem, and unsuspecting.

Not a guard was to be seen anywhere; not a symptom of suspicion; much less
of preparation. The wonted cohort only was gathered about the standard on
the bridge gate of the Janiculum; but even these bore neither shields, nor
javelins; and sat or lounged about, unconcerned, and evidently off their
guard.

But the keen eye of Catiline, could mark the band of grey-tunicked
Gladiators, mustered, and ready to assume the offensive at a moment’s
notice, though now they were sauntering about, or sitting down or lying in
the shade, or chatting with the country girls and rustic slaves, who
covered the sloping hill-sides of the Janiculum, commanding a full view of
the Campus Martius.

"The Fools!" muttered Catiline. "The miserable, God-deserted idiots! Does
the man of Arpinum deem me then so weak, to be disarmed by an edict,
quelled by a paltry proclamation?"

Then, as the stout smith, Caius Crispus, passed by him, with a gang of
workmen, and a rabble of the lowest citizens,

"Ha!" he exclaimed, "hail, Crispus—hail, brave hearts!—all things look
well for us to-day—well for the people! Your voices, friends; I must have
your voices!"

"You shall—Catiline!" replied the smith—"and our hands also!" he added,
with a significant smile and a dark glance.

"Catiline! Catiline—all friends of the good people, all foes of the proud
patricians, give noble Catiline your voices!"

"Catiline! Catiline for the persecuted people!" and, with a wild and
stirring shout, the mob passed inward through the gate, leaving the smith
behind, however; who stopped as if to speak with one of the Cornelian
clients, but in reality to wait further orders.

"When shall we march"—he asked, after a moment or two, stealthily
approaching the chief conspirator. "Before they have called the
prerogative century to vote, or when the knights are in the bridges?"

"When the standard goes down, fool!" replied Catiline, harshly. "Do not
you know your work?"

At this moment, a party of young and dissipated nobles came swaggering
along the road, with their ungirded tunics flowing down to their heels,
their long sleeves fringed with purple falling as far as to their wrists,
and their curled ringlets floating on their shoulders. Among them, with a
bloodshot eye, a pale and haggard face, and a strange terrible expression,
half-sullen, half-ashamed, on all his features, as if he fancied that his
last night’s disgrace was known to all men, strode Aulus Fulvius, the son
of that stern senator.

"Your voices! noblemen, your voices!" cried Catiline, laughing with
feigned gayety—"Do but your work to-day, and to-night"—

"Wine and fair women!" shouted one; but Aulus smiled savagely, and darkly,
and answered in one word "Revenge!"

Next behind them, came Bassus, the veteran father of the dead
eagle-bearer; he who had told so sad a tale of patrician cruelty to
Fulvius Flaccus, in the forge.

"Why, Bassus, my brave veteran, give me your hand," cried the conspirator,
making a forward step to meet him. "For whom vote you to-day, for Murœna
and Silanus? Ha?"

"For Catiline and justice!" answered the old man, "justice on him who
wronged the Eagle-bearer’s child! who sits in the senate even yet, defiled
with her pure blood!—the infamous Cornelius!"

Another man had paused to listen to these words, and he now interposed,
speaking to Bassus,

"Verily Catiline is like to do thee justice, my poor Bassus, on a member
of the Cornelian house! Is’t Lentulus, I prithee, or Cethegus, on whom
thou would’st have justice?"

But the old man replied angrily, "The people’s friend shall give the
people justice! who ever knew a noble pity or right a poor man?"

"Ask Aulus Fulvius"—replied the other, with a sarcastic tone, and a
strange smile lighting up his features. "Besides, is not Catiline a
noble?"

At the word Aulus Fulvius leaped on him like a tiger, with his face
crimsoning, and his heart almost bursting with fury.

He could not speak for rage, but he seized the man who had uttered those
mysterious words by the throat, and brandished a long poniard, extricated
in a second’s space from the loose sleeve of his tunic, furiously in the
air.

As the bright blade flashed in the sunlight, there was a forward rush
among the conspirators, who, anxious to avert any casual affray, that
might have created a disturbance, would have checked the blow.

But their aid would have come too late, had not the man thus suddenly
assaulted, by an extraordinary exertion of strength, vigor, and agility,
wrenched the dagger from Aulus’ hand, and, tripping him at the same moment
with his foot, hurled him upon his back in the dust, which surged up in a
great cloud, covering his perfumed hair and snow-white toga, with its
filthy and fætid particles.

"Ha! ha!" he cried with a loud ringing laugh, as he tossed the weapon high
into the sunny air, that all around might see it—"Here is one of your
_noble_ people’s friends!—Do they wear daggers _all_, for the people’s
throats? Do they wave torches _all_, against the people’s workshops?"

The matter seemed to be growing serious, and while two or three of the
conspirators seized Aulus, and compelled him with gentle violence to
desist from farther tumult, Cæparius whispered into the ear of Catiline,
"This knave knows far too much. Were it not best three or four of our
friend Crispus’ men should knock him on the head?"

"No! no!" cried Catiline—"By Hades! no! It is too late, I tell you. The
whole thing will be settled within half an hour. There goes the second
trumpet."

And as he spoke, the shrill blast of the brazen instruments rose
piercingly and almost painfully upon the ear; and the people might be seen
collecting themselves rapidly into the centuries of their tribes, in order
to give their votes in their places, as ascertained by lot.

"And the third"—exclaimed Cassius, joyfully—"Will give the signal for
_election_!" Catiline interrupted him, as if fearful that he would say
some thing that should commit the party. "But see," he added, pointing
with his hand across the wide plain toward a little knoll, on which there
stood a group of noble-looking men, surrounded by a multitude of knights
and patricians, "See yonder, how thickly the laticlavian tunics muster,
and the crimson-edged togas of the nobles—all the knights are there too,
methinks. And look! look the consuls of the year! and my competitors!
Come, my friends, come; we must toward the consul. He is about to open the
comitia."

"Catiline! Catiline! the people’s friend!" again shouted Caius Crispus;
and Bassus took the word, and repeated it in the shrill quavering accents
of old age—"All those who love the people vote for the people’s
friend—vote for the noble Catiline!"

And at once thousands of voices took the cry, "Catiline! Catiline! Hail,
Catiline, that shall be Consul!"

And, in the midst of these triumphant cries, hardened and proud of heart,
and confident of the success of his blood-thirsty schemes, he hurried
forward, accompanied by Lentulus and his armed satellites, panting already
with anticipated joy, and athirst for slaughter.

But, as he swept along, followed by the faction, a great body of citizens
of the lower orders, decent substantial men, came crowding toward the
Campus, and paused to inquire the cause of the tumult, which had left its
visible effects in the flushed visages and knotted brows of many present.

Two or three voices began to relate what had passed; but the smith
Crispus, who had lingered with one or two of his ruffians, intent to
murder the man who had crossed his chief, so soon as the signal should be
given, rudely broke in, and interrupted them with the old cry, "The
people’s friend! All ye who love the people, vote for the people’s friend,
vote for the noble Catiline!"

"Had mighty Marius been alive, Marius of Arpinum, or the great Gracchi,
they had cried, ’Vote rather for the man of the people!—vote for Cicero of
Arpinum!’"

"Tush, what knows he of Marius?" replied the smith.

"What knows he of the great Gracchi?" echoed one of his followers.

"Whether should best know Marius, they who fought by his side, or they who
slew his friends? Who should best know the great Gracchi if not Fulvius,
the grandson of that Fulvius Flaccus, who died with them, in the forum, by
the hands of Saturninus?"

"Vote for Catiline! vote for Catiline! friends of the people!" shouted the
smith again, reëchoed by all his savage and vociferous gang, seeking to
drown the voice of the true man of the people.

"Aye" exclaimed Fulvius, ironically, springing upon a stone horse-block,
thence to address the people, who shouted "Flaccus! Flaccus!" on all
sides. "Live Fulvius Flaccus! Speak to us, noble Fulvius!"

"Aye!" he exclaimed, "friends of the people, followers of Marius, vote, if
ye be wise men, for the murderer of his kinsman—for Catiline, who slew
Marius Gratidianus!"

"No! no! we will none of them! no Catiline! no follower of Sylla? To your
tribes, men of Rome—to your tribes!"

The mingled cries waxed wild and terrible; and it was clear that the
popular party was broken, by the bold words of the speaker, into two
bodies, if ever it had been united. But little cared the conspirators for
that, since they had counted, not upon winning by a majority of tribes,
but by a civic massacre.

And now—even as that roar was the loudest, while Flaccus in vain strove to
gain a hearing, for the third time the brazen trumpets of the centuries
awoke their stirring symphonies, announcing that the hour had arrived for
the tribes to commence their voting.

Those who were in the secret looked eagerly over the field. The hour had
come—the leader was at their head—they waited but the signal!

That signal, named by Catiline, in the house of Læca,—the blood of Cicero!

They saw a mass of men, pressing on like a mighty wedge through the dense
multitude; parting the waves of the living ocean as a stout galley parts
the billows; struggling on steadily toward the knoll, whereon, amid the
magnates of the land, consulars, senators, and knights, covering it with
the pomp of white and crimson gowns, gemmed only by the flashing axe-heads
of the lictors, stood the great Consul.

They saw the gladiators forming themselves into a separate band, on the
slopes of the Janiculum, with a senator’s robe distinct among the dark
gray tunics.

Catiline and his clients were not a hundred paces distant from Cicero, and
the assembled nobles. They had halted! Their hands were busy in the bosom
of their gowns, griping the hilts of their assassin’s tools!

Cethegus and his gladiators were not a hundred paces distant from the
bridge-gate of the Janiculum, and the cohort’s bannered eagle.

They, too, had halted! they, too, were forming in battle order—they too
were mustering their breath for the dread onset—they too were handling
their war weapons!

Almost had Caius Crispus, in his mad triumph, shouted victory.

One moment, and Rome had been the prize for the winner in the gladiators’
battle.

And the notes of the brazen trumpets had not yet died away, among the
echoing hills.

They had not died away, before they were taken up and repeated, east,
west, and north and south, by shriller, more pervading clangors.

It burst over the heads of the astonished people like heaven’s thunder,
the wild prolonged war-flourish of the legions. From the Tarpeian rock,
and the guarded Capitol; from the rampired Janiculum; from the fortress,
beyond the Island bridge; from the towered steeps of the Quirinal, broke
simultaneously the well known Roman war note!

Upsprang, along the turreted wall of the Janiculum, with crested casques,
and burnished brazen corslets, and the tremendous javelins of the cohorts,
a long line of Metellus’ legionaries.

Upsprang on the heights of the Capitol, and on each point of vantage, an
answering band of warriors, full armed.

And, last not least, as that warlike din smote the sky, Cicero, on whom
every eye was riveted of that vast concourse, flung back his toga, and
stood forth conspicuous, armed with a mighty breastplate, and girded with
the sword that won him, at an after day, among the mountains of Cilicia,
the high style of Imperator.

A mighty shout burst from the faithful ranks of the knights; and, starting
from their scabbards, five thousand sword-blades flashed in a trusty ring
around the savior of his country.

"Catiline would have murdered Him!" shouted the voice of Fulvius
Flaccus—"Catiline would have burned your workshops! Catiline would have
made himself Dictator, King! Vote, men of Rome, vote, friends of the
people I vote now, I say, for Catiline!"

Anticipated, frustrated, outwitted,—the conspirators glared on each other
hopeless.

Against forces so combined, what chance of success?

Still, although ruined in his hopes, Catiline bore up bravely, and with an
insolence of hardihood that in a good cause had been heroism.

Affecting to laugh at the precautions, and sneer at the pusillanimous mind
that had suggested them, he defied proof, defied suspicion.

There was no overt act—no proof! and Cicero, satisfied with his
triumph—for alarmed beyond measure, and astonished, all ranks and classes
vied with each other in voting for Silanus and Muræna—took no step to
arrest or convict the ringleaders.

It was a moral, not a physical victory, at which he had aimed so nobly.

And nobly had he won it.

The views of the conspiracy frustrated; the hearts of its leaders chilled
and thunder-stricken; the loyalty and virtue of all classes aroused; the
eyes of the Roman people opened to knowledge of their friends; two wise
and noble consuls chosen, by who were on the point of casting their votes
for a murderer and traitor; the city saved from conflagration; the
commonwealth preserved, in all its majesty; these were the trophies of the
Consular Comitia.





CHAPTER III.


_THE PERIL._


      Things, bad begun, make strong themselves by ill.
                    MACBETH.

Sixteen days had elapsed, since the conspirators were again frustrated at
the Consular Comitia.

Yet not for that had the arch-traitor withdrawn his foot one hair’s
breadth from his purpose, or paused one moment in his career of crime and
ruin.

There is, beyond doubt, a necessity—not as the ancients deemed,
supernatural, and the work of fate, but a natural moral necessity—arising
from the very quality of crime itself, which spurs the criminal on to new
guilt, fresh atrocity.

In the dark path of wickedness there is no halting place; the wretched
climber must turn his face for ever upward, for ever onward; if he look
backward his fall is inevitable, his doom fixed.

So was it proved with Catiline. To gain impunity for his first deed of
cruelty and blood, another and another were forced on him, until at last,
harassed and maddened by the consciousness of untold guilt, his frantic
spirit could find no respite, save in the fierce intoxication of
excitement, the strange delight of new atrocity.

Add to this, that, knowing himself anticipated and discovered, he knew
also that if spared for a time by his opponent, it was no lack of will,
but lack of opportunity alone to crush him, that held the hands of Cicero
inactive.

Thus, although for a time the energies of his weaker comrades sank
paralysed by the frustration of their schemes, and by the certainty that
they were noted and observed even in their most secret hours, his stronger
and more vehement spirit found only in the greater danger the greater
stimulus to action.

Sixteen days had elapsed, and gradually, as the conspirators found that no
steps were taken by the government for their apprehension or punishment,
they too waxed bolder, and began to fancy, in their insolent presumption,
that the republic was too weak or too timid to enforce its own laws upon
undoubted traitors.

All the causes, moreover, which had urged them at first to councils so
desperate, existed undiminished, nay, exaggerated by delay.

Their debts, their inability to raise those funds which their boundless
profusion rendered necessary, still maddened them; and to these the
consciousness of detected guilt, and that "necessity which," in the words
of their chief, "makes even the timid brave," were superadded.

The people and the Senate, who had all, for a time, been vehemently
agitated by a thousand various emotions of anger, fear, anxiety, revenge,
forgetting, as all popular bodies are wont to do, the past danger in the
present security, were beginning to doubt whether they had not been
alarmed at a shadow; and were half inclined to question the existence of
any conspiracy, save in the fears of their Consul.

It was well for Rome at that hour, that there was still in the
commonwealth, a counterpoise to the Democratic Spirit; which, vehement and
energetical beyond all others in sudden and great emergencies, is ever
restless and impatient of protracted watchfulness and preparation, and
lacks that persistency and resolute endurance which seems peculiar to
aristocratic constitutions.

And now especially were demonstrated these opposite characteristics; for
while the lower orders, and the popular portion of the Senate, who had
been in the first instance most strenuous in their alarm, and most urgent
for strong measures, were now hesitating, doubting, and almost
compassionating the culprits, who had fallen under such a load of obloquy,
the firmer and more moderate minds, were guarding the safety of the
commonwealth in secret, and watching, through their unknown emissaries,
every movement of the traitors.

It was about twelve o’clock at night, on the eighth day before the Ides,
corresponding to our seventh of November, when the Consul was seated alone
in the small but sumptuous library, which has been described above,
meditating with an anxious and care-worn expression, over some papers
which lay before him on the table.

No sound had been heard in the house for several hours; all its
inhabitants except the Consul only, with the slave who had charge of the
outer door, and one faithful freedman, having long since retired to rest.

But from without, the wailing of the stormy night-wind rose and fell in
melancholy alternations of wild sobbing sound, and breathless silence; and
the pattering of heavy rain was distinctly audible on the flat roofs, and
in the flooded tank, or _impluvium_, which occupied the centre of the
hall.

It was in one of the lulls of the autumnal storm, that a heavy knock was
heard on the pannel of the exterior door, reverberating in long echoes,
through the silent vestibule, and the vast colonnades of the Atrium and
peristyle.

At that dead hour of night, such a summons would have seemed strange in
any season: it was now almost alarming.

Nor, though he was endowed pre-eminently with that moral strength of mind
which is the highest quality of courage, and was by no means deficient in
mere physical bravery, did Cicero raise his head from the perusal of his
papers, and listen to that unwonted sound, without some symptoms of
anxiety and perturbation.

So thoroughly acquainted as he was, with the desperate wickedness, the
infernal energy, and absolute fearlessness of Catiline, it could not but
occur to him instantly, when he heard that unusual summons, at a time when
all the innocent world was buried in calm sleep, how easy and obvious a
mode of liberation from all danger and restraint, his murder would afford
to men so daring and unscrupulous, as those against whom he was playing,
for no less a stake than life or death.

There was, he well knew, but a single slave, and he old and unarmed, in
the vestibule, nor was the aged and effeminate Greek freedman, one on whom
reliance could be placed in a deadly struggle.

All these things flashed suddenly upon the mind of Cicero, as the heavy
knocking fell upon his ear, followed by a murmur of many voices, and the
tread of many feet without.

He arose quietly from the bronze arm-chair, on which he had been sitting,
walked across the room, to a recess beside the book-shelves, and reached
down from a hook, on which it hung, among a collection of armor and
weapons, a stout, straight, Roman broad-sword, with a highly adorned hilt
and scabbard.

Scarcely, however, had he taken the weapon in his hand, before the door
was thrown open, and his freedman ushered in three men, attired in the
full costume of Roman Senators.

"All hail, at this untimely hour, most noble Cicero," exclaimed the first
who entered.

"By all the Gods!" cried the second, "rejoiced I am, O Consul, to see that
you are on your guard; for there is need of watchfulness, in truth, for
who love the republic."

"Which need it is, in short," added the third, "that has brought us
hither."

"Most welcome at all times," answered Cicero, laying aside the broad-sword
with a smile, "though of a truth, I thought it might be less gracious
visitors. Noble Marcellus, have you good tidings of the commonwealth? and
you, Metellus Scipio, and you Marcus Crassus? Friends to the state, I know
you; and would trust that no ill news hath held you watchful."

"Be not too confident of that, my Consul," replied Scipio. "Peril there
is, at hand to the commonwealth, in your person."

"We have strange tidings here, confirming all that you made known to the
Senate, on the twelfth day before the Calends, in letters left by an
unknown man with Crassus’ doorkeeper this evening," said Marcellus. "We
were at supper with him, when they came, and straightway determined to
accompany him hither."

"In my person!" exclaimed Cicero—"Then is the peril threatened from Lucius
Sergius Catiline! were it for myself alone, this were a matter of small
moment; but, seeing that I hold alone the clues of this dark plot, it were
disastrous to the state, should ought befall me, who have set my life on
this cast to save my country."

"Indeed disastrous!" exclaimed the wealthy Crassus; "for these most
horrible and cursed traitors are sworn, as it would seem, to consume this
most glorious city of the earth, and all its stately wealth, with the
sword and fire."

"To destroy all the noble houses," cried Scipio, "and place the vile and
loathsome rabble at the helm of state."

"All this, I well knew, of old," said Cicero calmly. "But I pray you, my
friends, be seated; and let me see these papers."

And taking the anonymous letters from the hands of Crassus, he read them
aloud, pausing from time to time, to meditate on the intention of the
writer.

"Marcus Licinius Crassus," thus ran the first, "is spoken of by those, who
love not Rome, as their lover and trusty comrade! Doth Marcus Licinius
Crassus deem that the flames, which shall roar over universal Rome, will
spare his houses only? Doth Marcus Crassus hope, that when the fetters
shall be stricken from the limbs of every slave in Rome, his serfs alone
will hold their necks beneath a voluntary yoke?—Doth he imagine that, when
all the gold of the rich shall be distributed among the needy, his seven
thousand talents shall escape the red hands of Catiline and his
associates? Be wise! Take heed! The noble, who forsakes his order, earns
scorn alone from his new partisans! When Cicero shall fall, all noble
Romans shall perish lamentably, with him—when the great Capitol itself
shall melt in the conflagration, all private dwellings shall go down in
the common ruin. Take counsel of a friend, true, though unknown and
humble! Hold fast to the republic! rally the nobles and the rich, around
the Consul! Ere the third day hence, he shall be triumphant, or be
nothing!—Fare thee well!"

"This is mysterious, dark, incomprehensible," said Cicero, as he finished
reading it. "Had it been sent to me, I should have read it’s secret thus,
as intended to awake suspicion, in my mind, of a brave and noble Roman! a
true friend of his country!" he added, taking the hand of Crassus in his
own. "Yet, even so, it would have failed. For as soon would I doubt the
truth of heaven itself, as question the patriotic faith of the conqueror
of Spartacus! But left at thy house, my Crassus, it seems almost senseless
and unmeaning. What have we more?

"The snake is scotched, not slain! The spark is concealed, not quenched!
The knife is sharp yet, though it lie in the scabbard! When was conspiracy
beat down by clemency, or treason conquered by timidity? Let those who
would survive the ides of November, keep their loins girded, and their
eyes wakeful. What I am, you may not learn, but this much only—I was a
noble, before I was a beggar! a Roman, before I was a—traitor!"

"Ha!" continued the consul, examining the paper closely, "This is somewhat
more pregnant—the Ides of November!—the Ides—is it so?—They shall be met
withal!—It is a different hand-writing also; and here is a third—Ha!"

"A third, plainer than the first," said Metellus Scipio—"pray mark it."

"Three men have sworn—who never swear in vain—a knight, a senator, and yet
a senator again! Two of the three, Cornelii! Their knives are keen, their
hands sure, their hearts resolute, against the new man from Arpinum! Let
those who love Cicero, look to the seventh day, before November’s Ides."

"The seventh day—ha? so soon? Be it so," said the undaunted magistrate. "I
am prepared for any fortune."

"Consul," exclaimed the Freedman, again entering, "I watched with Geta, in
the vestibule, since these good fathers entered; and now there have come
two ladies clad in the sacred garb of vestals. Two lictors wait on them.
They ask to speak with the consul."

"Admit them, madman!" exclaimed Cicero; "admit them with all honor. You
have not surely kept them in the vestibule?"

"Not so, my Consul. They are seated on the ivory chairs in the Tablinum."

"Pardon me, noble friends. I go to greet the holy virgins. This is a
strange and most unusual honour. Lead the way, man."

And with the words, he left the room in evident anxiety and haste; while
his three visitors stood gazing each on the other, in apprehension mingled
with wonder.

In a few moments, however, he returned alone, very pale, and wearing on
his fine features a singular expression of awe and dignified
self-complacency, which seemed to be almost at variance with each other.

"The Gods," he said, as he entered, in a deep and solemn tone, "the Gods
themselves attest Rome’s peril by grand and awful portents. The College of
the Vestals sends tidings, that ’The State totters to its fall’!"

"May the Great Gods avert!" cried his three auditors, simultaneously,
growing as pale as death, and faltering out their words from ashy lips in
weak or uncertain accents.

"It is so!" said Cicero; who, though a pure Deist, in truth, and no
believer in Rome’s monstrous polytheism, was not sufficiently emancipated
from the superstition of the age to dispute the truth of prodigies and
portents. "It is so. The priestess, who watched the sacred flame on the
eternal hearth, beheld it leap thrice upward in a clear spire of vivid and
unearthly light, and lick the vaulted roof-stones—thrice vanish into utter
gloom! Once, she believed the fire extinct, and veiled her head in more
than mortal terror. But, after momentary gloom, it again revived, while
three strange sighs, mightier than any human voice, came breathing from
the inmost shrine, and waved the flame fitfully to and fro, with a dread
pallid lustre. The College bids the Consul to watch for himself and the
republic, these three days, or ill shall come of it."

Even as he spoke, a bustle was again heard in the vestibule, as of a fresh
arrival, and again the freedman entered.

"My Consul, a veiled patrician woman craves to confer with you, in
private."

"Ha! all Rome is afoot, methinks, to-night. Do you know her, my Glaucias?"

"I saw her once before, my Consul. On the night of the fearful storm, when
the falchion of flame shook over Rome, and the Senate was convened
suddenly."

"Ha! She! it is well—it is very well! we shall know all anon." And his
face lighted up joyously, as he spoke. "Excuse me, Friends and Fathers.
This is one privy to the plot, with tidings of weight doubtless. Thanks
for your news, and good night; for I must pray you leave me. Your warning
hath come in good season, and I will not be taken unaware. The Gods have
Rome in their keeping, and, to save her, they will not let _me_ perish.
Fare ye well, nobles. I must be private with this woman."

After the ceremonial of the time, his visitors departed; but as they
passed through the atrium, they met the lady, conducted by the old Greek
freedman.

Little expecting to meet any one at that untimely hour, she had allowed
her veil to fall down upon her shoulders; and, although she made a
movement to recover it, as she saw the Senators approaching her by the
faint light of the single lamp which burned before the household gods on
the small altar by the _impluvium_, Marcus Marcellus caught a passing view
of a pair of large languishing blue eyes, and a face of rare beauty.

"By the great Gods!" he whispered in Crassus’ ear, "that was the lovely
Fulvia."

"Ha! Curius’ paramour!" replied the other. "Can it be possible that the
stern Consul amuses his light hours, with such high-born harlotry?"

"Not he! not he!" said Scipio. "I doubt not Curius is one of them! He is
needy, and bold, and bloody."

"But such a braggart!" answered Marcellus.

"I have known braggarts fight," said Crassus. "There was a fellow, who
served in the fifth legion; he fought before the standard of the hastati;
and I deemed him a coward ever, but in the last strife with Spartacus he
slew six men with his own hand. I saw it."

"I have heard of such things," said Scipio. "But it grows late. Let us
move homeward." And then he added, as he was leaving the Consul’s door,
"If he can trust his household, Cicero should arm it. My life on it! They
will attempt to murder him."

"He has given orders even now to arm his slaves," said the Freedman, in
reply; "and so soon as they have got their blades and bucklers, I go to
invite hither the surest of his clients."

"Thou shalt do well to do so—But see thou do it silently."

And with the words, they hurried homeward through the dark streets,
leaving the wise and virtuous magistrate in conference with his abandoned,
yet trustworthy informant, Fulvia.





CHAPTER IV.


THE CRISIS.


        He is about it. The doors are open.
                MACBETH.

The morning had scarcely dawned, after that dismal and tempestuous night,
when three men were observed by some of the earlier citizens, passing up
the Sacred Way, toward the Cerolian Place.

It was not so much that the earliness of the hour attracted the notice of
these spectators—for the Romans were a matutinal people, even in their
most effeminate and luxurious ages, and the sun found few loiterers in
their chambers, when he came forth from his oriental gates—as that the
manner and expression of these men themselves were singular, and such as
might well excite suspicion.

They all walked abreast, two clad in the full garb of Senators, and one in
the distinctive dress of Roman knighthood. No one had heard them speak
aloud, nor seen them whisper, one to the other. They moved straight
onward, steadily indeed and rather slowly, but with something of
consciousness in their manner, glancing furtively around them from beneath
their bent brows, and sometimes even casting their eyes over their
shoulders, as if to see whether they were followed.

At about a hundred paces after these three, not however accompanying them,
or attached to their party, so far at least as appearances are considered,
two large-framed fellows, clothed in the dark gray frocks worn by slaves
and gladiators, came strolling in the same direction.

These men had the auburn hair, blue eyes, and massive, if not stolid cast
of features peculiar to northern races, at that time the conquered slaves,
though destined soon to be the victors, of Rome’s gigantic power.

When the first three reached the corner of the next block of buildings, to
the corner of that magnificent street called the Carinœ, they paused for a
few moments; and, after looking carefully about them, to mark whether they
were observed or not, held a short whispered conversation, which their
stern faces, and impassioned gestures seemed to denote momentous.

While they were thus engaged, the other two came sauntering along, and
passed them by, apparently unheeded, and without speaking, or saluting
them.

Those three men were the knight Caius Cornelius, a friend and distant
kinsman of Cethegus, who was the second of the number, and Lucius
Vargunteius, a Senator, whose name has descended only to posterity,
through the black infamy of the deed, which he was even at that moment
meditating.

Spurred into action by the menaces and violence of Catiline, who had now
resolved to go forth and commence open warfare from the entrenched camp
prepared in the Appenines, by Caius Manlius, these men had volunteered, on
the previous night, at a second meeting held in the house of Læca, to
murder Cicero, with their own hands, during his morning levee.

To this end, they had now come forth thus early, hoping so to anticipate
the visit of his numerous clients, and take him at advantage, unprepared
and defenceless.

Three stout men were they, as ever went forth armed and determined for
premeditated crime; stout in frame, stout of heart, invulnerable by any
physical apprehension, unassailable by any touch of conscience, pitiless,
fearless, utterly depraved.

Yet there was something in their present enterprise, that half daunted
them. Something in the character of the man, whom they were preparing to
assassinate—something of undefined feeling, suggesting to them the
certainty of the whole world’s reproach and scorn through everlasting
ages, however present success "might trammel up the consequence."

Though they would not have confessed it to their own hearts, they were
reluctant toward their task; and this unadmitted reluctance it was, which
led them to pause and parley, under the show of arranging their schemes,
which had in truth been fully organized on the preceding night.

They were too far committed, however, to recede; and it is probable that
no one of them, although their hearts were full almost to suffocation, as
they neared the good Consul’s door, had gone so far as to think of
withdrawing his hand from the deed of blood.

The outer door of the vestibule was open; and but one slave was stationed
in the porch; an old man quite unarmed, not having so much even as a
porter’s staff, who was sitting on a stone bench, in the morning sunshine.

As the conspirators ascended the marble steps, which gave access to the
vestibule, and entered the beautiful Tuscan colonnade, the two Germans,
who had stopped and looked back for a moment, seeing them pass in, set off
as hard as they could run, through an adjoining street toward the house of
Catiline, which was not very far distant.

It was not long ere they reached it, and entered without question or
hindrance, as men familiar and permitted.

In a small room, adjoining the inner peristyle, the master of the house
was striding to and fro across the tesselated floor, in a state of
perturbation, extreme even for him; whose historian has described him with
bloodless face, and evil eyes, irregular and restless motions, and the
impress of frantic guilt, ever plain to be seen in his agitated features.

Aurelia Orestilla sat near him, on a low cushioned stool, with her superb
Italian face livid and sicklied by unusual dread. Her hands lay tightly
clasped upon her knee—her lips were as white as ashes. Her large lustrous
eyes, burning and preternaturally distended, were fixed on the haggard
face of her husband, and followed him, as he strode up and down the room
in impotent anxiety and expectation.

Yet she, privy as she was to all his blackest councils, the instigator and
rewarder of his most hideous crime, knowing the hell of impotent agony
that was consuming his heart, she dared not address him with any words of
hope or consolation.

At such a crisis all ordinary phrases of comfort or cheering love, seem
but a mockery to the spirit, which can find no rest, until the doubts that
harass it are ended; and this she felt to be the case, and, had her own
torturing expectation allowed her to frame any speech to soothe him, she
would not have ventured on its utterance, certain that it would call forth
a torrent of imprecation on her head, perhaps a burst of violence against
her person.

The very affections of the wicked, are strangely mixed at times, with more
discordant elements; and it would have been a hard question to solve,
whether that horrible pair most loved, or hated one another.

The woman’s passions, strange to relate, had been kindled at times, by the
very cruelty and fury, which at other moments made her almost detest him.
There was a species of sublimity in the very atrocity of Catiline’s
wickedness, which fascinated her morbid and polluted fancy; and she almost
admired the ferocity which tortured her, and from which, alone of mortal
ills, she shrank appalled and unresisting.

And Catiline loved her, as well as he could love anything, loved her the
more because she too, in some sort, had elicited his admiration; for she
had crossed him many times, and once braved him, and, alone of human
beings, he had not crushed her.

They were liker to mated tigers, which even in their raptures of
affection, rend with the fang, and clutch with the unsheathed talon, until
the blood and anguish testify the fury of their passion, than to beings of
human mould and nature.

Suddenly the traitor stopped short in his wild and agitated walk, and
seemed to listen intently, although no sound came to the ears of the
woman, who was no less on the alert than he, for any stir or rumor.

"It is"—he said at length, clasping his hands above his head—"it is the
step of Arminius, the trusty gladiator—do you not hear it, Orestilla?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head doubtfully. "There is no sound at all.
My ear is quicker of hearing, too, than yours, Catiline, and if there were
any step, I should be first to mark it."

"Tush! woman!" he made answer, glaring upon her fiercely. "It is my
_heart_ that hears it."

"You have a heart, then!" she replied bitterly, unable even at that time
to refrain from taunting him.

"And a hand also, and a dagger! and, by Hell and all its furies! I know
not why I do not flesh it in you. I will one day."

"No, you will not," she answered very quietly.

"And wherefore not? I have done many a worse deed in my day. The Gods
would scarce punish me for that slaughter; and men might well call it
justice.—Wherefore not, I say? Do you think I so doat on your beauty, that
I cannot right gladly spare you?"

"Because," answered the woman, meeting his fixed glare, with a glance as
meaning and as fiery, "because, when I find that you meditate it, I will
act quickest. I know a drug or two, and an unguent of very sovereign
virtue."

"Ha! ha!" The reckless profligate burst into a wild ringing laugh of
triumphant approbation. "Ha! ha! thou mightst have given me a better
reason. Where else should I find such a tigress? By all the Gods! it is
your clutch and claws that I prize, more than your softest and most
rapturous caress! But hist! hist! now—do you not hear that step?"

"I do—I do," she replied, clasping her hands again, which she had
unclinched in her anger—"and it _is_ Arminius’ step! I was wrong to cross
thee, Catiline; and thou so anxious! we shall hear now—we shall hear all."

Almost as she spoke, the German gladiator rushed into the room, heated and
panting from his swift race; and, without any sign of reverence or any
salutation, exclaimed abruptly,

"Catiline, it is over, ere this time! I saw them enter his house!"

The woman uttered a low choking shriek, her face flushed crimson, and then
again turned paler than before, and she fell back on her cushioned seat,
swooning with joy at the welcome tidings.

But Catiline flung both his arms abroad toward heaven, and cried aloud—"Ye
Gods, for once I thank ye! if there be Gods indeed!" he added, with a
sneer—"thou sawest them enter, ha?—thou art not lying?—By all the furies!
If you deceive me, I will take care that you see nothing more in this
world."

"Catiline, these eyes saw them!"

"At length! at length!" he exclaimed, his eye flashing, and his whole
countenance glowing with fiendish animation, "and yet curses upon it!—that
I could not slay him—that I should owe to any other hand my vengeance on
my victim. Thou hast done well—ha! here is gold, Arminius! the last gold I
own—but what of that, to-morrow—to-morrow, I will have millions! Away!
away! bold heart, arouse your friends and followers—to arms, to arms, cry
havoc through the streets, and liberty and vengeance!"

While he was speaking yet, the door was again opened, and Cethegus entered
with the others, dull, gloomy, and crest-fallen; but Catiline was in a
state of excitement so tremendous, that he saw nothing but the men.

At one bound he reached Cethegus, and catching him by both hands—"How!" he
exclaimed—"How was it?—quick, tell me, quick! Did he die hard? Did he die,
conscious, in despair, in anguish?—Tell me, tell me, you tortured him in
the slaying—tell me, he died a coward, howling and cursing fate, and
knowing that I, _I_ slew him, and—speak Cethegus?—speak, man! By the Gods!
you are pale! silent!—these are not faces fit for triumph! speak, man, I
say, how died he?—show me his blood, Cethegus! you have not wiped it from
your dagger, give me the blade, that I may kiss away the precious
death-drops."

So rapidly and impetuously had he spoken, heaping query on query, that
Cethegus could not have answered, if he would. But, to say the truth, he
was in little haste to do so. When Catiline ceased, however, which he did
at length, from actual want of breath to enquire farther, he answered in a
low smothered voice.

"He is not dead at all—he refused"——

"Not dead!" shrieked Catiline, for it was a shriek, though articulate, and
one so piercing that it roused Aurelia from her swoon of joy—"Not dead!
Yon villain swore that he saw you enter—not dead!" he repeated, half
incredulously—"By heaven and hell! I believe you are jesting with me! Tell
me that you have lied, and I—I—I will worship you, Cethegus."

"His porter refused us entrance, and, as the door was opened, we saw in
the Atrium the slaves of his household, and half a hundred of his clients,
all armed from head to foot, with casque and corslet, pilum, broad-sword,
and buckler. And, to complete the tale, as we returned into the street
baffled and desperate, a window was thrown open in the banquet-hall above,
and we might see the Consul, with Cato, and Marcellus, and Scipio, and a
score of Consulars beside, gazing upon us in all the triumph of security,
in all the confidence of success. We are betrayed, that is plain—our plans
are all known as soon as they are taken, all frustrated ere acted! All is
lost, Catiline, for what remains to do?"

"To dare!" answered the villain, all undaunted even by this reverse—"and,
if need be, to die—but to despair, never!"

"But who can be the traitor?—where shall we look to find him?"

"Look there," exclaimed Catiline, pointing to the German gladiator, who
stood all confounded and chap-fallen. "Look there, and you shall see one;
and see him punished too! What ho! without there, ho! a dozen of you, if
you would shun the lash!"

And, at the summons, ten or twelve slaves and freedmen rushed into the
room in trepidation, almost in terror, so savage was the temper of the
lord whom they served, and so merciless his wrath, at the most trivial
fault or error.

"Drag that brute, hence!" he said, waving his hand toward the unhappy
gladiator, "put out his eyes, fetter him foot and hand, and cast him to
the congers in the fish-pond."

Without a moment’s pause or hesitation, they cast themselves upon their
miserable comrade; and, though he struggled furiously, and struck down two
or three of the foremost, and shouted himself hoarse, in fruitless efforts
to explain, he was secured, and bound and gagged, within a shorter time
than is required to describe it.

This done, one of the freedmen looked toward his dreaded master, and
asked, with pale lips, and a faltering voice,

"Alive, Catiline?"

"Alive—and hark you, Sirrah, fasten his head above the water, that he die
not too speedily. Those biggest congers will lug him manfully, Cethegus;
we will go see the sport, anon. It will serve to amuse us, after this
disappointment. There! away with him, begone!"

The miserable creature struggled desperately in his bonds, but in vain;
and strove so terribly to speak, in despite his gag, that his face turned
almost black, from the blood which rushed to every pore; but no sound
could he utter, as he was dragged away, save a deep-mouthed groan, which
was drowned by the laughter of the remorseless wretches, who gazed on his
anguish with fiendish merriment; among which, hideous to relate, the
thrilling sounds of Aurelia’s silvery and contagious mirth were distinctly
audible.

"He will take care to see more truly in Hades!" said Catiline, with his
sardonic smile, as he was dragged out of the room, by his appalled and
trembling fellows. "But now to business. Tell me, did you display any
weapon? or do aught, that can be proved, to show your intent on the
Consul?"

"Nothing, my Catiline," replied Cethegus, firmly.

"Nothing, indeed, Cethegus? By all our hopes! deceive me not!"

"By your head! nothing, Catiline."

"Then I care nothing for the failure!" answered the other. "Keep good
hearts, and wear smiling faces! I will kill him myself to-morrow, if, like
the scorpion, I must die in the deed."

"Try it not, Catiline. You will but fail—and"——

"Fail! who ever knew me fail, in vengeance?"

"No one!" said Orestilla—"and no one can hinder you of it. No! not the
Gods!"

"There are no Gods!" exclaimed the Traitor, "and if there be, it were all
one—I defy them!"

"Cicero says there is ONE, they tell me," said Cethegus, half mocking,
half in earnest—"and he is very wise."

"Very!" replied the other, with his accustomed sneer—"Therefore that ONE
may save him—if he can!"

"The thing is settled," cried Aurelia Orestilla, "I told him yesterday he
ought to do it, himself—I should not be content, unless Catiline’s hand
dealt him the death blow, Catiline’s eye gloated upon him in the
death-struggle, Catiline’s tongue jeered him in the death-pang!"

"You love him dearly, Orestilla," said Cethegus.

"And clearly he has earned it," she replied.

"By Venus! I would give half my hopes, to see him kiss you."

"And I, if my lips had the hydra’s venom. But come," she added, with a
wreathed smile and a beaming eye, "Let us go see the fishes eat yon
varlet; else shall we be too late for the sport."

"Rare sport!" said Cethegus, "I have not seen a man eaten, by a tiger
even, these six months past; and by a fish, I think, never!"

"The fish do it better," replied Catiline—"Better, and cleaner—they leave
the prettiest skeleton you can imagine—they are longer about it, you will
say—True; but I do not grudge the time."

"No! no! the longer, the merrier!" said Aurelia, laughing melodiously—"The
last fellow I saw given to the tigers, had his head crushed like a
nut-shell, by a single blow. He had not time to shriek even once. There
was no fun in that, you know."

"None indeed," said Cethegus—"but I warrant you this German will howl
gloriously, when the fish are at him." "Yes! yes!" exclaimed the lovely
woman, clapping her hands joyously. "We must have the gag removed, to give
free vent to his music. Come, come, I am dying to see him."

"Some one must die, since Cicero did not."

"Happy fellow this, if he only knew it, to give his friends so much
pleasure!"

"One of them such a fair lady too!"

"Will there be more pleasure, think you, in seeing the congers eat the
gladiator, or in eating the congers afterward?"

"Oh! no comparison! one can eat fat congers always."

"We have the advantage of them truly, for they cannot always eat fat
gladiators."

And they walked away with as much glee and expectation, to the scene of
agony and fiendish torture, vitiated by the frightful exhibitions of the
circus and the arena, as men in modern days would feel, in going to enjoy
the fictitious sorrows of some grand tragedian.

Can it be that the contemplation of human wo, in some form or other, is in
all ages grateful to poor corrupt humanity?





CHAPTER V.


THE ORATION.


          Quousque tandem abutere—
                  CICERO.

The Senate was assembled in the great temple on the Palatine, built on the
spot where Jupiter, thence hailed as Stator, had stayed the tide of
flight, and sent the rallied Romans back to a glorious triumph.

A cohort was stationed on the brow of the hill, its spear-heads glancing
in the early sunshine.

The Roman knights, wearing their swords openly, and clad in their girded
tunics only, mustered around the steps which led to the colonnade and
doors of the temple, a voluntary guard to the good consul.

A mighty concourse had flowed together from all quarters of the city, and
stood in dense masses in all the neighboring streets, and in the area of
the temple, in hushed and anxious expectation.

The tribunes of the people, awed for once by the imminence of the peril,
forgot to be factious.

Within the mighty building, there was dead silence—silence more eloquent
than words.

For, to the wonder of all men, undismayed by detection, unrebuked by the
horror and hate which frowned on him from every brow, Catiline had assumed
his place on the benches of his order.

Not one, even of his most intimate associates, had dared to salute him;
not one, even of the conspirators, had dared to recognize the manifest
traitor.

As he assumed his place, the senators next to him had arisen and withdrawn
from the infamous vicinity, some of them even shaking their gowns, as if
to dissipate the contamination of his contact.

Alone he sat, therefore, with a wide vacant space around him—alone, in
that crowded house—alone, yet proud, unrebuked, undaunted.

The eyes of every man in the vast assembly were riveted in fear, or
hatred, or astonishment, on the set features and sullen scowling brow, of
the arch conspirator.

Thus sat they, thus they gazed for ten minutes’ space, and so deep was the
all-absorbing interest, that none observed the Consul, who had arisen to
his feet before the curule chair, until the great volume of his clear
sonorous voice rolled over them, like the burst of sudden thunder amid the
hush of nature which precedes it.

It was to no set form of words, to no premeditated speech, that he gave
utterance; nor did he in the usual form address the Conscript Fathers.

With his form drawn to its fullest height, his arm outstretched as if it
was about to launch the thunderbolt, he hurled his impassioned indignation
against the fearless culprit.

"Until how long, O Catiline, wilt thou abuse our patience? Until how long,
too, will thy frantic fury baffle us? Unto what extremity will thy
unbridled insolence display itself? Do the nocturnal guards upon the
Palatine nothing dismay you, nothing the watches through the city, nothing
the terrors of the people, nothing the concourse hitherward of all good
citizens, nothing this most secure place for the senate’s convocation,
nothing the eyes and faces of all these?" And at the words, he waved both
arms slowly around, pointing the features and expression of every senator,
filled with awe and aversion.

"Dost thou not feel that all thy plots are manifest? Not see that thy
conspiracy was grasped irresistibly, so soon as it was known thoroughly to
all these? Which of us dost thou imagine ignorant of what thou didst,
where thou wert, whom thou didst convoke, what resolution thou didst take
last night, and the night yet preceding? Oh! ye changed Times! Oh, ye
degenerate customs! The Senate comprehends these things, the Consul sees
them! Yet this man lives! Lives, did I say? Yea, indeed, comes into the
Senate, bears a part in the public councils, marks out with his eyes and
selects every one of us for slaughter. But we, strenuous brave men,
imagine that we do our duty to the state, so long as we escape the frenzy,
the daggers of that villain. Long since it had been right, Catiline, that
thou shouldst have been led to death by the Consul’s mandate—Long since
should that doom have been turned upon thyself, which thou hast been so
long devising for all of us here present. Do I err, saying this? or did
that most illustrious man, Publius Scipio, pontifex maximus, when in no
magisterial office, take off Tiberius Gracchus, for merely disturbing the
established order of the state? And shall we, Consuls, endure Catiline
aiming to devastate the world with massacre and conflagration? For I omit
to state, as too ancient precedents, how Caius Servilius Ahala slew with
his own hand Spurius Melius, when plotting revolution! There was, there
was, of old, that energy of virtue in this commonwealth, that brave men
hedged the traitorous citizen about with heavier penalties than the most
deadly foe! We hold a powerful and weighty decree of the Senate against
thee, O Catiline. Neither the counsel nor the sanction of this order have
been wanting to the republic. We, we, I say it openly, we Consuls are
wanting in our duty.

"The Senate decreed once, that Lucius Opimius, then Consul, should see
THAT THE REPUBLIC TOOK NO HARM; not one night intervened. Caius Gracchus
was slain on mere suspicions of sedition, the son of a most noble father,
most noble grandfather, most noble ancestry. Marcus Fulvius, a consular,
was slain with both his children. By a like decree of the Senate, the
charge of the republic was committed to Caius Marius and Lucius Valerius,
the Consuls—did the republic’s vengeance delay the death of Lucius
Saterninus, a tribune of the people, of Caius Servilius, a prætor, even a
single day? And yet, we Consuls, suffer the edge of this authority to be
blunted, until the twentieth day. For we have such a decree of the Senate,
but hidden in the scroll which contains it, as a sword undrawn in its
scabbard. By which decree it were right, O Catiline, that thou shouldst
have been slaughtered on the instant. Thou livest; and livest not to lay
aside, but to confirm and strengthen thine audacity. I desire, O Conscript
fathers, to _be_ merciful; I desire, too, in such jeopardy of the
republic, not to _seem_ culpably neglectful. Yet I condemn myself of
inability, of utter weakness. There is a camp in Italy! hostile to the
republic, in the defiles that open on Etruria! Daily the numbers of the
foe are increasing! And yet the general of that camp, the leader of that
foe, we see within the walls, aye, even in the Senate, day by day,
plotting some intestine blow against the state. Were I to order thee to be
arrested, to be slain now, O Catiline, I should have cause, I think, to
dread the reproaches of _all_ good citizens, for having stricken thee too
late, rather than that of _one_, for having stricken thee too severely.
And yet, that which should have been done long ago, I am not yet for a
certain reason persuaded to do now. Then—then at length—will I slay thee,
when there is not a man so base, so desperately wicked, so like to thee in
character, but he shall own thy slaying just. So long as there shall be
one man, who dares to defend thee, thou shalt live. And thou shalt live,
as now thou livest, beset on every side by numerous, and steady guards, so
that thou canst not even stir against the commonwealth. The eyes moreover,
and the ears of many, even as heretofore, shall spy thee out at unawares,
and mount guard on thee in private.

"For what is there, Catiline, which thou now canst expect more, if neither
night with all its darkness, could conceal thy unholy meetings, nor even
the most private house contain within its walls the voice of thy
conspiracy? If all thy deeds shine forth, burst into public view? Change
now that hideous purpose, take me along as thy adviser, forget thy schemes
of massacre, of conflagration. Thou art hemmed in on every side. Thy every
council is more clear to me than day; and these thou canst now review with
me. Dost thou remember, how I stated in the Senate, on the twelfth day
before the Calends of November,(1) that Caius Manlius, the satellite and
co-minister of thy audacity, would be in arms on a given day, which day
would be the sixth(2) before the Calends of November?—Did I err, Catiline,
not in the fact, so great as it was, so atrocious, so incredible, but,
what is much more wondrous, in the very day? Again I told thee in the
Senate, that thou hadst conspired to slay the first men of the state, on
the fifth(3) day before the Calends of November, when many leading men of
Rome quitted the city, not so much to preserve their lives, as to mar thy
councils. Canst thou deny that thou wert hemmed in on that day by my
guards, and hindered by my vigilance from stirring thy hand against the
state, when, frustrate by the departure of the rest, thou saidst that our
blood, ours who had remained behind, would satisfy thee? What? When thou
wert so confident of seizing Præneste, by nocturnal escalade, upon the
very(4) Calends of November, didst thou not feel that it was by my order
that colony was garrisoned, guarded, watched, impregnable?—Thou doest
nothing, plottest nothing, thinkest nothing which I shall not—I say
not—hear—but shall not see, shall not conspicuously comprehend.

"Review with me now, the transactions of the night before the last, so
shalt thou understand that I watch far more vigilantly for the safety,
than thou for the destruction of the state. I say that on that former
night,(5) thou didst go to the street of the Scythemakers, I will speak
plainly, to the house of Marcus Læca; that thou didst meet there many of
thy associates in crime and madness. Wilt thou dare to deny it? Why so
silent? If thou deniest, I will prove it. For I see some of those here,
here in the Senate, who were with thee. Oh! ye immortal Gods! in what
region of the earth do we dwell? in what city do we live? of what republic
are we citizens? Here! they are here, in the midst of us, Conscript
Fathers, here in this council, the most sacred, the most solemn of the
universal world, who are planning the slaughter of myself, the slaughter
of you all, planning the ruin of this city, and therein the ruin of the
world. I the consul, see these men, and ask their opinions on state
matters. Nay, those whom it were but justice to slaughter with the sword,
I refrain as yet from wounding with a word. Thou wert therefore in the
house of Læca, on that night, O Catiline. Thou didst allot the districts
of Italy; thou didst determine whither each one of thy followers should
set forth; thou didst choose whom thou wouldst lead along with thee, whom
leave behind; thou didst assign the wards of the city for conflagration;
thou didst assert that ere long thou wouldst go forth in person; thou
saidst there was but one cause why thou shouldst yet delay a little,
namely, that I was alive. Two Roman knights were found, who offered
themselves to liberate thee from that care, and promised that they would
butcher me, that very night, a little before daylight, in my own bed. Of
all these things I was aware, when your assembly was scarce yet broken up.
I strengthened my house, and guarded it with an unwonted garrison. I
refused admittance to those whom thou hadst sent to salute me, when they
arrived; even as I had predicted to many eminent men that they would
arrive, and at that very time.

"Since then these things stand thus, O Catiline, proceed as thou hast
begun; depart when thou wilt from the city; the gates are open; begone;
too long already have those camps of Manlius lacked their general. Lead
forth, with the morrow, all thy men—if not all, as many at least as thou
art able; purify the city of thy presence. Thou wilt discharge me from
great terror, so soon as a wall shall be interposed between thee and me.
Dwell among us thou canst now no longer. I will not endure, I will not
suffer, I will not permit it! Great thanks must be rendered to the
immortal Gods, and to this Stator Jove, especially, the ancient guardian
of this city, that we have escaped so many times already this plague, so
foul, so horrible, so fraught with ruin to the republic. Not often is the
highest weal of a state jeoparded in the person of a single individual. So
long as you plotted against me, merely as Consul elect, O Catiline, I
protected myself, not by public guards, but by private diligence. When at
the late Comitia, thou wouldst have murdered me, presiding as Consul in
the Field of Mars, with thy competitors, I checked thy nefarious plans, by
the protection and force of my friends, without exciting any public
tumult.—In a word, as often as thou hast thrust at me, myself have I
parried the blow, although I perceived clearly, that my fall was conjoined
with dread calamity to the republic. Now, now, thou dost strike openly at
the whole commonwealth, the dwellings of the city; dost summon the temples
of the Immortal Gods, the lives of all citizens, in a word, Italy herself,
to havoc and perdition. Wherefore—seeing that as yet, I dare not do what
should be my first duty, what is the ancient and peculiar usage of this
state, and in accordance with the discipline of our fathers—I will, at
least, do that which in respect to security is more lenient, in respect to
the common good, more useful. For should I command thee to be slain, the
surviving band of thy conspirators would settle down in the republic; but
if—as I have been long exhorting thee, thou wilt go forth, the vast and
pestilent contamination of thy comrades will be drained out of the city.
What is this, Catiline? Dost hesitate to do that, for my bidding, which of
thine own accord thou wert about doing? The Consul commands the enemy to
go forth from the state. Dost thou enquire of me, whether into exile? I do
not order, but, if thou wilt have my counsel, I advise it.

"For what is there, O Catiline, that can delight thee any longer in this
city, in which there is not one man, without thy band of desperadoes, who
does not fear, not one who does not hate thee?—What brand of domestic
turpitude is not burnt in upon thy life? What shame of private bearing
clings not to thee, for endless infamy? What scenes of impure lust, what
deeds of daring crime, what horrible pollution attaches not to thy whole
career?—To what young man, once entangled in the meshes of thy corruption,
hast thou not tendered the torch of licentiousness, or the steel of
murder? Must I say more? Even of late, when thou hadst rendered thy house
vacant for new nuptials, by the death of thy late wife, didst thou not
overtop that hideous crime, by a crime more incredible? which I pass over,
and permit willingly to rest in silence, lest it be known, that in this
state, guilt so enormous has existed, and has not been punished. I pass
over the ruin of thy fortunes, which all men know to be impending on the
next(6) Ides, I proceed to those things which pertain not to the private
infamy of thy career, not to thy domestic difficulties and baseness, but
to the supreme safety of the state, and to the life and welfare of us all.
Can the light of this life, the breath of this heaven, be grateful to
thee, Catiline, when thou art conscious that not one of these but knows
how thou didst stand armed in the comitium, on the day previous(7) to the
calends of January, when Lepidus and Tullus were the Consuls? That thou
hadst mustered a band of assassins to slay the Consuls, and the noblest of
the citizens? That no relenting of thy heart, no faltering from fear,
opposed thy guilt and frenzy, but the wonted good fortune of the
commonwealth? And now I pass from these things, for neither are these
crimes not known to all, nor have there not been many more recently
committed. How many times hast not thou thrust at me while elect, how many
times when Consul? How many thrusts of thine so nearly aimed, that they
appeared inevitable; have I not shunned by a slight diversion, and, as
they say of gladiators, by the movements of my body? Thou doest nothing,
attemptest nothing, plannest nothing, which can escape my knowledge, at
the moment, when I would know it. Yet thou wilt neither cease from
endeavoring nor from plotting. How many times already hath that dagger
been wrested from thy hand? how many times hath it fallen by chance, and
escaped thy grasp? Still thou canst not be deprived of it, more than an
instant’s space!—And yet, I know not with what unhallowed rites it has
been consecrated and devoted by thee, that thou shouldst deem it necessary
to flesh it in the body of a Consul.

"Now then, what life is this of thine? For I will now address thee, not so
that I may seem moved by that detestation which I feel toward thee, but by
compassion, no portion of which is thy due. But a moment since, thou didst
come into the Senate, and which one man, from so vast a concourse, from
thine own chosen and familiar friends, saluted thee? If this has befallen
no one, within the memory of man, wilt thou await loud contumely,
condemned already by the most severe sentence of this silence? What
wouldst thou have, when all those seats around thee were left vacant on
thy coming? When all those Consulars, whom thou so frequently hadst
designated unto slaughter, as soon as thou didst take thy seat, left all
that portion of the benches bare and vacant? With what spirit, in one
word, can thou deem this endurable? By Hercules! did my slaves so dread
me, as all thy fellow citizens dread thee, I should conceive it time for
leaving my own house—dost thou not hold it time to leave this city?—And if
I felt myself without just cause suspected, and odious to my countrymen, I
should choose rather to be beyond the reach of their vision, than to be
gazed upon by hostile eyes of all men. Dost thou hesitate, when conscious
of thine own crimes thou must acknowledge that the hate of all is just,
and due long ago—dost thou, I say, hesitate to avoid the presence and the
sight of those whose eyes and senses thine aspect every day is wounding?
If thine own parents feared and hated thee, and could by no means be
reconciled, thou wouldst, I presume, withdraw thyself some-whither beyond
the reach of their eyes—now thy country, which is the common parent of us
all, dreads and detests thee, and has passed judgment on thee long ago, as
meditating nothing but her parricide. Wilt thou now neither revere her
authority, nor obey her judgment, nor yet dread her violence? Since thus
she now deals with thee, Catiline, thus speaks to thee in silence.

"’No deed of infamy hath been done in these many years, unless through
thee—no deed of atrocity without thee—to thee alone, the murder of many
citizens, to thee alone the spoliation and oppression of our allies, hath
been free and unpunished. Thou hast been powerful not only to escape laws
and prosecutions, but openly to break through and overturn them. To these
things, though indeed intolerable, I have submitted as best I might—but it
can now no longer be endured that I should be in one eternal dread of thee
only—that Catiline, on what alarm soever, alone should be the source of
terror—that no treason against me can be imagined, such as should be
revolting to thy desperate criminality. Wherefore begone, and liberate me
from this terror, so that, if true, I may not be ruined; if false I may at
least shake with fear no longer.’

"If thy country should thus, as I have said, parley with thee, should she
not obtain what she demands, even if she lack force to compel it? What
more shall I say, when thou didst offer thyself to go into some private
custody? What, when to shun suspicion, thou didst profess thy willingness
to take up thy residence under the roof of Manius Lepidus? Refused by
whom, thou hadst audacity to come to me, and request that I would admit
thee to my house. And when thou didst receive from me this answer, that I
could not exist within the same house with that man, whose presence even
inside the same city walls, I esteemed vast peril to my life, thou didst
then go to the prætor Quintus Metellus; and, then, repulsed by him, to
Marcus Marcellus, thine own comrade, a virtuous man truly, one whom past
doubt thou didst deem likely to be most vigilant in guarding, most crafty
in suspecting, most strenuous in bringing thee to justice. And how far
shall that man be believed distant from deserving chains and a dungeon,
who judges himself to be worthy of safekeeping?—Since, then, these things
are so, dost hesitate, O Catiline, since here thou canst not tarry with an
equal mind, to depart for some other land, and give that life, rescued
from many just and deserved penalties, to solitude and exile? ’Lay the
matter,’ thou sayest, ’before the Senate,’ for that it is which thou
requirest, ’and if this order shall command thee into banishment, thou
wilt obey their bidding.’ I will not lay it before them—for to do so is
repugnant to my character, yet I will so act, that thou shalt clearly see
what these think of thee. Depart from the city, Catiline! Deliver the
state from terror! begone into banishment, if that be the word for which
thou tarriest!"

Then the great Orator paused once again, not to breathe, though the
vehement and uninterrupted torrent of his eloquence, might well have
required an interval of rest, but to give the confounded listener occasion
to note the feelings of the assembled Senate, perfectly in accordance with
his words.

It was but a moment, however, that he paused, and, that ended, again burst
out the thunderous weight of his magnificent invective.

"What means this, Catiline? Dost thou note these, dost thou observe their
silence? They permit my words, they are mute. Why dost thou wait that
confirmation of their words, which thou seest given already by their
silence? But had I spoken these same words to that admirable youth Publius
Sextius, or to that very valiant man, Marcus Marcellus, I tell thee that
this very Senate would have, already, in this very temple, laid violent
hands on me, the Consul, and that too most justly! But with regard to
thee, when quiescent they approve, when passive they decree, when mute
they cry aloud! Nor these alone, whose authority it seems is very dear,
whose life most cheap, in your eyes, but all those Roman knights do
likewise, most honorable and most worthy men, and all those other valiant
citizens, who stand about the Senate house, whose dense ranks thou couldst
see, whose zeal thou couldst discover, whose patriotic cries thou couldst
hear, but a little while ago; whose hands and weapons I have scarcely, for
a long time, restrained from thee, whom I will yet induce to escort thee
to the gates of Rome, if thou wilt leave this city, which thou hast sought
so long to devastate and ruin.

"And yet what say I? Can it be hoped that anything should ever bend thee?
that thou shouldst ever be reformed? that thou shouldst dream of any
flight? that thou shouldst contemplate any exile? Would, would indeed that
the immortal Gods might give thee such a purpose! And yet I perceive, if
astounded by my voice thou shouldst bend thy spirit to go into voluntary
exile, how vast a storm of odium would hang over me, if not at this
present time, when the memory of thy villanies is recent, at least from
the passions of posterity. But to me it is worth this sacrifice, so that
the storm burst on my individual head, and be connected with no perils to
the state. But that thou shouldst be moved by thine own vices, that thou
shouldst dread the penalties of the law, that thou shouldst yield to the
exigences of the republic, this indeed is not to be expected; for thou art
not such an one, O Catiline, that any sense of shame should ever recall
thee from infamy, any sense of fear from peril, any glimmering of reason
from insanity. Wherefore, as I have said many times already, go forth from
among us; and if thou wouldst stir up against me, as constantly thou
sayest, against me thine enemy a storm of enmity and odium, then begone
straightway into exile. Scarcely shall I have power to endure the clamors
of the world, scarcely shall I have power to sustain the burthen of that
odium, if thou wilt but go into voluntary banishment, now, at the consul’s
bidding. If, on the contrary, thou wouldst advance my glory and my
reputation, then go forth with thy lawless band of ruffians! Betake
thyself to Manlius! stir up the desperate citizens to arms! withdraw
thyself from all good men! levy war on thy country! exult in unhallowed
schemes of robbery and murder, so that thou shalt not pass for one driven
forth by my tyranny into the arms of strangers, but for one joining by
invitation his own friends and comrades. Yet why should I invite thee,
when I well know that thy confederates are sent forth already, who nigh
Forum Aurelium shall wait in arms for your arrival? When I well know that
thou hast already a day promised and appointed whereon to join the camp of
Manlius? When I well know that the silver eagle hath been prepared
already—the silver eagle which will, I trust, prove ruinous and fatal to
thee and all thine host, to which a shrine has been established in thine
own house, thy villanies its fitting incense? For how shalt thou endure
its absence any longer, thou who wert wont to adore it, setting forth to
sacrilege and slaughter, thou who so often hast upraised that impious
right hand of thine from its accursed altars to murder citizens of Rome?

"At length, then, at length, thou must go forth, whither long since thy
frantic and unbridled passions have impelled thee. Nor shall this war
against thy country vex or afflict thee. Nay, rather shall it bring to
thee a strange and unimaginable pleasure, for to this frantic career did
nature give thee birth, to this hath thine own inclination trained, to
this, fortune preserved thee—for never hast thou wished—I say not peaceful
leisure—but war itself, unless that war were sacrilegious. Thou hast drawn
together from the most infamous of wretches, wretches abandoned not only
by all fortune, but all hope, a bodyguard of desperadoes! Among these what
pleasure wilt thou not experience, in what bliss not exult, in what
raptures not madly revel, when thou shalt neither see nor hear one
virtuous man in such a concourse of thy comrades? To this, this mode of
life tended all those strenuous toils of thine, which are so widely talked
of—to lie on the bare ground, not lying in wait merely for some occasion
of adultery, but for some opportunity of daring crime! To watch through
the night, not plotting merely against the sleep of betrayed husbands, but
against the property of murdered victims! Now, then, thou hast a notable
occasion for displaying those illustrious qualities of thine, that
wonderful endurance of hunger, of cold, of destitution, by which ere long
thou shalt feel thyself undone, and ruined. This much, however, I did
accomplish, when I defeated thee in the comitia, that thou shouldst strike
at the republic as an exile, rather than ravage it as a consul; and that
the warfare, so villanously evoked by thee, should be called rather the
struggle of a base banditti, than the fair strife of warriors.

"Now, Conscript Fathers, that I may solemnly abjure and deprecate the just
reproaches of my country, listen, I pray you, earnestly to what I say, and
commit it deeply to your memories and minds. For if my country, who is
much dearer to me than my life, if all Italy, if the whole commonwealth
should thus expostulate with me, ’What dost thou, Marcus Tullius? Him,
whom thou hast proved to be my enemy, whom thou seest the future leader in
the war against me, whom thou knowest even now the expected general in the
camp of my foes—him, the author of every crime, the head of this
conspiracy, the summoner of insurgent slaves, and ruined citizens—him wilt
thou suffer to go forth, and in such guise, that he shall not be as one
banished from the walls, but rather as one let loose to war against the
city? Wilt thou not, then, command that he shall be led away to prison,
that he shall be hurried off to death, that he shall be visited with the
last torments of the law? What is it, that dissuades thee? Is it the
custom of thine ancestors? Not so—for many times in this republic have
men, even in private stations, inflicted death on traitors!—Is it the
laws, enacted, concerning the punishment of Roman citizens? Not so—for
never, in this city, have rebels against the commonwealth been suffered to
retain the rights of Citizens or Romans! Dost thou shrink from the odium
of posterity? If it be so, in truth, thou dost repay great gratitude unto
the Roman people, who hath elevated thee, a man known by thine own actions
only, commended by no ancestral glory, so rapidly, through all the grades
of honor, to this most high authority of consul; if in the fear of any
future odium, if in the dread of any present peril, thou dost neglect the
safety of the citizens! Again, if thou dost shrink from enmity, whether
dost deem most terrible, that, purchased by a severe and brave discharge
of duty, or that, by inability and shameful weakness? Or, once more, when
all Italy shall be waste with civil war, when her towns shall be
demolished, her houses blazing to the sky, dost fancy that thy good report
shall not be then consumed in the fierce glare of enmity and odium?’

"To these most solemn appeals of my country, and to the minds of those men
who think in likewise, I will now make brief answer. Could I have judged
it for the best, O Conscript Fathers, that Catiline should have been done
to death, then would I not have granted one hour’s tenure of existence to
that gladiator. For if the first of men, noblest of citizens, were graced,
not polluted, by the blood of Saturninus, and the Gracchi, and Flaccus,
and many more in olden time, there surely is no cause why I should
apprehend a burst of future odium for taking off this parricide of the
republic. Yet if such odium did inevitably impend above me, I have ever
been of this mind, that I regard that hatred which is earned by honorable
duty not as reproach, but glory! Yet there are some in this assembly, who
either do not see the perils which are imminent above us, or seeing deny
their eyesight. Some who have nursed the hopes of Catiline by moderate
decrees; and strengthened this conspiracy from its birth until now, by
disbelieving its existence—and many more there are, not of the wicked
only, but of the inexperienced, who, if I should do justice upon this man,
would raise a cry that I had dealt with him cruelly, and as a regal
tyrant.

"Now I am well assured that, if he once arrive, whither he means to go, at
the camp of Manlius, there will be none so blind as not to see the reality
of this conspiracy, none so wicked as to deny it. But on the other hand,
were this man slain, alone, I perceive that this ruin of the state might
indeed be repressed for a season, but could not be suppressed for
ever—while, if he cast himself forth, and lead his comrades with him, and
gather to his host all his disbanded desperate outlaws, not only will this
full grown pestilence of Rome be utterly extinguished and abolished, but
the very seed and germ of all evil will be extirpated for ever.

"For it is a long time, O Conscript Fathers, that we have been dwelling
amid the perils and stratagems of this conspiracy. And I know not how it
is that the ripeness of all crime, the maturity of ancient guilt and
frenzy, hath burst to light at once during my consulship. But, this I
know, that if from so vast a horde of assassins and banditti this man
alone be taken off, we may perchance be relieved for some brief space,
from apprehension and dismay, but the peril itself will strike inward, and
settle down into the veins and vitals of the commonwealth. As oftentimes,
men laboring under some dread disease, if, while tossing in feverish heat,
they drink cold water, will seem indeed to be relieved for some brief
space, but are thereafter much more seriously and perilously afflicted, so
will this ulcer, which exists in the republic, if relieved by the cutting
off this man, grow but the more inveterate, the others left alive.
Wherefore, O Conscript Fathers, let the wicked withdraw themselves, let
them retire from among the good, let them herd together in one place, let
them, in one word, as often I have said before, be divided from us by the
city wall. Let them cease to plot against the consul in his own house, to
stand about the tribunal of the city prætor deterring him from justice, to
beset even the senate house with swords, to prepare blazing brands and
fiery arrows for the conflagration of the city. Let it, in one word, be
borne as an inscription upon the brow of every citizen, what are his
sentiments toward the republic. This I can promise you, O Conscript
Fathers, that there shall be such diligence in us consuls, such valor in
the Roman knights, such unanimity in all good citizens, that you shall
see, Catiline once departed, all that is secret exposed, all that is dark
brought to light, all that is dangerous put down, all that is guilty
punished. Under these omens, Catiline, to the eternal welfare of the
state, to thine own ruin and destruction, to the perdition of all those
who have linked themselves with thee in this league of infamy and
parricide, go forth to thine atrocious and sacrilegious warfare! And do
thou Jove, who wert consecrated by Romulus under the same auspices with
this city, whom we truly hail as the Stator, and supporter of this city,
of this empire, chase forth this man, and this man’s associates, from
thine own altars, and from the shrines of other Gods, from the roofs and
hearths of the city, from the lives and fortunes of the citizens, and
consummate the solemn ruin of all enemies of the good, all foes of their
country, all assassins of Italy, linked in one league of guilt and bond of
infamy, living or dead, by thine eternal torments."

The dread voice ceased—the terrible oration ended.

And instantly with flushed cheek, and glaring eye, and the foam on his
gnashed teeth, fierce, energetical, undaunted, Catiline sprang to his feet
to reply.

But a deep solemn murmur rose on all sides, deepening, swelling into a
vast overwhelming conclamation—"Down with the Traitor—away with the
Parricide!"

But unchecked by this awful demonstration of the popular mind, he still
raised his voice to its highest pitch, defying all, both gods and men,
till again it was drowned by that appalling torrent of scorn and
imprecation.

Then, with a furious gesture, and a yelling voice that rose clear above
all the din and clamor,

"Since," he exclaimed, "my enemies will drive me headlong to destruction I
will extinguish the conflagration which consumes me in their universal
ruin!"

And pursued by the yells, and groans, and curses of that great concourse,
and hunted by wilder furies within his own dark soul, the baffled Traitor
rushed precipitately homeward.





CHAPTER VI.


THE FLIGHT.


          Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit.
                  CICERO.

His heart was a living hell, as he rushed homeward. Cut off on every side,
detected, contemned, hated, what was left to the Traitor?

To retrace his steps was impossible,—nor, if possible, would his
indomitable pride have consented to surrender his ambitious schemes, his
hopes of vengeance.

He rushed homeward; struck down a slave, who asked him some officious
question; spurned Orestilla out of his way with a bitter earnest curse;
barred himself up in his inmost chamber, and remained there alone one
hour.

One hour; but in that hour what years, what ages of time, what an eternity
of agony, was concentrated!

For once in many years he sat still, motionless, silent, while thought
succeeded thought, and passion passion, with indescribable rapidity and
vividness.

In that one hour all the deeds of his life passed before him, from his
wild and reckless boyhood to his atrocious and dishonored manhood.

The victims of his fiendish passions seemed to fleet, one by one, before
his eyes, with deathlike visages and ghastly menace.

The noble virgin, whom he had first dishonored, scarcely as yet a boy,
pointed with bloody fingers to the deep self-inflicted wound, which yawned
in her snowy bosom.

The vestal, who had broken through all bounds of virtue, piety, and honor,
sacrificed soul and body to his unpitying lust, gazed at him with that
unearthly terror in her eyes, which glared from them as they looked their
last at earth and heaven, when she descended, young and lovely, into a
living grave.

The son, whom he had poisoned, to render his house vacant for unhallowed
nuptials, with his whole frame convulsed in agony, and the sardonic grin
of death on his writhing lips, frowned on him.

His brother, who had drawn life from the same soft bosom, but whose
kindred blood had pleaded vainly against the fratricidal dagger, frowned
on him.

His sister’s husband, that mild and blameless knight, whose last breath
was spent in words of peace and pardon to his slayer, now frowned on him.

The stern impassive face of Marius Gratidianus, unmoved alike by agony or
insult, frowned on him, in the serene dignity of sustaining virtue.

Men of all ranks and ages, done to death by his hand or his head, by
poison, by the knife, by drowning, by starvation—women deceived or
violated, and then murdered, while their kisses were yet warm on his
lips—infants tortured to death in the very wantonness of cruelty, and
crime that must have been nigh akin to madness, gibbered, and glared upon
him.

These things would seem impossible, they are in truth incredible, but they
are true beyond the possibility of cavil.

He was indeed one of those unaccountable and extraordinary monsters, who,
thanks to nature! appear but once in many ages, to whom sin is dear for
its own naked self, to whom butchery(8) is a pastime, and blood and
agonies and tears a pleasurable excitement to their mad morbid appetites.

And in this hour of downfall, one by one, did his fancy conjure up before
him the victims of his merciless love, his merciless hatred—both alike,
sure and deadly.

It was a strange combination of mind, for there must have been in the
spirit that evoked these phantoms of the conscience, something of remorse,
if not of repentance. Pale, ghastly, grim, reproachful, they all seemed to
him to be appealing to the just heavens for justice and revenge. Yet there
was even more of triumph and proud self-gratulation in his mood, than of
remorse for the past, or of apprehension for the future.

As he thought of each, as he thought of all, he in some sort gloated over
the memory of his success, in some sort derived confidence from the very
number of his unpunished crimes.

"They crossed me," he muttered to himself, "and where are they?—My fate
cried out for their lives, and their lives were forfeit. Who ever stood in
my path, that has not perished from before my face? Not one! Who ever
strove with me, that has not fallen? who ever frowned upon me, that has
not expiated the bended brow by the death-grin?—Not one! not one! Scores,
hundreds, have died for thwarting me! but who of men has lived to boast of
it!—Not one!"

He rose from his seat, stalked slowly across the room, drew his hand
across his brow twice, with a thoughtful gesture, and then said,

"Cicero! Cicero! Better thou never hadst been born! Better—but it must
be—my Fate, my fate demands it, and neither eloquence nor wisdom, virtue
nor valor, shall avail to save thee. These were brave, beautiful, wise,
pious, eloquent; and what availed it to them? My Fate, my fate shall
prevail! To recede is to perish, is to be scorned—to advance is to win—to
win universal empire," and he stretched out his hand, as if he clutched an
imaginary globe—"to win fame, honor, the applause of ages—for with the
people—the _dear_ people—failure alone and poverty are guilt—success, by
craft or crime, success is piety and virtue!—On! Catiline! thy path is
onward still, upward, and onward! But not here!"

Then he unbarred the door, "What ho, Chærea!" and prompt, at the word, the
freedman entered. "Send out my trustiest slaves, summon me hither
instantly Lentulus and the rest of those, who supped here on the Calends.
Ha! the Calends." He repeated the word, as if some new idea had struck
him, on the mention of that day, and he paused thoughtfully. "Aye! Paullus
Arvina! I had well nigh forgotten—I have it; Aulus is the man; he hath
some private grudge at him! and beside those," he added, again addressing
the freedman, "go thyself and bring Aulus Fulvius hither, the son of the
Senator—him thou wilt find with Cethegus, the others at the house of
Decius Brutus, near the forum. They dine with Sempronia. Get thee gone,
and beshrew thy life! tarry not, or thou diest!"

The man quitted the room in haste; and Catiline continued muttering to
himself—"Aye! but for that cursed boy, we should have had Præneste on the
Calends! He shall repent it, ere he die, and he shall die too; but not
yet—not till he is aweary of his very life, and then, by tortures that
shall make the most weary life a boon. I have it all, the method, and the
men! Weak fool, thou better hadst been mine."

Then turning to the table he sat down, and wrote many letters, addressed
to men of Consular dignity, persons of worth and honor, declaring that,
borne down on all sides by false accusations, and helpless to oppose the
faction of his enemies, he yielded to the spite of fortune, and was
departing for Marseilles a voluntary exile, not conscious of any crime,
but careful of the tranquillity of the republic, and anxious that no
strife should arise from his private griefs.

To one, who afterward, almost deceived by his profound and wonderful
dissimulation, read it aloud in the Senate, in proof that no civil war was
impending, he wrote:

"Lucius Catiline to Quintus Catulus, sends health. Your most distinguished
faith, known by experience, gives me in mighty perils a grateful
confidence, thus to address you. Since I have resolved to prepare no
defence in the new steps which I have taken, I am resolved to set forth my
apology, conscious to myself of no crime, which—So may the God of Honor
guard me!—you may rely upon as true. Goaded by injury and insult, robbed
of the guerdon of my toils and industry, that state of dignity at which I
aimed, I publicly have undertaken, according to my wont, the cause of the
unhappy and oppressed; not because I am unable to pay all debts contracted
on my own account, from my own property—from those incurred in behalf of
others, the generosity of Orestilla and her daughter, by their treasures,
would have released me—but because I saw men honored who deserve no honor,
and felt myself disgraced, on false suspicion. On this plea, I now take
measures, honorable in my circumstances, for preserving that dignity which
yet remains to me. I would have written more, but I learn that violence is
about to be offered me. Now I commend to you Orestilla, and trust her to
your faith. As you love your own children, shield her from injury.
Farewell."

This strange letter, intended, as after events evidently proved, to bear a
double sense, he had scarce sealed, when Aulus Fulvius was announced.

For a few moments after he entered, Catiline continued writing; then
handing Chærea, who at a sign had remained in waiting, a list of many
names, "Let them," he said, "be here, prepared for a journey, and in arms
at the fifth hour. Prepare a banquet of the richest, ample for all these,
in the Atrium; in the garden Triclinium, a feast for ten—the rarest meats,
the choicest wines, the delicatest perfumes, the fairest slave-girls in
most voluptuous attire. At the third hour! See to it! Get thee hence!"

The freedman bowed low, and departed on his mission; then turning to the
young patrician,

"I have sent for you," he said, "the first, noble Aulus, because I hold
you the first in honor, bravery, and action; because I believe that you
will serve me truly, and to the utmost. Am I deceived?"

"Catiline, you have judged aright."

"And that you cannot serve me, more gratefully to yourself, than in
avenging me on that young pedant, Paullus Arvina."

The eyes of the youthful profligate flashed dark fire, and his whole face
beamed with intense satisfaction.

"By all the Powers of Tartarus!" he cried, "Show me but how, and I will
hunt him to the gates of Hades!"

Catiline nodded to him, with an approving smile, and after looking around
him warily for a minute, as if fearful even of the walls’ overhearing him,
he stepped close up to him, and whispered in his ear, for several moments.

"Do you conceive me, ha?" he said aloud, when he had ended.

"Excellent well!" cried the other in rapturous triumph, "but how gain an
opportunity?"

"Look you, here is his signature, some trivial note or other, I kept it,
judging that one day it might serve a purpose. You can write, I know, very
cleverly—I have not forgotten Old Alimentus’ will—write to her in his
name, requesting her to visit him, with Hortensia, otherwise she will
doubt the letter. Then you can meet her, and do as I have told you. Will
not that pass, my Fulvius?"

"It _shall_ pass," answered the young man confidently. "My life on it!
Rely on me!"

"I hold it done already," returned Catiline, "But you comprehend
all—unstained, in all honor, until she reach me; else were the vengeance
incomplete."

"It shall be so. But when?"

"When best you can accomplish it. This night, I leave the city."

"You leave the city!"

"This night! at the sixth hour!"

"But to return, Catiline?"

"To return with a victorious, an avenging army! To return as destroyer!
with a sword sharper than that of mighty Sylla, a torch hotter than that
of the mad Ephesian! To return, Aulus, in such guise, that ashes and blood
only show where Rome—_was_!"

"But, ere that, I must join you?"

"Aye! In the Appenines, at the camp of Caius Manlius"

"Fear me not. The deed is accomplished—hatred and vengeance, joined to
resolve, never fail."

"Never! but lo, here come the rest. Not a word to one of these. The burly
sword-smith is your man, and his fellows! Strike suddenly, and soon; and,
till you strike, be silent. Ha! Lentulus, Cethegus, good friends
all—welcome, welcome!" he cried, as they entered, eight in number, the
ringleaders of the atrocious plot, grasping each by the hand. "I have
called you to a council, a banquet, and, thence to action!"

"Good things all," answered Lentulus, "so that the first be brief and
bold, the second long and loud, the last daring and decisive!"

"They shall be so, all three! Listen. This very night, I set forth to join
Caius Manlius in his camp. Things work not here as I would have them; my
presence keeps alive suspicion, terror, watchfulness. I absent, security
will grow apace, and from that boldness, and from boldness, rashness! So
will you find that opportunity, which dread of me, while present, delays
fatally. Watch your time; choose your men; augment, by any means, the
powers of our faction; gain over friends; get rid of enemies, secretly if
you can; if not, audaciously. Destroy the Consul—you will soon find
occasion, or, if not find, make it. Be ready with the blade and brand, to
burn and to slaughter, so soon as my trumpets shall sound havoc from the
hills of Fiesolè. Metellus and his men, will be sent after me with speed;
Marcius Rex will be ordered from the city, with his cohorts, to Capua, or
Apulia, or the Picene district; for in all these, the slaves will rise, so
soon as my Eagle soars above the Appenine. The heart of the city will then
lie open to your daggers."

"And they shall pierce it to the core," cried Cethegus.

"Wisely you have resolved, my Catiline, as ever," said Longinus Cassius.
"Go, and success sit upon your banners!"

"Be not thou over slow, my Cassius, nor thou, Cethegus, over daring.
Temper each one, the metal of the other. Let your counsels be, as the
gathering of the storm-clouds, certain and slow; your deeds, as the
thunderbolt, rash, rapid, irresistible!"

"How will you go forth, Catiline? Alone? in secret?" asked Autronius.

"No! by the Father of Quirinus! with my casque on my head, and my
broad-sword on my thigh, and with three hundred of my clients at my back!
They sup in my Atrium, at the fifth hour of the night, and at the sixth,
we mount our horses. I _think_ Cicero will not bar our passage."

"By Mars! he would beat the gates down rather, to let you forth the more
easily."

"If he be wise he would."

"He _is_ wise," said Catiline. "Would God that he were less so."

"To be overwise, is worse, sometimes, than to be foolish," answered
Cethegus.

"And to be over bold, worse than to be a coward!" said Catiline.
"Therefore, Cethegus, be thou neither. Now, my friends, I do not say leave
me, but excuse me, until the third hour, when we will banquet. Nay! go not
forth from the house, I pray you; it may arouse suspicion, which I would
have you shun. There are books in the library, for who would read; foils
in the garden, balls in the fives-court, for who would breathe themselves
before supper; and lastly, there are some fair slaves in the women’s
chamber, for who would listen to the lute, or kiss soft lips, and not
unwilling. I have still many things to do, ere I depart."

"And those done, a farewell caress to Orestilla," said Cethegus, laughing.

"Aye! would I could take her with me."

"Do you doubt her, then, that you fear to leave her?"

"If I doubted, I would _not_ leave her—or I would leave her _so_, as not
to doubt her. Alexion himself, cannot in general cure the people, whom I
doubt."

"I hope you never will doubt me," said Curius, who was present, the Judas
of the faction, endeavoring to jest; yet more than half feeling what he
said.

"I hope not"—replied Catiline, with a strange fixed glance, and a singular
smile; for he did in truth, at that very moment, half doubt the speaker.
"If I do, Curius, it will not be for long! But I must go," he added, "and
make ready. Amuse yourselves as best you can, till I return to you. Come,
Aulus Fulvius, I must speak with you farther."

And, with the words, he left them, not indeed to apply themselves to any
sport or pleasure, but to converse anxiously, eagerly, almost fearfully,
on the events which were passing in succession, so rapid, and so
unforeseen. Their souls were too much absorbed by one dominant idea, one
devouring passion, to find any interest in any small or casual excitement.

To spirits so absorbed, hours fly like minutes, and none of those guilty
men were aware of the lapse of time, until Catiline returned, dressed in a
suit of splendid armor, of blue Iberian steel, embossed with studs and
chasings of pure silver, with a rich scarlet sagum over it, fringed with
deep lace. His knees were bare, but his legs were defended by greaves of
the same fabric and material with his corslet; and a slave bore behind him
his bright helmet, triply crested with crimson horsehair, his oblong
shield charged with a silver thunderbolt, and his short broad-sword of
Bilboa steel, which was already in those days, as famous as in the middle
ages. He looked, indeed, every inch a captain; and if undaunted valor,
unbounded energy, commanding intellect, an eye of lightning, unequalled
self-possession, endless resource, incomparable endurance of cold, heat,
hunger, toil, watchfulness, and extremity of pain, be qualities which
constitute one, then was he a great Captain.

A captain well formed to lead a host of demons.

The banquet followed, with all that could gratify the eye, the ear, the
nostril, or the palate. The board blazed with lights, redoubled by the
glare of gold and crystal. Flowers, perfumes, incense, streamed over all,
till the whole atmosphere was charged with voluptuous sweetness. The
softest music breathed from the instruments of concealed performers. The
rarest wines flowed like water. And flashing eyes, and wreathed smiles,
and bare arms, and bare bosoms, and most voluptuous forms, decked to
inflame the senses of the coldest, were prodigal of charms and soft
abandonment.

No modest pen may describe the orgies that ensued,—the drunkenness, the
lust, the frantic mirth, the unnatural mad revelry. There was but one at
that banquet, who, although he drank more deeply, rioted more sensually,
laughed more loudly, sang more wildly, than any of the guests, was yet as
cool amid that terrible scene of excitement, as in the council chamber, as
on the battle field.

His sallow face flushed not; his hard clear eye swam not languidly, nor
danced with intoxication; his voice quivered not; his pulse was as slow,
as even as its wont. That man’s frame, like his soul, was of trebly
tempered steel.

Had Catiline not been the worst, he had been the greatest of Romans.

But his race in Rome was now nearly ended. The water-clocks announced the
fifth hour; and leaving the more private triclinium, in which the
ringleaders alone had feasted, followed by his guests,—who were flushed,
reeling, and half frenzied,—with a steady step, a cold eye, and a presence
like that of Mars himself, the Arch Traitor entered the great open hall,
wherein three hundred of his clients, armed sumptuously in the style of
legionary horsemen, had banqueted magnificently, though they had stopped
short of the verge of excess.

All rose to their feet, as Catiline entered, hushed in dread expectation.

He stood for one moment, gazing on his adherents, tried veterans every man
of them, case-hardened in the furnace of Sylla’s fiery discipline, with
proud confidence and triumph in his eye; and then addressed them in clear
high tones, piercing as those of an adamantine trumpet.

"Since," he said, "it is permitted to us neither to live in Rome securely,
nor to die in Rome honorably, I go forth—will you follow me?"

And, with an unanimous cry, as it had been the voice of one man, they
answered,

"To the death, Catiline!"

"I go forth, harming no one, hating no one, fearing no one! Guiltless of
all, but of loving the people! Goaded to ruin by the proud patricians,
injured, insulted, well nigh maddened, I go forth to seek, not power nor
revenge, but innocence and safety. If they will leave me peace, the lamb
shall be less gentle; if they will drive me into war, the famished lion
shall be tamer. Soldiers of Sylla, will you have Sylla’s friend in peace
for your guardian, in war for your captain?"

And again, in one tumultuous shout, they replied, "In peace, or in war,
through life, and unto death, Catiline!"

"Behold, then, your Eagle!"—and, with the word, he snatched from a marble
slab on which it lay, covered by tapestry, the silver bird of Mars,
hovering with expanded wings over a bannered staff, and brandished it on
high, in triumph. "Behold your standard, your omen, and your God! Swear,
that it shall shine yet again above Rome’s Capitol!"

Every sword flashed from its scabbard, every knee was bent; and kneeling,
with the bright blades all pointed like concentric sunbeams toward that
bloody idol, in deep emotion, and deep awe, they swore to be true to the
Eagle, traitors to Rome, parricides to their country.

"One cup of wine, and then to horse, and to glory!"

The goblets were brimmed with the liquid madness; they were quaffed to the
very dregs; they clanged empty upon the marble floor.

Ten minutes more, and the hall was deserted; and mounted on proud horses,
brought suddenly together, by a perfect combination of time and place,
with the broad steel heads of their javelins sparkling in the moonbeams,
and the renowned eagle poised with bright wings above them, the escort of
the Roman Traitor rode through the city streets, at midnight, audacious,
in full military pomp, in ordered files, with a cavalry clarion timing
their steady march—rode unresisted through the city gates, under the eyes
of a Roman cohort, to try the fortunes of civil war in the provinces,
frustrate of massacre and conflagration in the capitol.

Cicero knew it, and rejoiced; and when he cried aloud on the following
day, "ABIIT, EXCESSIT, EVASIT, ERUPIT—He hath departed, he hath stolen
out, he hath gone from among us, he hath burst forth into war"—his great
heart thrilled, and his voice quivered, with prophetic joy and conscious
triumph. He felt even then that he had "SAVED HIS COUNTRY."





CHAPTER VII


THE AMBASSADORS.


        Give first admittance to th’ ambassadors.
                  HAMLET.

It wanted a short time of noon, on a fine bracing day in the latter end of
November.

Something more than a fortnight had elapsed since the flight of Catiline;
and, as no further discoveries had been made, nor any tumults or
disturbances arisen in the city, men had returned to their former
avocations, and had for the most part forgotten already the circumstances,
which had a little while before convulsed the public mind with fear or
favor.

No certain tidings had been received, or, if received, divulged to the
people, of Catiline’s proceedings; it being only known that he had tarried
for a few days at the country-house of Caius Flaminius Flamma, near to
Arretium, where he was believed to be amusing himself with boar-hunting.

On the other hand, the letters of justification, and complaint against
Cicero, had been shewn to their friends by all those who had received
them, all men of character and weight; and their contents had thus gained
great publicity.

The consequence of this was, naturally enough, that the friends and
favorers of the conspiracy, acting with singular wisdom and foresight,
studiously affected the utmost moderation and humility of bearing, while
complaining every where of the injustice done to Catiline, and of the
false suspicions maliciously cast on many estimable individuals, by the
low-born and ambitious person who was temporarily at the head of the
state.

The friends of Cicero and the republic, on the contrary, lay on their
oars, in breathless expectation of some new occurrence, which should
confirm the public mind, and approve their own conduct; well aware that
much time could not elapse before Catiline would be heard of at the head
of an army.

In the meantime, the city wore its wonted aspect; men bought and sold, and
toiled or sported; and women smiled and sighed, flaunted and wantoned in
the streets, as if, a few short days before, they had not been wringing
their hands in terror, dissolved in tears, and speechless from dismay.

It was a market day, and the forum was crowded almost to overflowing. The
country people had flocked in, as usual, to sell the produce of their
farms; and their wagons stood here and there laden with seasonable fruits,
cheeses, and jars of wine, pigeons in wicker cages, fresh herbs, and such
like articles of traffic. Many had brought their wives, sun-burned,
black-haired and black-eyed, from their villas in the Latin or Sabine
country, to purchase city luxuries. Many had come to have their lawsuits
decided; many to crave justice against their superiors from the Tribunes
of the people; many to get their wills registered, to pay or borrow money,
and to transact that sort of business, for which the day was set aside.

Nor were the townsmen absent from the gay scene; for to them the
_nundinæ_, or market days, were holydays, in which the courts of law were
shut, and the offices closed to them, at least, although open to the rural
citizens, for the despatch of business.

The members of the city tribes crowded therefore to the forum many of
these too accompanied by their women, to buy provisions, to ask for news
from the country, and to stare at the uncouth and sturdy forms of the
farmers, or admire the black eyes and merry faces of the country lasses.

It was a lively and gay scene; the bankers’ shops, distinguished by the
golden shields of the Samnites, suspended from the lintels of their doors,
were thronged with money-changers, and alive with the hum of traffic.

Ever and anon some curule magistrate, in his fringed toga, with his
lictors, in number proportioned to his rank, would come sweeping through
the dense crowd; or some plebeian officer, with his ushers and beadles;
or, before whom the ranks of the multitude would open of their own accord
and bow reverentially, some white-stoled vestal virgin, with her fair
features closely veiled from profane eyes, the sacred fillets on her head,
and her lictor following her dainty step with his shouldered fasces.
Street musicians there were also, and shows of various kinds, about which
the lower orders of the people collected eagerly; and, here and there,
among the white stoles and gayly colored shawls of the matrons and
maidens, might be seen the flowered togas and showy head-dresses of those
unfortunate girls, many of them rare specimens of female beauty, whose
character precluded them from wearing the attire of their own sex.

"Ha! Fabius Sanga, whither thou in such haste through the crowd?" cried a
fine manly voice, to a patrician of middle age who was forcing his way
hurriedly among the jostling mob, near to the steps of the Comitium, or
building appropriated to the reception of ambassadors.

The person thus addressed turned his head quickly, though without
slackening his speed.

"Ah! is it thou, Arvina? Come with me, thou art young and strong; give me
thy arm, and help me through this concourse."

"Willingly," replied the young man. "But why are you in such haste?" he
continued, as he joined him; "you can have no business here to-day."

"Aye! but I have, my Paullus. I am the patron to these Gallic ambassadors,
who have come hither to crave relief from the Senate for their people.
They must receive their answer in the Comitium to-day; and I fear me much,
I am late."

"Ah! by the Gods! I saw them on that day they entered the city. Right
stout and martial barbarians! What is their plea? will they succeed?"

"I fear not," answered Sanga, "They are too poor. Senatorial relief must
be bought nowadays. The longest purse is the most righteous cause! Their
case is a hard one, too. Their nation is oppressed with debt, both private
and public; they have been faithful allies to the state, and served it
well in war, and now seek remission of some grievous tributes. But what
shall we say? They are poor—barbarians—their aid not needed now by the
republic—and, as you know, my Paullus, justice is sold now in Rome, like
silk, for its weight in gold!"

"The more shame!" answered Paullus. "It was not by such practices, that
our fathers built up this grand edifice of the republic."

"Riches have done it, Paullus! Riches and Commerce! While we had many
tillers of the ground, and few merchants, we were brave in the field, and
just at home!"

"Think you, then, that the spirit of commerce is averse to justice, and
bravery, and freedom?"

"No, I do not think it, Arvina, I know it!" answered Fabius Sanga, who,
with the truth and candor of a patrician of Rome’s olden school,
possessed, and that justly, much repute for wisdom and foresight. "All
mercantile communities are base communities. Look at Tyre, in old times!
Look at Carthage, in our grandfathers’ days! at Corinth in our own!
Merchants are never patriots! and rich men seldom; unless they be
landholders! But see, see, there are my clients, descending the steps of
the Comitium! By all the Gods! I am too late! their audience is ended!
Now, by Themis, the goddess of justice! will they deem me also venal!"

As he spoke, they had come to the foot of the grand flight of marble
steps, leading up to the doors of the Græcostasis, or comitium; or rather
had come as near to the foot, as the immense concourse, which had gathered
about that spot to stare at the wild figures and foreign gait of the
ambassadors, would allow them to approach.

"It is in vain to press forward yet, my Sanga. A moment or two, and these
clowns will be satisfied with gazing; yet, by Hercules! I cannot blame
them. For these Highlanders are wondrous muscular and stout warriors to
look upon, and their garb, although somewhat savage, is very martial and
striking."

And, in truth, their Celtic bonnets, with their long single eagle
feathers, set somewhat obliquely on their abundant auburn hair; their
saffron-colored shirts, tight-fitting trews of tartan plaid, and
variegated mantles floating over their brawny shoulders, their chains and
bracelets of gold and silver, their long daggers in their girdles, and
their tremendous broad-swords swinging at their thighs, did present a
strange contrast to the simple tunics of white woollen, and plain togas of
the same material, which constituted the attire of nine-tenths of the
spectators.

"I must—must get nearer!" replied Sanga, anxiously; "I must speak with
them! I can see by the moody brows, and sullen looks of the elder nobles,
and by the compressed lips and fiery glances of the young warriors, that
matters have gone amiss with them. I shall be blamed, I know, for it—but I
have failed in my duty as their patron, and must bear it. There will be
mischief; I pray you let us pass, my friends," he continued, addressing
the people, "I am the patron of their nation; let us pass."

But it was in vain that they besought and strove; the pressure of the mob
was, if anything, augmented; and Paullus was compelled to remain
motionless with his companion, hoping that the Allobroges would move in
their direction.

But, while they were thus waiting, a thin keen-looking man pressed up to
the ambassadors, from the farther side, while they were yet upon the
steps, and saluting them cordially, pressed their hands, as if he were an
old and familiar friend.

Nor did the Highlanders appear less glad to see him, for they shook his
hand warmly, and spoke to him with vehement words, and sparkling eyes.

"Who is that man, who greets our Allobroges so warmly?" asked Arvina of
his companion. "Know you the man?"

"I know him!" answered Sanga, watching the gestures which accompanied
their conversation with an eager eye, although too far off to hear
anything that was passing. "It is one of these traders, of whom we spoke
but now; and as pestilent a knave and rogue as ever sold goods by short
measure, and paid his purchases in light coin! Publius Umbrenus is the
man. A Gallic trader. He hath become rich by the business he hath carried
on with this same tribe, bartering Roman wares, goldsmith’s work,
trinkets, cutlery, wines, and the like, against their furs and hides, and
above all against their amber. He gains three hundred fold by every
barter, and yet, by the God of Faith! he brings them in his debt after
all; and yet the simple-minded, credulous Barbarians, believe him their
best friend. I would buy it at no small price, to know what he saith to
them. See! he points to the Comitium. By your head, Paullus! he is
poisoning their minds against the Senate!"

"See!" said Arvina. "They descend the steps in the other direction. He is
leading them away with him some-whither."

"To no good end!" said Sanga emphatically; and then smiting his breast
with his hand, he continued, evidently much afflicted, "My poor clients!
my poor simple Highlanders! He will mislead them to their ruin?"

"They are going toward Vesta’s temple," said Arvina. "If we should turn
back through the arch of Fabius, and so enter into the western branch of
the Sacred Way, we might overtake them near the Ruminal Fig-tree."

"_You_ might, for you are young and active. But I am growing old, Paullus,
and the gout afflicts my feet, and makes me slower than my years. Will you
do so, and mark whither he leads them; and come back, and tell me? You
shall find me in Natta’s, the bookseller’s shop, at the corner of the
street Argiletum."

"Willingly, Sanga," answered the young man. "The rather, if it may profit
these poor Gauls anything."

"Thou art a good youth, Paullus. The Gods reward it to thee. Remember
Natta’s book-shop."

"Doubt me not," said Arvina; and he set off at a pace so rapid, as brought
him up with those, whom he was pursuing, within ten minutes.

The ambassadors, six or eight in number, among whom the old white-headed
chief he had observed—when he went with Hortensia and his betrothed, to
see their ingress into Rome—together with the young warrior whose haughty
bearing he had noticed on that occasion, were most eminent, had been
joined by another Roman beside Umbrenus.

Him, Paullus recognised at once, for Titus Volturcius, a native and
nobleman of Crotona, a Greek city, on the Gulf of Tarentum, although a
citizen of Rome.

He was a man of evil repute, as a wild debauchee, a gambler, and seducer;
and Arvina had observed him more than once in company with Cornelius
Lentulus.

This led him to suspect, that Sanga was perhaps more accurate in his
suspicions, than he himself imagined; and that something might be in
progress here, against the republic.

He watched them warily, therefore; and soon found an ample confirmation of
the worst he imagined, in seeing them enter the house of Decius Brutus,
the husband of the beautiful, but infamous Sempronia.

It must not be supposed, that the privity of these various individuals to
the conspiracy, was accurately known to young Arvina; but he was well
aware, that Lentulus and Catiline were sworn friends; and that Sempronia
was the very queen of those abandoned and licentious ladies, who were the
instigators and rewarders of the young nobles, in their profligacy and
their crimes; it did not require, therefore, any wondrous degree of
foresight, to see that something dangerous was probably brewing, in this
amalgamation of ingredients so incongruous, as Roman nobles and patrician
harlots, with wild barbarians from the Gallic highlands.

Without tarrying, therefore, longer than to ascertain that he was not
mistaken in the house, he hurried back to meet Sanga, at the appointed
place, promising himself that not Sanga only, but Cicero himself, should
be made acquainted with that which he had discovered so opportunely.

The Argiletum was a street leading down from the vegetable mart, which lay
just beyond the _Porta Fluminiana_, or river gate, to the banks of the
Tiber, at the quays called _pulchrum littus_, or the beautiful shore; it
was therefore a convenient place of meeting for persons who had parted
company in the forum, particularly when going in that direction, which had
been taken by Umbrenus and the Ambassadors.

Hastening onward to the street appointed—which was for the most part
inhabited by booksellers, copyists, and embellishers of illuminated
manuscripts, beside a few tailors—he was hailed, just as he reached the
river gate, by a well-known voice, from a cross street; and turning round
he felt his hand warmly grasped, by an old friend, Aristius Fuscus, one of
the noble youths, with whom he had striven, in the Campus Martius, on that
eventful day, when he first visited the house of Catiline.

"Hail! Paullus," exclaimed the new comer, "I have not seen you in many
days. Where have you been, since you beat us all in the quinquertium?"

"Absent from town, on business of the state, part of the time, my Fuscus,"
answered Arvina, shaking his friend’s hand gayly. "I was sent to Præneste,
with my troop of horse, before the calends of November; and returned not
until the Ides."

"And since that, I fancy"—replied the other laughing, "You have been
sunning yourself in the bright smiles of the fair Julia. I thought you
were to have led her home, as your bride, ere this time."

"You are wrong for once, good friend," said Paullus, with a well-pleased
smile. "Julia is absent from the city also. She and Hortensia are on a
visit to their farm, at the foot of Mount Algidus. I have not seen them,
since my return from Præneste."

"Your slaves, I trow, know every mile-stone by this time, on the via
Labicana! Do you write to her daily?"

"Not so, indeed, Aristius;" he replied. "We are too long betrothed, and
too confident, each in the good faith of the other, to think it needful to
kill my poor slaves in bearing amatory billets."

"You are wise, Paullus, as you are true, and will, I hope, be happy
lovers!"

"The Gods grant it!" replied Paullus.

"Do they return shortly? It is long since I have visited Hortensia. She
would do justly to refuse me admittance when next I go to salute her."

"Not until after the next market day. But here I must leave you; I am
going to Natta’s shop, in the Argiletum."

"To purchase books? Ha! or to the tailor’s? the last, I presume, gay
bridegroom—there are, you know, two Nattas."

"Natta, the bookseller, is my man. But I go thither, not as a buyer, but
to meet a friend, Fabius Sanga."

"A very wise and virtuous Roman," replied the other, stopping at the
corner of the street Argiletum, "but tarry a moment; when shall we meet
again? I am going down to the hippodrome, can you not join me there, when
you have finished your business with Sanga?"

"I can; gladly." answered Arvina.

As they stopped, previous to separating, a young man, who had been walking
for some distance close at their heels, passed them, nodding as he did so,
to Arvina, who returned his salutation, very distantly.

"Aulus Fulvius!" said Aristius, as Paullus bowed to him, "as bad a
specimen of a young patrician, as one might see for many days, even if he
searched for rascals, as the philosopher did for an honest man, by
lanthorn’s light at noon. He has been following our steps, by my head!—to
pick up our stray words, and weave them into calumnies, and villainy."

"I care not," answered Arvina, lightly. "He may make all he can of what he
heard, we were talking no treason!"

"No, truly; not even lover’s treason," said his friend. "Well, do not
tarry long, Arvina."

"I will not; be assured. Not the fourth part of an hour. See! there is
Fabius Sanga awaiting me even now. Walk slowly, and I will overtake you,
before you reach the Campus."

And with the word, he turned down the Argiletum, and joined the patron of
the Allobroges, at the bookseller’s door.

In the meantime Aulus Fulvius, who had heard all that he desired, wheeled
about, and walked back toward the Carmental gate. But, as he passed the
head of the Argiletum, he cast a lurid glance of singular malignity upon
Arvina, who was standing in full view, conversing with his friend; and
muttered between his teeth,

"The fool! the hypocrite! the pedant! well said, wise Catiline, ’that it
matters not much whether one listen to his friends, so he listen well to
his enemies!’ The fool—so he thinks he shall have Julia. But he never
shall, by Hades! never!"

A slenderly made boy, dressed in a succinct huntsman’s tunic, with
_subligacula_, or drawers, reaching to within a hand’s breadth of his
knee, was loitering near the corner, gazing wistfully on Arvina; and, as
Aulus muttered those words half aloud, he jerked his head sharply around,
and looked very keenly at the speaker.

"Never shall have Julia!" he repeated to himself, "he must have spoken
that concerning Arvina. I wonder who he is. I never saw him before. I must
know—I must know, forthwith! For he _shall_ have her, by heaven and Him,
who dwells in it! he _shall_ have her!"

And, turning a lingering and languid look toward Paullus, the slight boy
darted away in pursuit of Aulus.

A moment afterward Arvina, his conference with Sanga ended, and ignorant
of all that by-play, took the road leading to the Campus, eager to
overtake his friend Aristius.





CHAPTER VIII.


THE LATIN VILLA.


        I come, O Agamemnon’s daughter fair,
          To this thy sylvan lair.
              ELECTRA.

Through a soft lap in the wooded chain of Mount Algidus, a bright pellucid
stream, after wheeling and fretting among the crags and ledges of the
upper valleys, winds its way gently, toward the far-famed Tiber.

Shut in, on every side, except the south, by the lower spurs of the
mountain ridge, in which it is so snugly nestled, covered with rich groves
of chesnut-trees, and sheltered on the northward by the dark pines of the
loftier steeps, it were difficult to conceive a fairer site for a villa,
than that sweet vale.

Accordingly, on a little knoll in the jaws of the gorge, whence issued
that clear streamlet, facing the pleasant south, yet sheltered from its
excessive heats by a line of superb plane trees, festooned with luxuriant
vines, there stood a long low building of the antique form, built of
dark-colored stone.

A villa, in the days of Cicero, was a very different thing from the
luxurious pleasure-houses which came into vogue in the days of the later
Emperors, of which Pliny has given us descriptions so minute and glowing;
yet even his Tusculan retreat was a building of vast pretension, when
compared with this, which was in fact neither more nor less than an old
Roman Farmhouse, of that innocent and unsophisticated day, when the
Consulars of the Republic were tillers of the soil, and when heroes
returned, from the almost immortal triumph, to the management of the spade
and the ploughshare.

This villa had, it is true, been adorned somewhat, and fitted to the
temporary abode of individuals more refined and elegant, than the rough
steward and rustic slaves, who were its usual tenants. Yet it still
retained its original form, and was adapted to its original uses.

The house itself, which was but two stories high, was in form a hollow
square, to the courts enclosed in which access was gained by a pair of
lofty wooden gates in the rear. It had, in the first instance, presented
on all sides merely a blank wall exteriorly, all the windows looking into
the court, the centre of which was occupied by a large tank of water, the
whole interior serving the purpose of a farm yard. The whole ground floor
of the building, had formerly been occupied by stables, root-houses,
wine-presses, dairies, cheese-rooms and the like, and by the slaves’
kitchen, which was the first apartment toward the right of the entrance.
The upper story contained the granaries and the dormitories of the
workmen; and three sides still remained unaltered.

The front, however, of the villa had been pierced with a handsome doorway,
and several windows; a colonnade of rustic stonework had been carried
along the façade, and a beautiful garden had been laid out before it, with
grassy terraces, clipped hedges, box trees, transmuted by the gardener’s
art into similitudes of Peacocks, Centaurs, Tritons, Swans, and many other
forms of fowls or fishes, unknown alike and unnamed by Gods or mortals.

The sun was within about half an hour of his setting, and his slant beams,
falling through a gap in the western hills, streamed down into the little
valley, casting long stripes of alternate light and shadow over the
smoothly shaven lawn, sparkling upon the ripples of the streamlet, and
gilding the embrowned or yellow foliage of the sere hill-sides, with
brighter and more vivid colors.

At this pleasant hour, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, and
looking upon this pleasant scene, a group of females were collected, under
the rustic colonnade of Italian marble, engaged in some of those light
toils, which in feminine hands are so graceful.

The foremost of these, seated apart somewhat from the others, were the
stately and still beautiful Hortensia, and her lovely daughter, both of
them employed in twirling the soft threads from the merrily revolving
spindle, into large osier baskets; and the elder lady, glancing at times
toward the knot of slave girls, as if to see that they performed their
light tasks; and at times, if their mirth waxed too loud, checking it by a
gesture of her elevated finger.

A little while before, Julia had been singing in her sweet low voice, one
of those favorite old ballads, which were so much prized by the Romans,
and to which Livy is probably so much indebted for the redundant imagery
of his "pictured page," commemorative of the deeds and virtues of the Old
Houses.

But, as her lay came to its end, her eye had fallen on the broad blood-red
disc of the descending day-god, and had followed him upon his downward
path, until he was lost to view, among the tangled coppices that fringed
the brow of the western hill.

Her hands dropped listlessly into her lap, releasing the snow-white
thread, which they had drawn out so daintily; and keeping her eyes still
fixed steadily on the point where he had disappeared, she gave vent to her
feelings in a long-drawn ’heigho!’ in every language, and in all times,
expression of sentimental sadness.

"Wherefore so sad a sigh, my Julia?" asked Hortensia, gazing
affectionately at the saddened brow of the fair girl—"methinks! there is
nothing very melancholy here; nothing that should call forth repining."

"See, see Hortensia, how he sinks like a dying warrior, amid those
sanguine clouds," cried the girl, pointing to the great orb of the sun,
just as its last limb was disappearing.

"And into a couch of bays and myrtles, like that warrior, when his duty is
done, his fame won!" exclaimed Hortensia, throwing her arm abroad
enthusiastically; and truly the hill-side, behind which he was lost to
view, was feathered thick with the shrubs of which she spoke—"methinks!
there is nought for which to sigh in such a setting, either of the sun, or
the hero!"

"But see, how dark and gloomy he has left all behind him!—the river which
was golden but now, while he smiled upon it, now that he is gone, is
leaden."

"But he shall rise again to-morrow, brighter and yet more glorious; and
yet more gloriously shall the stream blaze back his rising than his
setting lustre."

"Alas! alas! Hortensia!"

"Wherefore, alas, my Julia?"

"For so will not the warrior rise, who sinks forever, although it may be
into a bed of glory! And if the setting of the sun leave all here
lustreless and dark and gloomy, although _that_ must arise again
to-morrow, what must the setting do of one who shall arise no more for
ever; whose light of life was to one heart, what the sunbeam was to the
streamlet, but which, unlike that sunbeam, shall never shine on the heart
any more, Hortensia."

"My poor child," cried the noble matron, affected almost to tears, "you
are thinking of Paullus."

"When am I not thinking of him, mother?" said the girl. "Remember, we have
left the city, seeking these quiet shades, in order to eschew that
turmoil, that peril, in the heat of which _he_ is now striving for his
country! Remember, that he will plunge into all that strife, the more
desperately, because he fancies that he was too remiss before! Remember
this, Hortensia; and say, if thou canst, that I have no cause for sad
forebodings!"

"That can I not, my Julia," she replied—"For who is there on earth, who
knoweth what the next sun shall bring forth? The sunshine of to-day, oft
breeds the storm of to-morrow—and, again, from the tempest of the eve, how
oft is born the brightest and most happy morning. Wisest is he, and
happiest, my child, who wraps himself in his own virtue, careless of what
the day shall bring to pass, and confident, that all the shafts of fortune
must rebound, harmless and blunted, from his sure armor of philosophy."

"Must not the heart have bled, Hortensia, before it can so involve itself
in virtue?—must not such philosophy be the tardy offspring of great
sorrow?"

"For the most part I fear it is so, Julia," answered the matron, "but some
souls there are so innocent and quiet, so undisturbed by the outward
world, that they have that, almost by nature, which others only win by
suffering and tears."

"Cold and unfeeling souls, I fancy," replied the girl. "For it appears to
me that this philosophy which smiles on all spite of fortune, must be akin
to selfish and morose indifference. I see not much to love, Hortensia, or
to admire in the stoic!"

"Nor much more, I imagine," said Hortensia, not sorry to draw her mind
from the subject which occupied it so painfully, "in the Epicurean!"

"Much less!" answered Julia, quickly, "his creed is mere madness and
impiety. To believe that the Gods care nothing for the good or evil—ye
Gods!" she interrupted herself suddenly, almost with a shriek. "What is
this? a slave riding, as if for life, on a foaming horse, from the
cityward. Oh! my prophetic soul, Hortensia!"

And she turned pale as death, although she remained quite firm and
self-possessed.

"It may be nothing, Julia; or it may be good tidings," answered Hortensia,
although she was in truth scarce less alarmed, than her daughter, by the
unexpected arrival.

"Good tidings travel not so quickly. Beside, what can there be of good, so
unexpected? But we shall know—we shall know quickly," and she arose, as if
to descend the steps into the garden, but she sank back again into her
seat, crying, "I am faint, I am sick, _here_, Hortensia," and she laid her
hand on her heart as she spoke. "Nay! do not tarry with me, I pray thee,
see what he brings. Anything but the torture of suspense!"

"I go, I go, my child," cried the matron, descending the marble steps to
the lawn, on which the slave had just drawn up his panting horse. "He has
a letter in his hand, be of good courage."

And a moment afterward she cried out joyously, "It is in his hand, Julia,
Paullus Arvina’s hand. Fear nothing."

And with a quick light step, she returned, and gave the little slip of
vellum into the small white hand, which trembled so much, that it scarcely
could receive it.

"A snow-white dove to thee, kind Venus!" cried the girl, raising her eyes
in gratitude to heaven, before she broke the seal.

But as she did so, and read the first lines, her face was again overcast,
and her eyes were dilated with wild terror.

"It is so—it is so—Hortensia! I knew—oh! my soul! I knew it!" and she let
fall the letter, and fell back in her seat almost fainting.

"What?—what?" exclaimed Hortensia. "It is Arvina’s hand—he must be in
life!—what is it, my own Julia?"

"Wounded almost to death!" faltered the girl, in accents half choked with
anguish. "Read! read aloud, kind mother."

Alarmed by her daughter’s suffering and terror, Hortensia caught the
parchment from her half lifeless fingers, and scanning its contents
hastily with her eyes, read as follows;

"Paullus Arvina, to Julia and Hortensia, greeting! Your well known
constancy and courage give me the confidence to write frankly to you,
concealing nothing. Your affection makes me sure, that you will hasten to
grant my request. Last night, in a tumult aroused by the desperate
followers of Catiline, stricken down and severely wounded, I narrowly
missed death. Great thanks are due to the Gods, that the assassin’s weapon
failed to penetrate to my vitals. Be not too much alarmed, however;
Alexion, Cicero’s friend and physician, has visited me; and declares,
that, unless fever supervene, there is no danger from the wound. Still, I
am chained to my couch, wearily, and in pain, with none but slaves about
me. At such times, the heart asks for more tender ministering—wherefore I
pray you, Julia, let not one day elapse; but come to me! Hortensia, by the
Gods! bring her to the city! Catiline hath fled, the peril hath passed
over—but lo! I am growing faint—I can write no more, now—there is a
swimming of my brain, and a cloud over my eyes. Farewell. Come to me
quickly, that it prove not too late—come to me quickly, if you indeed love
ARVINA."

"We will go, Julia. We will go to him instantly," said Hortensia—"but be
of good cheer, poor child. Alexion declares, that there is no danger; and
no one is so wise as he! Be of good cheer, we will set forth this night,
this hour! Ere daybreak, we will be in Rome. Hark, Lydia," she continued,
turning to one of the slave girls, "call me the steward, old Davus. Let
the boy Gota, take the horse of the messenger; and bring thou the man
hither." Then she added, addressing Julia, "I will question him farther,
while they prepare the carpentum! Ho, Davus,"—for the old slave, who was
close at hand, entered forthwith—"Have the mules harnessed, instantly, to
the carpentum, and let the six Thracians, who accompanied us from Rome,
saddle their horses, and take arms. Ill fortune has befallen young Arvina;
we must return to town this night—as speedily as may be."

"Within an hour, Hortensia, all shall be in readiness, on my head be it,
else."

"It is well—and, hark you! send hither wine and bread—we will not wait
until they make supper ready; beside, this youth is worn out with his long
ride, and needs refreshment."

As the steward left the room, she gazed attentively at the young slave,
who had brought the despatch, and, not recognising his features, a half
feeling of suspicion crossed her mind; so that she stooped and whispered
to Julia, who looked up hastily and answered,

"No—no—but what matters it? It is _his_ handwriting, and his signet."

"I do not know," said Hortensia, doubtfully—"I think he would have sent
one of the older men; one whom we knew; I think he would have sent
Medon"—Then she said to the boy, "I have never seen thy face before, I
believe, good youth. How long hast thou served Arvina?"

"Since the Ides of October, Hortensia. He purchased me of Marcus Crassus."

"Purchased thee, Ha?" said Hortensia, yet more doubtfully than
before—"that is strange. His household was large enough already. How came
he then to purchase thee?"

"I was hired out by Crassus, as is his wont to do, to Crispus the
sword-smith, in the Sacred Way—a cruel tyrant and oppressor, whom, when he
was barbarously scourging me for a small error, noble Arvina saw; and
then, finding his intercession fruitless, purchased me, as he said, that
thereafter I should be entreated as a man, not as a beast of burthen."

"It is true! by the Gods!" exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands
enthusiastically, and a bright blush coming up into her pale face. "Had I
been told the action, without the actor’s name, I should have known
therein Arvina."

"Thou shouldst be grateful, therefore, to this good Arvina"—said
Hortensia, gazing at him with a fixed eye, she knew not wherefore, yet
with a sort of dubious presentiment of coming evil.

"Grateful!" cried the youth, clasping his hands fervently together—"ye
Gods! grateful! Hortensia, by your head! I worship him—I would die for
him."

"How came he to send thee on this mission? Why sent he not Medon, or
Euphranor, or one of his elder freedmen?"

"Medon, he could not send, nor Euphranor. It went ill with them both, in
that affray, wherein my lord was wounded. The older slaves keep watch
around his bed; the strongest and most trusty, are under arms in the
Atrium."

"And wert thou with him, in that same affray?"

"I was with him, Hortensia,"

"When fell it out, and for what cause?"

"Hast thou not heard, Hortensia?—has he not told you? by the Gods! I
thought, the world had known it. How before Catiline, may it be ill with
him and his, went forth from the city, he and his friends and followers
attacked the Consuls, on the Palatine, with armed violence. It was fought
through the streets doubtfully, for near three hours; and the fortunes of
the Republic were at stake, and well nigh despaired of, if not lost.
Cicero was down on the pavement, and Catiline’s sword flashing over him,
when, with his slaves and freedmen, my master cut his way through the
ranks of the conspiracy, and bore off the great magistrate unharmed. But,
as he turned, a villain buried his _sica_ in his back, and though he saved
the state, he well nigh lost his life, to win everlasting fame, and the
love of all good citizens!"

"Hast seen him since he was wounded?" exclaimed Julia, who had devoured
every word he uttered, with insatiable longing and avidity.

"Surely," replied the boy. "I received that scroll from his own hands—my
orders from his own lips—’spare not an instant,’ he said, ’Jason; tarry
not, though you kill your steed. If you would have me live, let Julia see
this letter before midnight.’ It lacks as yet, four hours of midnight.
Doth it not, noble Julia?"

"Five, I think. But how looked, how spoke he? Is he in great pain, Jason?
how seemed he, when you left him?"

"He was very pale, Julia—very wan, and his lips ashy white. His voice
faltered very much, moreover, and when he had made an end of speaking, he
swooned away. I heard that he was better somewhat, ere I set out to come
hither; but the physician speaks of fever to be apprehended, on any
irritation or excitement. Should you delay long in visiting him, I fear
the consequences might be perilous indeed."

"Do you hear? do you hear that, Hortensia? By the Gods! Let us go at once!
we need no preparation!"

"We will go, Julia. Old Davus’ hour hath nearly passed already. We will be
in the city before day-break! Fear not, my sweet one, all shall go well
with our beloved Paullus."

"The Gods grant it!"

"Here is wine, Jason," said Hortensia. "Drink, boy, you must needs be
weary after so hard a gallop. You have done well, and shall repose here
this night. To-morrow, when well rested and refreshed, you shall follow us
to Rome."

"Pardon me, lady," said the youth. "I am not weary; love for Arvina hath
prevailed over all weariness! Furnish me, I beseech you, with a fresh
horse; and let me go with you."

"It shall be as you wish," said Hortensia, "but your frame seems too
slender, to endure much labor."

"The Gods have given me a willing heart, Hortensia—and the strong will
makes strong the feeble body."

"Well spoken, youth. Your devotion shall lose you nothing, believe me.
Come, Julia, let us go and array us for the journey. The nights are cold
now, in December, and the passes of the Algidus are bleak and gusty."

The ladies left the room; and, before the hour, which Davus had required,
was spent, they were seated together in the rich carpentum, well wrapped
in the soft many-colored woollen fabrics, which supplied the place of furs
among the Romans—it being considered a relic of barbarism, to wear the
skins of beasts, until the love for this decoration again returned in the
last centuries of the Empire.

Old Davus grasped the reins; two Thracian slaves, well mounted, and armed
with the small circular targets and lances of their native land, gallopped
before the carriage, accompanied by the slave who had brought the message,
while four more similarly equipped brought up the rear; and thus, before
the moon had arisen, travelling at a rapid pace, they cleared the
cultivated country, and were involved in the wild passes of Mount Algidus.

Scarcely, however, had they wound out of sight, when gallopping at mad and
reckless speed, down a wild wood-road on the northern side of the villa,
there came a horseman bestriding a white courser, of rare symmetry and
action, now almost black with sweat, and envelopped with foam-flakes.

The rider was the same singular-looking dark-complexioned boy, who had
overheard the exclamation of Aulus Fulvius, concerning young Arvina,
uttered at the head of the street Argiletum.

His body was bent over the rude saddle-bow with weariness, and he reeled
to and fro, as if he would have fallen from his horse, when he pulled up
at the door of the villa.

"I would speak," he said in a faint and faltering voice, "presently, with
Hortensia—matters of life and death depend on it."

"The Gods avert the omen!" cried the woman, to whom he had addressed
himself, "Hortensia hath gone but now to Rome, with young Julia, on the
arrival of a message from Arvina."

"Too late! too late!"—cried the boy, beating his breast with both hands.
"They are betrayed to death or dishonor!"

"How? what is this? what say you?" cried the chief slave of the farm, a
person of some trust and importance, who had just come up.

"It was a tall slight fair-haired slave who bore the message—he called
himself Jason—he rode a bay horse, did he not?" asked the new comer.

"He was! He did! A bay horse, with one white foot before, and a white star
on his forehead. A rare beast from Numidia, or Cyrenaica," replied the
steward, who was quite at home in the article of horse-flesh.

"He brought tidings that Arvina is sorely wounded?"

"He brought tidings! Therefore it was that they set forth at so short
notice! He left the horse here, and was mounted on a black horse of the
farm."

"Arvina is not wounded! That bay horse is Cethegus’, the conspirator’s!
Arvina hath sent _no_ message! They are betrayed, I tell you, man. Aulus
Fulvius awaits them with a gang of desperadoes in the deep cleft of the
hills, where the cross-road comes in by which you reach the Flaminian from
the Labican way. Arm yourselves speedily and follow, else will they carry
Julia to Catiline’s camp in the Appenines, beside Fiesolé! What there will
befall her, Catiline’s character best may inform you! Come—to arms—men! to
horse, and follow!"

But ignorant of the person of the messenger, lacking an authorized head,
fearful of taking the responsibility, and incurring the reproach, perhaps
the punishment, of credulity, they loitered and hesitated; and, though
they did at length get to horse and set out in pursuit, it was not till
Hortensia’s cavalcade had been gone above an hour.

Meanwhile, unconscious of what had occurred behind them, and eager only to
arrive at Rome as speedily as possible, the ladies journeyed onward, with
full hearts, in silence, and in sorrow.

There is a deep dark gorge in the mountain chain, through which this road
lay, nearly a mile in length; with a fierce torrent on one hand, and a
sheer face of craggy rocks towering above it on the other. Beyond the
torrent, the chesnut woods hung black and gloomy along the precipitous
slopes, with their ragged tree-tops distinctly marked against the clear
obscure of the nocturnal sky.

Midway this gorge, a narrow broken path comes down a cleft in the rocky
wall on the right hand side, as you go toward Rome, by which through a
wild and broken country the Flaminian way can be reached, and by it the
district of Etruria and the famous Val d’Arno.

They had just reached this point, and were congratulating themselves, on
having thus accomplished the most difficult part of their journey, when
the messenger, who rode in front, uttered a long clear whistle.

The twang of a dozen bowstrings followed, from some large blocks of stone
which embarrassed the pass at the junction of the two roads, and both the
Thracians who preceded the carnage, went down, one of them killed
outright, the other, with his horse shot dead under him.

"Ho! Traitor!" shouted the latter, extricating himself from the dead
charger, and hurling his javelin with fatal accuracy at the false slave,
"thou at least shalt not boast of thy villainy! Treachery! treachery! Turn
back, Hortensia! Fly, avus! to me! to me, comrades!"

But with a loud shout, down came young Aulus Fulvius, from the pass,
armed, head to foot, as a Roman legionary soldier—down came the gigantic
smith Caius Crispus, and fifteen men, at least, with blade and buckler, at
his back.

The slaves fought desperately for their mistress’ liberty or life; but the
odds were too great, both in numbers and equipment; and not five minutes
passed, before they were all cut down, and stretched out, dead or dying,
on the rocky floor of the dark defile.

The strife ended, Aulus Fulvius strode quickly to the carpentum, which had
been overturned in the affray, and which his lawless followers were
already ransacking.

One of these wretches, his own namesake Aulus, the sword-smith’s foreman,
had already caught Julia in his licentious grasp, and was about to press
his foul lips to her cheek, when the young patrician snatched her from his
arms, and pushed him violently backward.

"Ho! fool and villain!" he exclaimed, "Barest thou to think such dainties
are for thee? She is sacred to Catiline and vengeance!"

"This one, at least, then!" shouted the ruffian, making at Hortensia.

"Nor that one either!" cried the smith interposing; but as Aulus, the
foreman, still struggled to lay hold of the Patrician lady, he very coolly
struck him across the bare brow with the edge of his heavy cutting sword,
cleaving him down to the teeth—"Nay! then take that, thou fool."—Then
turning to Fulvius, he added; "He was a brawler always, and would have
kept no discipline, now or ever."

"Well done, smith!" replied Aulus Fulvius. "The same fate to all who
disobey orders! We have no time for dalliance now; it will be day ere
long, and we must be miles hence ere it dawns! Bind me Hortensia, firmly,
to yon chesnut tree, stout smith; but do not harm her. We too have
mothers!" he added with a singular revulsion of feeling at such a moment.
"For you, my beauty, we will have you consoled by a warmer lover than that
most shallow-pated fool and sophist, Arvina. Come! I say come! no one
shall harm you!" and without farther words, despite all her struggles and
remonstrances, he bound a handkerchief tightly under her chin to prevent
her cries, wrapped her in a thick crimson pallium, and springing upon his
charger, with the assistance of the smith, placed her before him on the
saddle-cloth, and set off a furious pace, through the steep by-path,
leaving the defile tenanted only by the dying and the dead, with the
exception of Hortensia, who rent the deaf air in vain with frantic cries
of anguish, until at last she fainted, nature being too weak for the
endurance of such prolonged agony.

About an hour afterward, she was released and carried to her Roman
mansion, alive and unharmed in body, but almost frantic with despair, by
the party of slaves who had come up, too late to save her Julia, under the
guidance of the young unknown.

He, when he perceived that his efforts had been useless, and when he
learned how Julia had been carried off by the conspirators, leaving the
party to escort Hortensia, and bear their slaughtered comrades homeward,
rode slowly and thoughtfully away, into the recesses of the wild country
whither Aulus had borne his captive, exclaiming in a low silent voice with
a clinched hand, and eyes turned heavenward, "I will die, ere dishonor
reach her! Aid me! aid me, thou Nemesis—aid me to save, and avenge!"





CHAPTER IX.


THE MULVIAN BRIDGE.


        Under which king, Bezonian? Speak, or die!
                TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

On that same night, and nearly at the same hour wherein the messenger of
Aulus Fulvius arrived at the Latin villa, there was a splendid banquet
given in a house near the forum.

It was the house of Decius Brutus, unworthy bearer of a time-honored name,
the husband of the infamous Sempronia.

At an earlier hour of the evening, a great crowd had been gathered round
the doors, eager to gaze on the ambassadors of the Highland Gauls, who,
their mission to Rome ended unsuccessfully, feasted there for the last
time previous to their departure.

As it grew dark, however, tired of waiting in the hope of seeing the
plaided warriors depart, the throng had dispersed, and with exception of
the city watches and the cohorts, which from hour to hour perambulated
them, the streets were unusually silent, and almost deserted.

There was no glare of lights from the windows of Brutus’ house, as there
would be in these days, and in modern mansions, to indicate the scene of
festivity; for it was in the inmost chamber, of the most secluded suite of
apartments, that the boards had been spread for the _comissatio_, or
nocturnal revel.

The _cæna_, or dinner, had been partaken by all the guests previous to
their arrival at their entertainer’s, and the tables were laid only with
light dainties and provocatives to thirst, such as salted meats and
fishes, the roe of the sturgeon highly seasoned, with herbs and fruits,
and pastry and confections, of all kinds.

Rich urns, with heaters, containing hot spiced wines, prepared with honey,
smoked on the boards of costly citrean wood, intermixed with crystal vases
filled with the rarest vintages of the Falernian hills, cooled and diluted
with snow-water.

And around the circular tables, on the tapestried couches, reclined the
banqueters of both sexes, quaffing the rich wines to strange toasts,
jesting, and laughing wildly, singing at times themselves as the myrtle
branch and the lute went round, at times listening to the licentious
chaunts of the unveiled and almost unrobed dancing girls, or the obscene
and scurrilous buffoonery of the mimes and clowns, who played so
conspicuous a part in the Roman entertainments of a later period.

Among these banqueters there was not a single person not privy to the
conspiracy, and few who have not been introduced already to the
acquaintance of the reader, but among these few was Sempronia—Sempronia,
who could be all things, at all times, and to all persons—who with all the
softness and grace and beauty of the most feminine of her sex, possessed
all the daring, energy, vigor, wisdom of the bravest and most intriguing
man—accomplished to the utmost in all the liberal arts, a poetess and
minstrel unrivalled by professional performers, a dancer more finished and
voluptuous than beseemed a Roman matron, a scholar in both tongues, the
Greek as well as her own, and priding herself on her ability to charm the
gravest and most learned sages by the modesty of her bearing and the
wealth of her intellect, as easily as the most profligate debauchees by
her facetious levity, her loose wit, and her abandonment of all restraint
to the wildest license.

On this evening she had strained every nerve to fascinate, to dazzle, to
astonish.

She had danced as a bacchanal, with her luxuriant hair dishevelled beneath
a crown of vine leaves, with her bright shoulders and superb bust
displayed at every motion by the displacement of the panther’s skin, which
alone covered them, timing her graceful steps to the clang of the silver
cymbals which she waved and clashed with her bare arms above her stately
head, and showing off the beauties of her form in attitudes more
classically graceful, more studiously indelicate, than the most reckless
figurante of our days.

She had sung every species of melody and rythm, from the wildest
dithyrambic to the severest and most grave alcaic; she had struck the
lute, calling forth notes such as might have performed the miracles
attributed to Orpheus and Amphion.

She had exerted her unrivalled learning so far as to discourse eloquently
in the uncouth and almost unknown tongues of Germany and Gaul.

For she had Gaulish hearers, Gaulish admirers, whom, whether from mere
female vanity, whether from the awakening of some strange unbridled
passion, or whether from some deeper cause, she was bent on delighting.

For mixed in brilliant contrast with the violet and flower enwoven tunics,
with the myrtle-crowned perfumed love-locks of the Roman feasters, were
seen the gay and many-chequered plaids, the jewelled weapons, and loose
lion-like tresses of the Gallic Highlanders, and the wild blue eyes, sharp
and clear as the untamed falcon’s, gazing in wonder or glancing in
childlike simplicity at the strange scenes and gorgeous luxuries which
amazed all their senses.

The tall and powerful young chief, who had on several occasions attracted
the notice of Arvina, and whom he had tracked but a few days before into
this very house, reclined on the same couch with its accomplished
mistress, and it was on him that her sweetest smiles, her most speaking
glances were levelled, for him that her charms were displayed so
unreservedly and boldly.

And the eyes of the young Gaul flashed at times a strange fire, but it was
difficult to tell, if it were indignation or desire that kindled that
sharp flame—and his cheek burned with a hectic and unwonted hue, but
whether it was the hue of shame or passion, what eye could determine.

One thing alone was evident, that he encouraged her in her wild licence,
and affected, if he did not feel, the most decided admiration for her
beauty.

His hand had toyed with hers, his fingers had strayed through the mazes of
her superb raven ringlets, his lip had pressed hers unrebuked, and his ear
had drunk in long murmuring low-breathed sighs, and whispers unheard by
any other.

Her Roman lovers, in other words two-thirds of those present, for she was
no chary dame, looked at each other, some with a sneering smile, some with
a shrewd and knowing glance, and some with ill-dissembled jealousy, but
not one of them all, so admirable was her dissimulation—if that may be
called admirable, which is most odious—could satisfy himself, whether she
was indeed captivated by the robust and manly beauty of the young
barbarian, or whether it was merely a piece of consummate acting, the more
to attach him to their cause.

It might have been observed had the quick eye of Catiline been there,
prompt to read human hearts as if they were written books—that the older
envoys looked with suspicious and uneasy glances, at the demeanor of their
young associate, that they consulted one another from time to time with
grave and searching eyes, and that once or twice, when Sempronia, who
alone of those present understood their language, was at a distance, they
uttered a few words in Gaelic, not in the most agreeable or happiest
accent.

Wilder and wilder waxed the revelry, and now the slaves withdrew, and
breaking off into pairs or groups, the guests dispersed themselves among
the peristyles, dimly illuminated with many twinkling lamps, and
shrubberies of myrtle and laurestinus which adorned the courts and gardens
of the proud mansions.

Some to plot deeds of private revenge, private cruelty—some to arrange
their schemes of public insurrection—some to dally in secret corners with
the fair patricians—some to drain mightier draughts than they had yet
partaken, some to gamble for desperate stakes, all to drown care and the
anguish of conscious guilt, in the fierce pleasure of excitement.

Apart from the rest, stood two of the elder Gauls, in deep and eager
conference—one the white-headed chief, and leader of the embassy, the
other a stately and noble-looking man of some forty-five or fifty years.

They were watching their comrade, who had just stolen away, with one arm
twined about the fair Sempronia’s waist, and her hand clasped in his,
through the inner peristyle, into the women’s chambers.

"Feargus, I doubt him," said the old man in a low guarded whisper. "I
doubt him very sorely. These Roman harlots are made to bewitch any man,
much more us Gael, whose souls kindle at a spark!"

"It is true, Phadraig," answered the other, still speaking in their own
tongue. "Saw ever any man such infamy?—And these—these dogs, and goats,
call us barbarians! Us, by the Spirit of Thunder! who would die fifty
deaths every hour, ere we would see our matrons, nay! but our matrons’
basest slaves, demean themselves as these patricians! Base, carnal,
bloody-minded beasts are they—and yet forsooth they boast themselves the
masters of the world."

"Alas! that it should be so, Feargus," answered the other. "But so it is,
that they _are_ masters, and shall be masters yet awhile, but not long. I
have heard, I have seen among the mist of our water-falls, the avalanches
of our hills, the voices and the signs of Rome’s coming ruin, but not yet.
Therefore it is that I counselled peace."

"I know that thou art Taishatr, the great seer of our people," replied the
other with an expression of deep awe on his features—"Shall Rome indeed so
perish!"

"She shall, Feargus. Her sons shall forget the use of the blade, her
daughters of the distaff—for heroes and warriors she shall bring forth
pipers and fiddlers, pandars and posturers; for heroines and matrons,
songstresses, dancing girls, and harlots. The beginning thou seest now,
the end cometh not in ages."

"And our people, Phadraig, our northern races"—

"Shall govern and despise them! our arms shall carry devastation into
regions of which their Consuls never heard, and under Gaelic eagles; our
_men_ shall wield thunder louder and deadlier, than the bolts of Roman
GODS. I have said, Feargus. It shall be, but not yet; nor shall our eyes
behold it; but it shall soothe us yet, in these days of our country’s
desolation, to know how great she shall be hereafter, and these how less
than little—the very name of Roman synonimous with slavery and
degradation!"

There was a long pause, during which neither of the chieftains spoke, the
one musing over the strange visions, which are phenomena by no means
unusual to mountaineers, in all ages; the other dreaming of future glory
to his race, and aroused by the predictions of the seer, to an ecstacy, as
it were, of expectant triumph.

"Enough of this"—said the old man, at length. "As I said but now, I doubt
Eachin sorely."

"If he prove false, I will stab him to the heart, with my own hand, though
he be my father’s brother’s grandson, and the best warrior of our tribe;
but no, no, Phadraig, the boy is young, and his blood is hot and fiery;
and the charms of that witch might well move a colder spirit—but he is
true as steel, and wise and wary for one so young. He may sun himself in
her smiles, or revel on her lips, but trust me, Eachin of the iron hand,
will never betray council."

"Keep your eye on him, nevertheless, Feargus," said the other, "and, as
you said but now, kill him at once, if you perceive him false."

"Ha! what! noble Patricius?" cried Lentulus, coming up to them suddenly,
and addressing the old chief by his latinized name—"what is this that thou
arguest so sagely, in thy sonorous and male tongue."

"The might and majesty of Rome," answered the old man quietly, "and our
people’s misery and degradation."

"Nay! nay! chief, be not downhearted. Look upward now, after dark night
comes brilliant morning," said the Roman. "Your people shall rise ere
long, to power and glory and dominion."

"So I told Feargus."

"Ha! the brave Ferragus! and doth he not credit your wisdom’s prophecy."

"I put all faith in Rome’s gratitude, in Catiline’s valor and justice."

"Aye! when we once have put down this faction, we will do justice to our
friends."

"And we are of the number!"

"Surely, the twenty thousand horse, which you have promised us, are twenty
thousand pledges of your friendship, as many claims on our favor."

"See, here comes Eachin," said the old man; "and time wears onward, it is
nigh midnight. We must away to our lodgings. Our train awaits us, and we
but tarry for your envoy and the letters."

"Titus Volturcius! I will go fetch him hither. He hath our letters sealed
and ready. He is but draining a last cup, with our brave Cethegus. I will
go fetch him." And, with the words, he turned away, gathering his toga in
superb draperies about his stately person, and traversing the corridor
with proud and measured strides, and as he went, muttered through his
teeth—"The fool barbarians! As if we would give them anything but chains
and scourges! The poor benighted idiots!"

"Ho, Eachin, where left you our fair hostess?" asked Feargus in
Latin—"methinks you are smitten somewhat with her beauty!"

"She is very beautiful!" said the old chieftain gravely.

"Beautiful! Feargus! Phadraig! beautiful, did ye say?" and the youth gazed
at them in wonder, "That vile sensual, soulless harlot! she beautiful!
Then virtue must be base indeed, and honor shameful!" he cried, with noble
indignation, in his own Gaëlic tongue, his eyes flashing, and his cheek
burning crimson.

"Why, if you held her then so cheaply, have you so much affected her
society?"

"Oh! you suspect me, Feargus. But it needs not. The barbarian hath some
shrewdness, and some honesty. Sempronia too, suspected us, and would have
won my secret from me, had I indeed a secret, by sweet words and sweeter
kisses."

"And thou"—

"Gave kiss for kiss, with interest; and soft word for soft word. I have
sighed as if I were any Roman—but no secret, Feargus; Phadraig, no secret.
Do you doubt me?"

"Not I, boy," answered the warrior. "Your father was my cousin, and I
think you are not a bastard."

"I think not either. But see, here come these _noble_ Romans!"

"It is their envoy with the letters for their leader. We shall be
dismissed now, from this haunt of thieves and harlots!"

"And laughed at, when dismissed, for fools and barbarians!"

"One never knows who is the fool, till the game is lost."

"Nor who is laughed at ’till it is won!"

"Here is our Titus, my good friends," said Lentulus, coming forward,
leading along with him a slightly-made but well-formed and active-looking
man, with a downcast yet roving eye, and a sneering lip, as if he were one
who believing nothing, deserved not to be believed in anything himself.
"He hath the letters, and credentials secured on his person. On his
introduction, our Catiline shall know you as true friends, and as such
receive and reward you!"

"Titus Volturcius, is welcome. We tarried but for him, we will now take
our leaves, with thanks for your gracious courtesies."

"A trifle, a mere trifle," said Sempronia, who had that moment
returned—"We only desired to teach you how we Romans live in our homes
daily."

"A very pleasant lesson, ha! my young friend"—said Lentulus to Eachin; and
then he said out to Cethegus, in Greek, "I am compelled to call the
Highland bull my friend, for his accursed name would break the jaws of any
Roman—there is no twisting it into Latin!"

"Hush! he will hear you, Lentulus," said the other. "I believe the brutes
hear with their eyes, and understand through their finger-ends," and he
too used the same language; yet, strange to say, it would have seemed as
if the young man did in some sort comprehend his words, for his cheek
turned fiery red, and he bit his lip, and played nervously with the hilt
of the claymore.

"Thou will not forget the lesson!" whispered Sempronia.

"Never!" replied the Highlander. "Never while one red drop runs in these
veins. And the last drop in them will I shed gladly, to teach these noble
Romans how grateful a barbarian can be, poor though he be and half savage,
for being thus instructed in Roman hospitality and Roman virtue! Farewell,
ye noble Senators, farewell most beautiful and noble matron!"

And with deep salutations, half dignified, half awkward, the Gauls strode
away, into the quiet and moon-lighted streets, strange contrast to the
glare and riot of those patrician halls and polluted chambers.

"A singular speech that!" said Cethegus musing. "It sounded much as if it
might bear a double meaning! could it be irony and cover treason?"

"Irony in a stupid Gaul! thou art mad, Cethegus, to think of it!" said
Autronius with a sneer.

"I should as soon look for wit in an elephant," said Longinus Cassius.

"Or I for love in a cold lizard!" cried Sempronia, laughing.

"You found some love in the barbarian, I think, my Sempronia?" exclaimed
Cethegus.

"More warmth than wit, I assure you," she replied still laughing. "I acted
my part with him rarely. If he were inclined once to play us false, he is
bound to us now by chains"—

"Of roses, fair one?"

"Never mind. If he break them, call me"—

"Chaste? Sempronia"—enquired Cæparius, interrupting her.

"Audacious!" she answered with an affected frown, amid the laugh which
followed the retort.

"What do you think of it, my Lentulus?" asked Cethegus, who although he
had jested with the others, did not by any means appear satisfied in his
mind, or convinced of the good faith of the Highlanders.

"That it is two hours now past midnight," answered Lentulus yawning, "and
that I am amazing sleepy. I was not in bed till the third watch last
night, writing those letters, ill luck to them. That is what I think,
Cethegus. And that I am going to bed now, to trouble myself about the
matter no more, until the Saturnalia."

And so that company broke up, never to meet again, on this side Hades.

Not long thereafter the Gauls, having reached their lodgings at the house
of their patron Fabius Sanga, where everything had been prepared already
for their departure, mounted their horses, and set forth on their way
homeward, accompanied by a long train of armed followers; Titus Volturcius
riding in the first rank, between the principal chiefs of the party.

The moon had risen; and the night was almost as clear as day, for a slight
touch of frost had banished all the vapors from the sky, and the stars
sparkled with unusual brilliancy.

Although it was clear and keen, however, the night was by no means cold,
as it would have been under the like circumstances in our more northern
climes; and the gardens in the suburbs of the city with their numerous
clumps of stone-pine, and thickets of arbutus and laurestinus, looked rich
and gay with their polished green foliage, long after the deciduous trees
had dropped their sere leaves on the steamy earth.

No sounds came to the ears of the travellers, as they rode at that dead
hour of night through the deserted streets; the whole of the vast city
appeared to be hushed in deep slumber, soon, Caius Volturcius boasted as
they rode along, to burst like a volcano into the din and glare of mighty
conflagration.

They met not a single individual, as they threaded the broad suburra with
their long train of slaves and led-horses; not one as they passed through
the gorge between the Viminal and Quirinal hills, nor as they scaled the
summit of the latter eminence, and reached the city walls, where they
overlooked Sallust’s gardens in the valley, and on the opposite slope, the
perfumed hill of flowers.

A sleepy sentinel unbarred the gate for the ambassadors, while four or
five of his comrades sat dozing in their armor around a stove, in the
centre of the little guard-house, or replenishing their horn cups, at
short intervals, from an urn of hot wine, which hissed and simmered on the
hearth.

"Excellent guard they keep!" said Volturcius sneeringly, "right trusty
discipline! of much avail would such watchers be, were Catiline without
the walls, with ten thousand men, of Sylla’s veterans."

"And is your Catiline so great a captain?" asked the Highlander.

"The best in Rome, since Sylla is no more! He learned the art of war under
that grand, that consummate soldier! He was scarce second to him in his
life time!"

"Why, then, hath Rome found no service for him?" asked the Gaul. "If he,
as you say, is so valiant and so skillful, why hath he not commanded in
the east, in place of Pompey, or Lucullus?"

"Jealousy is the bane of Rome! jealousy and corruption! Catiline will not
pander to the pride of the insolent patricians, nor buy of them
employments or honors with his gold."

"And is _he_ free from this corruption?"

"No man on earth of more tried integrity! While all of Rome beside is
venal, his hand alone is conscious of no bribe, his heart alone
incorruptible!"

"Thou must be a true friend of his; all men speak not so highly of this
Catiline."

"Some men lie! touching _him_ specially, they lie!"

"By the Gods! I believe so!" answered the old Gaul, with calm irony.

"By Mars! and Apollo! they lie foully!"

"I think I have heard one, at least, do so."

"Thou shalt hear hundreds, if thou listen to them."

"So many?"

"Aye! by the Gods!—most of the—by your head! Patricius, that was a man, I
think; armed too; who looked forth from behind yon buttress of the
bridge."

"No! no! Volturcius, ’twas but the shadow of yon pine tree, waving athwart
the moonlight. I marked it long since," answered the wily Gaul. "Proceed,
I pray you—most of the what, wert thou about to say?"

But, by this time, the speakers had advanced to the centre of the long
Mulvian bridge, a magnificent stone structure crossing the broad and
sluggish Tiber, two miles below the city; and giving access to the
far-famed Flaminian way.

Their train, following closely after them, had all entered into the
defile, the last of them having already passed the abutment nearest to
Rome, when a loud shout arose from either side the bridge; and from the
thickets and gardens at each extremity forth rushed a band of stout youths
armed with casques and cuirasses of bronze, with the oblong shields and
Spanish stabbing swords of the legionaries.

Each band was led by a Prætor, Lucius Valerius Flaccus commanding at the
end next Rome, and Caius Pomptinus, on the Emilian way, and each fell into
accurate and beautiful array, barring the outlets of the bridge with a
triple file of bright blades and sturdy bucklers.

Nor was this all; for a little party was pushed forward on each flank,
with bows and javelins, ready to enfilade the narrow pass with cross shot
of their missiles, in case any attempt should be made to force a passage.
And at the end, moreover, of the bridge toward Etruria and the camp of
Catiline, at which such an attempt was most likely to occur, the
glittering helmets and crimson horsehair crests of a troop of cavalry were
seen glancing in the moonbeams, as they wheeled into line behind the
footmen, ready to charge at once should the infantry be broken.

"Stand! stand!" cried the soldiery at each end. "Stand and surrender!"

But the younger men of the Gauls, unsheathing their claymores, set up
their terrible slogan, or Celtic battle cry; and, plunging their spurs
into the sides of their fiery horses came thundering across the bridge
with a charge that would probably have trodden the Prætor’s infantry under
foot, had not the old chief, whom the Romans called Patricius, and
Ferragus reined their steeds suddenly across the way, calling upon their
men to halt and be steady.

But Volturcius, knowing too well the consequence of being taken, dashed
forward with his sword drawn; and made a desperate attempt to cut his way
through the infantry, striking down two or three, slashing and stabbing to
the right and left, displaying singular skill in the use of his weapon,
and extreme personal intrepidity.

"Treason! treason, my friends!" he shouted. "Ho, Ferragus, Patricius, ho!
Charge, charge, men, gallantly. They are but a handful!" and still he
plied his blade, which was now crimson to the hilt, with fearful energy.

"No! no! not so!" cried the ambassadors—"lay down your arms! it is the
prætor’s train. Lay down your arms! all shall be well, if you resist not."

And at the same time, "Yield thee! yield thee! Volturcius," cried
Pomptinus. "We are friends all; and would not hurt thee—but have thee we
must, and thy letters.—Dost thou not know me, Titus?"

"Very well, Caius," cried the other, still fighting desperately against a
host; for the men were commanded not to kill, but to take him alive at all
hazards. "I know thee very well; but I will not yield to thee! So take
that, Prætor!" and, with the word, he dealt him a blow on his crest that
brought him to his knee in a moment.

"He is a mad man!" cried a veteran legionary. "We must kill him!"

"Not for your lives," shouted Pomptinus, and springing to his feet he
plunged his sword home into his horse’s chest, up to the very hilt; and
then leaping on one side nimbly, as the animal fell headlong, being slain
outright, he seized Volturcius by the shoulder, and pulled him down from
the saddle.

But even at this disadvantage, the conspirator renewed the single combat
with the prætor; until at length, assured by his repeated promises that
his life should be spared, he yielded his sword to that officer, and
adjuring him in the name of all the Gods! to protect him, gave himself up
a prisoner, as if to avowed enemies.

Those of the Gauls, who had been ignorant, at first, what was in progress,
perceiving now that the whole matter had been arranged with the
concurrence of their chiefs, submitted quietly; and two or three of the
prætor’s people who had been wounded being accommodated with temporary
litters made of bucklers and javelins with watch cloaks thrown over them,
the whole party turned their horses’ heads, and directed their march
toward Rome.

And silence, amid which the gentle murmur of the river, and the sigh of
the breeze were distinctly audible, succeeded to the clang of arms, and
the shouts of the combatants, unheard for many a year, so near to the
walls of the world’s metropolis.





CHAPTER X.


THE ARREST.


        Rebellious subjects; Enemies of peace.
                ROMEO AND JULIET.

It was already daylight, when the loud clang and clatter of a squadron
passing along the streets, at a sharp trot, aroused the citizens of Rome
from their beds, for though the morning had broke, it was still very
early.

Many a lattice was opened, and many a head thrust out, as the troopers
swept along with all their accoutrements jingling and clashing through the
early silence, a spectacle which in ordinary times, would have excited
much astonishment, perhaps aroused a tumult, since it was in direct
opposition to the laws, that armed soldiers should enter the city walls in
time of peace.

But so much had the public mind been disturbed of late, that the sight,
which a month before would have filled the streets with anxious or angry
multitudes, now hardly seemed to merit a second glance, and the spectators
hurried back to their couches, invoking the aid of the good Consul, who
watched so well over the liberties and lives of Rome, or muttering curses
on his head, according as they were well or ill-afflicted toward the
state.

One man there was, however, who was awakened by the clatter from the deep
sleep of drunkenness, with a flushed face and an aching head, in a house
on the Clivus Scauri, a steep street running down the southern slope of
the Palatine, into the Cerolian Place, and overlooking the mansion of
Cicero.

Starting up from his low couch, he called out sharply and with a querulous
accent to a freedman, who was watching his feverish slumbers, desiring him
to look out and see what made that clatter.

The man passed quickly into an adjoining room which commanded a view of
the street, and returned instantly, saying,

"It is a squadron of horse, Cæparius. Young Arvina’s, I think; and they
appear to be conducting a prisoner, for there is one man among them, in
his tunic and abolla only, while the troopers around him have their swords
drawn."

Sobered at once, the conspirator leaped from his couch, and almost
overthrew the attendant, in his eagerness to reach the window in time to
observe the troopers.

They were just halting in the Cerolian place, when he saw them, and
dismounting, chargers and men in a confused and dusty group before the
door of Cicero.

He gazed, as if his eyes would burst from their sockets, if possibly he
might distinguish the wearer of the rich blue riding cloak, of which he
could catch glimpses among the glittering corslets and scarlet cassocks of
the legionary horse. But for a while he gazed in vain.

At length two figures mounted the marble steps, leading to the Tuscan
colonnade, and were thus brought clearly into view, above the crested
casques of the soldiery.

One, a tall well-made figure, splendidly accoutred in the cavalry armor of
the day, he recognized at once for Arvina, and in the stouter person, clad
in the blue abolla, the color of which he had already connected with one
whom he knew—his worst fears all realized—he discovered the messenger of
treason, Titus Volturcius of Crotona.

"By the Gods! all is lost," he muttered, striking his hand violently on
his thigh. "Escape alone, is left to us. Ha!" he continued, addressing his
freedman, "I will arise, and go forth speedily. Give me my tunic. So—never
mind the feminalia; there, clasp my sandals! Death and furies! how slow
thou art, now my dagger, and my toga. Hark, now. I go to the house of
Lentulus. See thou, and have my chariot harnessed for a journey, with the
four Thracian steeds; put into it my armor, a sword, casque and buckler
for thyself; and all the gold which is locked in the great chest in the
Atrium. Here is the key. Tarry not for thy life, and bring the car thyself
to the arch of Fabius Allobrox; wait there until I come to thee. I will be
there within the hour."

"It shall be done, Cæparius."

"See that it _be_ done, if thou wouldst scape the scourge!" and with the
word he rushed out of the chamber, as if the avenger of blood were at his
heels.

But the freedman looked after him, with a bitter and scornful smile, and
muttered—

"The scourge!—the scourge! and I a freedman! This is another friend of the
people. His villanies, I fancy, are near upon detection, and he would fly
to join Catiline, but I will thwart him."

In the meantime, quitting his own house in great trepidation, the
conspirator walked very rapidly through the streets, until he reached the
house of Lentulus, which was not far distant from the forum.

He was admitted instantly, and without question, for all the slaves knew
him, as the intimate friend of their master; but at the bed room door, he
was stopped by the favorite freedman of Lentulus, who urged that his lord
had not retired till morning, and had desired that he should not be
disturbed earlier than noon.

Cæparius, on the other hand insisted, raising his voice so loudly that the
sleeper was awakened, and recognizing the accent of his friend, cried out
peevishly—

"Oh! let him in, Agathon; let him in quickly, or he will talk thee deaf,
and me frantic! What in the name of Proserpine and Pluto! is it now?"

"The plot is discovered! all is lost!" exclaimed the other, forgetting all
prudence in the haste and terror of the moment.

"To the abyss of Tartarus with the plot, and thee also!" replied the other
savagely. "I hope it _is_ discovered, for I shall get some sleep then. I
have had none these six months."

And turning on his other side, he drew the embroidered coverlid over his
head, and appeared to court the interrupted slumber.

"By all Gods! I tell thee, Lentulus, Volturcius is arrested. These eyes
beheld him dragged into the house of Cicero. My chariot waits me now, at
the arch of Fabius. I go to join Catiline."

"I prithee, then, go quickly—thou torturest me, man, I say. Get thee gone!
get thee gone! Better to die, than to live thus sleepless."

"Whom the Gods wish to ruin, they first dementate!" exclaimed
Cæparius—"thou wilt be seized, within the hour."

"I care not. So that till then I can sleep; once more, I say—Begone!"

Cæparius shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head as he left the room;
and then made the best of his way to the arch of Fabius; but he found not
his chariot there, not though he waited well nigh two hours, did it arrive
at all.

Hopeless at length, and desperate, he set forth alone and on foot, in the
vain hope of escaping the pursuit of Cicero’s unerring justice.

Meanwhile, disturbed more than he would admit by Cæparius’ tidings,
Lentulus did, in some sort, arouse himself to consideration.

"It may be so," he said to himself. "Cæparius declared he saw him. If it
be so, ’twere better perhaps, indeed, to leave the city. And yet," he
continued pondering deeply, "to fly is to admit guilt, and it is too late,
moreover. Tush! tush! I daresay, it is but Cæparius’ terror—he was a fool
always, and I believe a coward also. Beside, if it be true, there is no
proof; and what dare Cicero against me—against me, a Consular of Rome?—At
the worst, he will implore me to deliver the city of my presence, as he
did Catiline. Ha! Ha! I will to sleep again. Yet stay, I am athirst, after
Sempronia’s revel! Fool, that I was, not to drink more last night, and
quench this fiery craving. Ho! Agathon, my boy, fetch me the great goblet,
the double(9) sextarius, of spiced mulse with a snow-water."

This order was obeyed instantly, and after draining the huge beaker to the
bottom, the indolent and reckless traitor, rolled himself over, and was
asleep again as soundly in five minutes, as if he were not in truth
slumbering upon the brink of a volcano.

Not long however did he sleep in peace, for Cæparius had scarcely been
gone an hour, when he was again startled from his doze, by a knocking so
violent, at the outer door, that the whole house reëchoed with the din.

He heard the doors opened, and a short angry parle, broken short by the
raised voice of the new comers, and the clanging of armed footsteps, along
the marble corridor which led toward his chamber.

A moment afterward, pale as death, with his hair starting and a wild eye,
Agathon entered the room.

"How now?" exclaimed Lentulus, who fully aroused by this time, was sitting
on the edge of the low bedstead, with a purple gown cast carelessly around
him, "what is this new disturbance."

"The Atrium is full of armed soldiers, Lentulus," replied the man with a
faltering accent.

"Well! hast thou never seen a soldier before, that thou starest so
wildly?" asked his master with a sneer, which even the extremity of danger
could not restrain.

"Their leader insists on present speech with thee. I told him that thou
wert asleep; but he replied that, waking or asleep, he must have speech
with thee."

"Truly a valiant leader," answered the Prætor. "Hath he a name, this bold
centurion?"

"Paullus Cæcilius Arvina," replied the young man, who having followed the
freedman to the door had overheard all that was passing, "is my name—no
centurion, as thou mayest see, Lentulus. Loth am I to disturb thy
slumbers."

"Then wherefore do it, youth?" asked Lentulus, quickly. "Most broken
things may be repaired, but I know not how you shall mend a broken nap, or
recompense the loss of it, if irreparable."

"Not of my own will, but by the Consul’s order."

"The Consul’s? What? Antonius? He scarce need have sent a troop of horse,
to ask an old friend to breakfast!"

"Cicero sent me, Prætor, to crave your instant presence at his house,
touching affairs of state."

"Ha! Cicero!" said he, affecting to be much surprised. "Cicero scarcely is
on such terms with me, as to take such a liberty, waking me thus at the
dead of night."

"It is well nigh the fourth hour, Lentulus."

"What if it be, an I choose to call it midnight? and what, if I refuse to
obey such unceremonious bidding?"

"In that case, Lentulus, my orders are to compel your attendance. I have
two decuries of men in your Atrium. But I trust that you will drive me to
no such necessity."

"Two decuries!" replied Lentulus scornfully. "I have but to lift my little
finger, and my freedmen and slaves would kick your decuries, and yourself
after them into the velabrum."

The blood mounted to the brow of the young soldier. "I have endured," he
said, "something too much of this. Will you go with us peacefully,
Lentulus, or will you force us to take you through the street like a
felon?"

"Oh! peacefully, Arvina, peacefully. I did but jest with you, my hero. But
I knew not that the cavalry of the seventh legion—the legion of Mars I
think they call it—had become so degraded, as to do the work of
thieftakers."

"Nor I, Lentulus," answered Paul. "But you should know best in this
matter. If it be theft for which thou art summoned before Cicero, then are
we indeed thieftakers. But if so, not only I believe should we be the
first legionaries of Rome so employed, but thou the first Roman Consular
so guilty."

"So proud! ha!" exclaimed the haughty conspirator, gazing at him with a
curled lip and flashing eye. "Well, I could quell that pride in one
moment, with _one_ word."

"Even so proud, because honest" answered the young man, as haughtily as
the other. "For the rest, will you clothe yourself at once?—I can wait
babbling here no longer."

"I _will_ quell it. Look you, boy, you love Julia, the bright daughter of
Hortensia—she is worth loving, by the way, and Catiline hath noted it. You
fancy that she is safe now, at the Latin villa of her mother. She is not
safe—nor at the Latin villa! I have touched you, have I not?"

Arvina started, as if a serpent had bitten him; but in a moment he
recovered himself, saying calmly, "Tush! it is a poor deceit! you cannot
alarm me."

"In truth it was a deceit, but not so very poor after all, since it
succeeded. You were sorely wounded a few days since, Arvina, and wrote, I
think, to Julia, requesting her to set forth at once to Rome, with
Hortensia."

"Folly!" replied Arvina, "Drivelling folly! Come, hasten your dressing,
Lentulus! You need not perfume your hair, and curl your beard, as if you
were going to a banquet."

"I never hasten anything, my Paullus. Things done hastily, are rarely
things done well. What? thou dids’t not write such a letter?—I thought
thou hadst—of this at least I am sure, that she received such an one; and
set out for Rome, within an hour after."

"By the Gods!" exclaimed Paullus, a little eagerly, for Lentulus had
changed the slight bantering tone in which he had been speaking, for a
quick short decided accent seeming to denote that he was in earnest.
"Where is she now. Speak, Lentulus, I adjure thee. Tell me, if thou
wouldst have me serve thee!"

"I thought I could abate that pride somewhat," said Lentulus sneeringly.
"I thought so indeed. But, by all the Gods! Arvina, I know not where your
Julia may be _now_. I know whither they are conveying her—where she soon
will be—but I fancy that the knowing it, would give you but little
pleasure; unless, indeed, you could prevent it, my poor youth!"

"To know, is something at least toward preventing it. If, therefore, thou
art not, as I believe indeed thou art, merely mocking me, I pray thee tell
me, whither are they conveying her? Where will she soon be?"

"To the camp of Manlius, nigh Fiesolè! In the arms of one Lucius Sergius
Catiline—a great admirer of your auburn-haired, blue-eyed beauties, my
Arvina."

The young man, with his eyes gleaming and his face crimsoning with furious
rage, made two steps forward, and seizing the burly traitor by the throat,
compressed his gullet, as if in an iron vice, and shook him to and fro as
easily as if he had been a stripling.

"Shame on thee, filth and carrion that thou art, so to speak of a
betrothed bride to her promised husband! If it were true, wretched
villain! I would save the hangman his task, and break your traitor’s
throat with this hand—but thou liest! thou liest!" he shouted, pushing him
to the other end of the narrow sleeping chamber. "In poor revenge thou
liest! But if you wish to live, beware how you so lie any more!"

"I do not lie indeed, my dear Arvina," replied the other in a bland
fawning voice full of mock humility. "But, I prithee, boy, keep thy hands
from my throat in future, unless thou wouldst desire to know how a
crook-bladed sica some sixteen inches long feels in the region of thy
heart. Such an one as this, Arvina," he added, showing a long keen weapon
not unlike a Turkish yatagan in shape, which he drew from beneath his
pillow. Then casting it aside, with a contemptuous gesture, he
continued—"But this is mere child’s play. Now mark me. I did not lie, nor
do! Aulus Fulvius wrote the letter—Aulus Fulvius’ slave carried it,
yester-even—Aulus Fulvius beset the road by which they must come—Aulus
Fulvius is ere this time on his road many a league conveying her to
Catiline—and this," he said, putting a small slip of parchment into the
hands of the astonished Paullus, "is Aulus Fulvius’ handwriting. Yes!
certainly, that is his S in the word Salutem. He affects ever the Greek
sigma in his writing. He is a very pretty penman, Aulus Fulvius!"

The strip of parchment bore these words:

"Whom I am you will know by the matter. The camp in Etruria will receive
the dove from the Latin villa. All hath succeeded—health!"

"I found it on my desk, when I returned from supper this morning. Aulus’s
slave brought it hither. He is within, if thou wouldst speak him."

Arvina staggered back like a man who has received a mortal stab, as he
read those fatal words; and stared about him with a wild and wandering
eye.

It was a moment or two before he could find any speech, and when he did
speak at length, it was in tones so altered and broken that his nearest
friend would not have recognized his voice.

"Wherefore"—he gasped—"Wherefore have you done this to me."

"For vengeance!" thundered the proud conspirator, casting his
crimson-bordered toga over his laticlavian tunic. "For vengeance, boy.
Lead on—lead on to your consul."

"In what have I wronged you?" cried Arvina, in a paroxysm of almost
unspeakable despair. "In what, that you should take such infernal
vengeance?"

"For Julia’s love thou didst betray Catiline! betray _us_! In Julia’s
infamy thou shalt be punished!"

"Anything! anything! anything but this—strike here, strike here with that
sica, thou didst unsheath but now. Slay me, by inches if thou wilt—but
spare her, oh! by your mother’s memory! oh! by your sister’s honor! spare
her, and I will—"

"Lead on! To your consul!" exclaimed Lentulus waving his hand proudly to
the door. "I can but die—the Gods be thanked for it! Thy life is bitterer
than many deaths already! I say, coward and fool, lead on! Where is thy
boasted pride? In the dust! at my feet! I trample, I spit on it! once
again to your consul!"

"And thou couldst save her!"

"By a word! At a hint from me Fulvius will set her free."

"But that word? but that hint?—"

"My lips shall never utter—my hand indite; unless—"

"Unless? unless what?—speak! speak, Lentulus. By the Gods! By your head!
By your life! speak."

"Place me beyond the walls of Rome, with twenty of my freedmen, armed and
mounted—it can be done on the instant; they are here; they are ready!—and
Julia shall be in thy bosom ere to-morrow’s sun shall sink behind the
hills of Latium!"

"A Traitor to my country! Lentulus, never!"

"Tush! boy! think upon beautiful, soft, weeping, _innocent_ Julia rescued
by thee from Catiline—from pollution—think on her gratitude, her love, her
kiss! Think on a life, a whole long life, of rapture!—and then balance
against it one small foolish word—"

"Dishonor!" Arvina interrupted him fiercely.

"Aye! to which thou consignest Julia, whom thou _lovest_! Kind Venus guard
me from such lovers!"

"Dishonor never can come nigh her," replied Arvina, who had recovered his
senses completely, and who, though unutterably wretched, was now as firm
and as cold as marble. "Death it may be, but not dishonor!"

"Be it so," answered Lentulus. "We will leave her the option of the two,
but believe me, when dishonor is pleasant, women rarely choose death in
preference to it. You have had your option too, my Arvina. But I, it
seems, can have none, but must wait upon your consul."

"You have the same which you give Julia!" answered Paullus, sternly.
"There is your dagger, and your heart here!" he added, laying his hand on
the broad breast of the infamous Patrician.

"True! count its pulses—cooler, I think, and more regular than thine,
Paullus. Tush! man! I know a hundred wiser things and pleasanter than
dying. But once more, lead on! I will speak no word again till I speak to
the consul!"

And without farther words he strode to the door, followed closely by the
young soldier, resolute and determined to perform his duty, let what might
come of it! He passed through his marble peristyles, looked with a cool
eye on his flowery parterres and sparkling fountains, nodded a careless
adieu to his slaves and freedmen, and entered the Atrium where Arvina’s
troopers awaited him, wondering and impatient at the long delay.

With a proud gesture he waved his hand toward the door, and six of the
number marched forward, three and three, while the rest falling into
regular array behind him, escorted him with all respect, but with stern
watchfulness, along the Via Sacra to the Carinæ.

Quickly arriving at the Atrium of Cicero’s house, which was filled with
his friends and clients all in arms, and with many knights and patricians,
whom he knew, but no one of whom saluted or seemed to recognize him, he
was admitted into the Tablinum, or saloon, at the doors of which six
lictors were on guard with their fasces.

On entering this small but sumptuous chamber he found assembled there
already, Cethegus, Statilius, and Gabinius, silent, with white lips, in an
agony of terror worse than death.

"Ha! my friends!" he exclaimed, with an unaltered mien and voice, "We are
met once again. But we seem not, by all the Gods! to be well pleased with
the meeting. Why so downcast, Cethegus?"

"Because on earth it is our last meeting," he replied. And it was clear to
see that the boldest and fiercest, and most furious of the band, while
danger was afar, was the most utterly appalled now, when fate appeared
imminent and certain.

"Why, then!" answered Lentulus, "we shall meet in Hell, Cethegus."

"By the Gods! jest not so foully—"

"Wherefore not, I prithee? If that this be our last meeting, good faith!
let it be a merry one! I know not, for my part, what ails ye all."

"Are you mad? or know you not that Volturcius is a prisoner, and our
letters in the hands of the consul? They will kill us ere noon."

"Then they must make haste, Caius. It is noon already. But, cheer thee up,
be not so much afraid, my brave Cethegus—they dare not slay us."

"Dare not?"

"For their own lives, they dare not!" But as he spoke, raising his voice
to its highest pitch, the curtains which closed the other end of the
Tablinum were suddenly drawn back, and Cicero appeared, clad in his
consular robes, and with his ivory staff in his hand. Antonius his
colleague stood in the intercolumniation, with all the lictors at his
back, and many knights in their appropriate tunics, but with military
cloaks above them in place of the peaceful toga, and with their swords
girded by their sides.

"Prætor," said Cicero in a dignified but serene voice, with no show of
taunting or of triumph over his fallen enemy. "The Senate is assembled in
the temple of Concord. The Fathers wait but for your coming. Give me your
hand that I may conduct you thither."

"My hand, consul? Not as a friend’s, I trust," said the undaunted Traitor.

"As a magistrate’s, Cornelius Lentulus," replied Cicero severely, "whose
hand, even if guilty, may not be polluted by an inferior’s grasp."

"As a magistrate’s you have it, consul. We go?"

"To the shrine of Concord! Antonius, my noble colleague, let us begone.
Senators, follow us; escape you cannot, if you would; and I would spare
you the disgrace of chains."

"We follow, Cicero," answered Cethegus in a hollow voice, and casting his
eyes with a wild and haggard expression on Gabinius, he added in a
whisper, "to our death!"

"Be it so!" replied the other. "One can but die once; and if his time be
come, as well now as hereafter. I fear not death now, when I see it face
to face. I think, I have heard thee say the same."

"He spoke," answered Statilius, with a bitter and sarcastic laugh, "of the
death of others then. Would God, he _then_ had met his own! So should we
_now_ have been innocent and fearless!"

"I at least, if not innocent, _am_ fearless."

And watched on every side by the knights, and followed by the lictors, two
behind each, the ringleaders of the plot, all save Cæparius who had fled,
and Catiline—who was in open arms, an outlaw and proclaimed enemy of his
country—the ringleaders were led away to trial.

The fate of Rome hung on the firmness of their judges.





CHAPTER XI.


THE YOUNG PATRICIAN.


        Not always robes of state are worn,
        Most nobly by the nobly born.
                  H. W. H.

The light of that eventful morning, which broke, pregnant with ruin to the
conspiracy, found Aulus Fulvius and his band, still struggling among the
rugged defiles which it was necessary to traverse, in order to gain the
Via Cassia or western branch of the Great North Road.

It had been necessary to make a wide circuit, in order to effect this,
inasmuch as the Latin road, of which the Labican way was a branch, left
the city to the South-eastward, nearly opposite to the Flaminian, or north
road, so that the two if prolonged would have met in the forum, and made
almost a right line.

Nor had this been their only difficulty, for they had been compelled to
avoid all the villages and scattered farm houses, which lay on their
route, in the fear that Julia’s outcries and resistance—for she frequently
succeeded in removing the bandage from her mouth—would awaken suspicion
and cause their arrest, while in the immediate vicinity of Rome.

At one time, the party had been within a very few miles of the city,
passing over the Tiber, scarce five miles above the Mulvian bridge, about
an hour before the arrest of the ambassadors; and it was from this point,
that Aulus sent off his messenger to Lentulus, announcing his success,
thereby directly disobeying the commands of Catiline, who had enjoined it
on him almost with his last words, to communicate this enterprise to none
of his colleagues in guilt.

Crossing the Flaminian, or great northern road, they had found a relay of
fresh horses, stationed in a little grove, of which by this time they
stood greatly in need, and striking across the country, at length reached
the Cassian road, near the little river Galera, just as the sun rose above
the eastern hills.

At this moment they had not actually effected above ten miles of their
journey, as reckoned from the gates of Rome to the camp of Catiline, which
was nearly two hundred miles distant, though they had traversed nearly
forty during the night, in their wearisome but unavoidable circuit.

They were, however, admirably mounted on fresh horses, and had procured a
_cisium_, or light carriage for two persons, not much unlike in form to a
light gig, in which they had placed the unhappy Julia, with a slight boy,
the son of Caius Crispus, as the driver.

By threats of the most atrocious nature, they had at length succeeded in
compelling her to temporary silence. Death she had not only despised, but
implored, even when the point of their daggers were razing the skin of her
soft neck; and so terribly were they embarrassed and exasperated by her
persistence, that it is probable they would have taken her life, had it
not been for fear of Catiline, whose orders were express to bring her to
his camp alive and in honor.

At length Aulus Fulvius had threatened in the plainest language outrages
so enormous, that the poor girl’s spirit sank, and that she took an oath,
in order to avoid immediate indignities, and those the most atrocious, to
remain silent during the next six hours.

Had she been able to possess herself of any weapon, she would undoubtedly
have destroyed herself, as the only means she could imagine of escaping
what to her was worse than loss of life, the loss of honor; and it was
chiefly in the hope of effecting this ere nightfall, that she took the
oath prescribed to her, in terms of such tremendous sanctity, that no
Roman would dream of breaking it, on any pretext of compulsion.

Liberated by their success in this atrocious scheme, from that
apprehension, they now pushed forward rapidly, and reached the station at
Baccanæ, in a wooded gorge between a range of low hills, and a clear lake,
at about nine in the morning, of our time, or the third hour by Roman
computation.

Here they obtained a fresh horse for the vehicle which carried Julia, and
tarrying so long only as to swallow a draught of wine, they pressed onward
through a steep defile along which the road wound among wooded crags
toward Sutrium.

At this place, which was a city of some note, they were joined by forty or
fifty partisans, well armed and mounted on good horses, all veteran
soldiers who had been settled on the confiscated estates of his enemies by
the great usurper Sylla, and thenceforth feeling themselves strong enough
to overawe any opposition they might meet on the way, they journeyed at a
slower rate in perfect confidence of success, numbering now not less than
sixty well-equipped Cavaliers.

Before noon, they were thirty miles distant from Rome, and had reached the
bottom of a long and almost precipitous ascent where the road, scorning
any divergence to the right or left, scaled the abrupt heights of a craggy
hill, known at the present day as the Monte Soriano, the ancient name of
which has not descended to these times.

Scarcely however had they reached the first pitch of the hill, in loose
and straggling order, when the rearmost rider, came spurring furiously to
the head of the column, and announced to Aulus Fulvius, that they were
pursued by a body of men, nearly equal to themselves in number, who were
coming up at a rate so rapid, as made it certain that they would be
overtaken, encumbered as they were with the wheeled carriage conveying the
hapless Julia.

A brief council was held, in which, firmly resisting the proposal of the
new-comers to murder their captive, and disperse in small bodies among the
hills, Aulus Fulvius and Caius Crispus determined on dividing their men
into two parties. The first of these, commanded by the smith, and
consisting of two-thirds of their whole force, was destined to press
forward as rapidly as possible; while Fulvius, with the second, should
make a charge down hill upon the pursuers, by which it was hoped that they
might be so effectually checked and alarmed as to give up the pursuit.

No time was lost in the execution, a second horse was attached to the
_cisium_, for they had many sumpter animals along with them, and several
spare chargers; and so much speed did they make, that Crispus had reached
the summit of the ridge and commenced the descent before the pursuers had
come up with Fulvius and the rear.

There is a little hollow midway the ascent, which is thickly set with
evergreen oaks, and hollies, and in the centre of this hollow, the road
makes a turn almost at right angles.

Behind the corner of the wood, which entirely concealed them from any
persons coming up the hill, Aulus drew up his men in double lines, and as
the band, whom he suspected to be in pursuit of him, came into the open
space, in loose array, and with their horses blown and weary, he charged
upon them with a fierce shout, and threw them into disorder in a moment.

Nothing could indicate more clearly, the utter recklessness of the
Catilinarian party, and the cheap estimate at which they held human life,
than the perfect unconcern with which they set upon a party of men, whose
identity with those whom they feared was so entirely unproved.

Nothing, at the same time, could indicate more clearly, the fury and
uncalculating valor which had grown up among them, nurtured by the strange
policy of Catiline, during a peace of eighteen years’ duration.

Eighteen men, for, Aulus Fulvius included, they numbered no more, set
fiercely upon a force of nearly three times their number, with no
advantage of arms or accoutrement, or even of discipline, for although all
old soldiers, these men had not, for years, been accustomed to act
together, nor were any of them personally acquainted with the young
leader, who for the first time commanded them.

The one link which held them together, was welded out of crime and
desperation. Each man knew that his neighbor, as well as himself, must win
or die—there was no compromise, no half-way measure that could by any
possibility preserve them.

And therefore as one man they charged, as one man they struck, and death
followed every blow.

At their first onset, with horses comparatively fresh, against the blown
chargers and disordered mass of their pursuers, they were entirely
successful. Above a dozen of their opponents went down horse and man, and
the remainder were driven scattering along the slope, nearly to the foot
of the declivity.

Uncertain as he had been at the first who were the men, whom he thus
recklessly attacked, Aulus Fulvius had not well turned the angle of the
wood, before he recognized the faces of almost all the leading men of the
opposite party.

They were the oldest and most trusty of the clients of his house; and half
a dozen, at the least, of his own name and kindred led them.

It needed not a moment therefore, to satisfy him that they were in quest
of himself, and of himself alone—that they were no organized troop and
invested with no state authority, but merely a band suddenly collected
from his father’s household, to bring him back in person from the fatal
road on which he had entered so fatally.

Well did he know the rigor of the old Roman law, as regarded the paternal
power, and well did he know, the severity with which his father would
execute it.

The terrors inspired by the thought of an avenging country, would have
been nothing—the bare idea of being surrendered a fettered captive to his
dread father’s indignation, maddened him.

Fiercely therefore, as he rushed out leading his ambushed followers, the
fury of his first charge was mere boy’s play when compared to the virulent
and concentrated rage with which he fought, after he had discovered fairly
against whom he was pitted.

Had his men shared his feeling, the pursuers must have been utterly
defeated and cut to pieces, without the possibility of escape.

But while he recognized his personal enemies in the persons he attacked,
the men who followed him as quickly perceived that those, whom they were
cutting down, were not regular soldiers, nor led by any Roman magistrate.

They almost doubted, therefore, as they charged, whether they were not in
error; and when the horsemen of the other faction were discomfitted and
driven down the hill on the instant, they felt no inclination to pursue or
harass them farther.

Not so, however, Aulus. He had observed in the first onset, the features
of a cousin, whom he hated; and now, added to other motives, the fierce
thirst for his kinsman’s blood, stirred his blood almost into frenzy.
Knowing, moreover, that he was himself the object of their pursuit, he
knew likewise that the pursuit would not be given up for any casual check,
but that to conquer, he must crush them.

Precipitately, madly therefore he drove down the hill, oversetting
horseman after horseman, the greater part of them unwounded—for the short
Roman sword, however efficient at close quarters and on foot, was a most
ineffective weapon for a cavalier—until he reached the bottom of the hill.

There he reined up his charger for a moment, and looked back, waving his
hand and shouting loudly to bring on his comrades to a second charge.

To his astonishment, however, he saw them collected in a body at nearly a
mile’s distance, on the brow of the first hill, beckoning him to come
back, and evidently possessed by no thought, less than that of risking
their lives or liberty by any fresh act of hostility.

In the mean time, the fugitives, who had now reached the level ground and
found themselves unpressed, began to halt; and before Aulus Fulvius had
well made up his mind what to do, they had been rallied and reformed, and
were advancing slowly, with a firm and unbroken front, well calculated to
deter his handful, which had already been diminished in strength, by one
man killed, and four or five more or less severely wounded, from rashly
making any fresh attack.

Alone and unsupported, nothing remained for him but to retreat if
possible, and make his way back to his people, who, he felt well assured
would again charge, if again menaced with pursuit. To do this, however,
had now ceased to be an easy, perhaps to be a feasible matter.

Between himself and his own men, there were at least ten of his father’s
clients; several of them indeed were wounded, and all had been overthrown
in the shock either by himself or his troopers; but they had all regained
their horses, and—apparently in consequence of some agreement or tacit
understanding with his comrades, were coming down the hill at a gentle
trot to rejoin their own party.

Now it was that Aulus began to regret having sent forward the smith, and
those of the conspirators to whom he was individually known, with Julia in
the van. Since of the fellows who had followed him thus far, merely
because inferior will always follow superior daring, and who now appeared
mightily inclined to desert him, not three were so much as acquainted with
his name, and not one had any intimacy with him, or indeed any community
of feeling unless it were the community of crime.

These things flashed upon Aulus in an instant; the rather that he saw the
hated cousin, whom he had passed unnoticed in his headlong charge, quietly
bringing the clients into line between himself and his wavering
associates.

He was in fact hemmed in on every side; he was alone, and his horse, which
he had taxed to the uttermost, was wounded and failing fast.

His case was indeed desperate, for he could now see that his own faction
were drawing off already with the evident intention of rejoining the bulk
of the party, careless of his fate, and glad to escape at so small a
sacrifice.

Still, even in this extremity he had no thought of surrender—indeed to him
death and surrender were but two names for one thing.

He looked to the right and to the left, if there were any possibility of
scaling the wooded slopes and so rejoining the sturdy swordsmith without
coming to blows again with his father’s household; but one glance told him
that such hopes were vain indeed. On either hand the crags rose
inaccessible even to the foot of man, unless he were a practised
mountaineer.

Then rose the untamed spirit of his race, the firm Roman hardihood,
deeming naught done while anything remains to do, and holding all things
feasible to the bold heart and ready hand—the spirit which saved Rome when
Hannibal was thundering at her gates, which made her from a petty town the
queen and mistress of the universe.

He gathered his reins firmly in his hand, and turning his horse’s head
down the declivity put the beast to a slow trot, as if he had resolved to
force his way toward Rome; but in a moment, when his manœuvre had, as he
expected caused the men in his rear to put their horses to their speed,
and thus to break their line, he again wheeled, and giving his charger the
spur with pitiless severity drove up the steep declivity like a
thunderbolt, and meeting his enemies straggling along in succession,
actually succeeded in cutting down two, before he was envelopped, unhorsed
and disarmed, which, as his cousin’s men came charging up and down the
road at once, it was inevitable that he must be from the beginning.

"Curses upon thee! it is thou!" he said, grinding his teeth and shaking
his weaponless hand at his kinsman in impotent malignity—"it is thou!
Caius. Curses upon thee! from my birth thou hast crossed me."

"It were better thou hadst died, Aulus," replied the other solemnly, but
in sorrow more than anger, "better that thou hadst died, than been so led
back to Rome."

"Why didst _thou_ not kill me then?" asked Aulus with a sneer of sarcastic
spite—"Why dost thou not kill me now."

"Thou art _sacro sanctus_!" answered the other, with an expression of
horror in his eyes—"doomed, set apart, sanctified unto destruction—words,
alas! henceforth avail nothing. Bind him"—he continued, turning toward his
men—"Bind him, I say, hard, with his hands behind his back, and his legs
under his horse’s belly! Go your way," he added, "Go to your bloody camp,
and accursed leader"—waving his hand as he spoke, to the veterans above,
who seemed half inclined to make an effort to rescue the prisoner. "Go
your way. We have no quarrel with you now; we came for him, and having got
him we return."

"What?" cried the dark-eyed boy who had come up too late to the Latin
villa on the preceding night, and who, strange to state, was riding with
the clients of the Fulvian house, unwearied—"What, will you not save
_her_? will you not do that for which alone I led ye hither? will you be
falsifiers of your word and dishonored?"

"Alas!" answered Caius Fulvius, "it is impossible.—We are outnumbered, my
poor boy, and may not aid you, as we would; but be of good cheer, this
villain taken, they will not dare to harm her."

The youth shook his head mournfully; but made no reply.

Aulus, however, who had heard all that was said, glared savagely upon the
boy, and after examining his features minutely for a moment exclaimed—"I
know thy face! who art thou! quick thy name?"

"I have no name!" replied the other gloomily.

"That voice! I know thee!" he shouted, an expression of infernal joy
animating his features. "Thou miserable fool, and driveller! and is it for
this—for this, that thou hast brought the bloodhounds on my track, to
restore _her_ to _him_? Mark me, then, mark me, and see if I am not
avenged—her dishonor, her agony, her infamy are no less certain than my
death. Catiline, Catiline shall avenge me upon her—upon him—upon thee—thou
weaker, more variable thing than—woman! Catiline! think’st thou he will
fail?"

"He hath failed ere now!" replied the boy proudly.

"Failed! when?" exclaimed Aulus, forgetting his own situation in the
excitement of the wordy contest.

"When he crossed me"—then turning once more to the leader of the Fulvian
clients, the dark-eyed boy said in a calm determined voice, "You will not,
therefore, aid me?"

"We cannot."

"Enough! Look to him, then, that he escape you not."

"Fear us not. But whither goest thou?"

"To rescue Julia. Tell thou to Arvina how these things have fallen out,
and whither they have led her; and, above all, that one is on her traces
who will die or save her."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Aulus savagely in the glee of his vengeful triumph,
"Thou wilt die, but not save her. I am avenged, already—avenged in Julia’s
ruin!"

"Wretch!" exclaimed his kinsman, indignant and disgusted—"almost it shames
me that my name is Fulvius! Fearful, however, is the punishment that
overhangs thee! think on that, Aulus! and if shame fetter not thy tongue,
at least let terror freeze it."

"Terror? of whom? perhaps of thee, accursed?"

"Aulus. Thou hast—a father!"

At that word father, his eyes dropped instantly, their haughty insolence
abashed; his face turned deadly pale; his tongue _was_ frozen; he spoke no
word again until at an early hour of morning, they reached the house he
had so fatally dishonored.

Meanwhile, as the party, who had captured him, returned slowly with their
prisoner down the mountain side, the last of the rebels having gallopped
off long before to join the swordsmith and his gang, the boy, who took so
deep an interest in Julia, dismounted from the white horse, which had
borne him for so many hours with unabated fire and spirit, and leaving the
high road, turned into a glade among the holm oaks, watered by a small
streamlet, leading his courser by the rein.

Having reached a secluded spot, quite removed from sight of the highway,
he drew from a small wallet, which was attached to the croupe, some pieces
of coarse bread and a skin of generous wine, of which he partook sparingly
himself, giving by far the larger portion to his four-footed friend, who
greedily devoured the cake saturated with the rich grape-juice.

This done he fastened the beast to a tree so that he could both graze and
drink from the stream; and then throwing himself down at length on the
grass, he soon fell into a heavy and quiet sleep.

It was already sunset, when he awoke, and the gray hues of night were
gathering fast over the landscape; but he seemed to care nothing for the
approaching darkness as he arose reinvigorated and full of spirit, and
walked up to his horse which whinnied his joyful recognition, and tossed
his long thin mane with a spirited and fiery air, as he felt the
well-known hand clapping his high arched crest.

"Courage! brave horse," he cried—"Courage, White Ister. We will yet save
her, for—Arvina!"

And, with the words he mounted, and cantered away through the gloom of the
woodland night, on the road toward Bolsena, well assured of the route
taken by Caius Crispus and his infernal crew.





CHAPTER XII


THE ROMAN FATHER.


           Daughter, He fled.
        * * * * *
        That Flight was parricide.
              MASON’S CARACTACUS.

The streets of Rome were in fierce and terrible confusion all that day
long, on which the conspirators were arrested, and all the night that
followed it.

Late on the evening of that day, when it was already dark, the Consul had
addressed the people by torch-light in the forum, delivering that superb
speech, known as the third oration against Catiline.

In it, he had informed them clearly of all the events which had occurred
in the last twenty-four days, since the delivery of his second speech,
more especially treating of those which had taken place in the preceding
day and night.

The conspiracy made manifest by overwhelming evidence—the arrest of the
ambassadors, the seizure of the letters, the acknowledgment of those
letters for their own by the terrified and bewildered traitors, and lastly
the committal of the ringleaders of the plot to close custody, previous to
the discussion of their fate—such were the wondrous and exciting facts,
which he had announced to the assembled multitudes, inviting them to join
him in a solemn thanksgiving to the Gods, and public celebration, decreed
by the Senate to his honor; congratulating them on their escape from a
danger so imminent and so general; and calling on them, in conclusion, to
watch over the safety of the city by nocturnal guards and patroles, as
they had done so diligently during all that emergency.

The thundering acclamations, which greeted the close of that luculent and
powerful exposition, the zeal with which the concourse hailed him
unanimously Savior of Rome and Father of his country, the eagerness of
affection with which all ranks and ages thronged around him, expressing
their gratitude and their devotion, by all means imaginable, proved
satisfactorily that, whatever might have been the result had massacre,
plunder, and conflagration fallen upon them unawares, the vast mass of the
people were now loyal, and true to their country.

The seven hills never had resounded with louder din of civic triumph, than
they did on that glorious night; not when the noble Scipio triumphed for
Carthage overthrown; not when the mighty Marius,(10) begirt with a host of
captives and all the pomp of war, dismounted, happiest of men, from his
Teutonic Car.

The streets were as light as day with the glare of lamps, and torches, and
bonfires blazing on all the circumjacent heights, as with tremendous
shouts, and unpremeditated triumph, the mighty multitude escorted the
great Consul home, not to his own house, where the rites of the Good
Goddess were in celebration, and whither no male could be admitted, but to
his next-door neighbor’s mansion, in which he and his friends were
entertained with more than regal splendor.

What could have been more glorious, what more unmixed with any touch of
bitterness, or self reproach, than Cicero’s position on that evening?

His country saved from miseries unparalleled—saved by himself alone—no aid
of rival generals, no force of marshalled hosts to detract from the
greatness of his own achievement—all the strife borne, all the success
won, all the glory conquered by the force of his own genius, of his own
moral resolution. No blood of friends had been spilt to buy that conquest,
and wring its tribute of anguished sorrow from eyes bright with the mixed
excitement of regret and triumph—no widow’s tears, no orphan’s sighs, had
mounted heavenward amid those joyous conclamations.

With no sword drawn, with no army arrayed, alone in his peaceful toga, he
had conquered the world’s peace; and, for that night at least, he enjoyed,
as his great merit’s meed, a world’s gratitude.

All night long had the streets been crowded with fond and ardent throngs
of all ages, sexes, ranks, conditions, questioning, cheering, carolling,
carousing—all, in appearance at least, unanimous in joy; for none dared in
such an ebullition of patriotic feeling to display any disaffection.

And the morrow dawned upon Rome, still noisy, still alive with tumultuous
joy, still filled, through the whole area within its walls, by thousands,
and tens of thousands, hoarse with shouting, weary almost of revelling,
haggard and pale from the excess of excitement.

Such was the scene, which the metropolis of the world presented, when at
the second hour of the morning, on the day following the arrest of
Lentulus, a small party consisting of about fifty horsemen, conducting a
prisoner, with his arms bound behind his back, gagged, and with the lappet
of his cloak so disposed as to conceal his face, entered the Quirinal
gate, from the direction of the Flaminian way.

They were the clients of the Fulvian House, leading the miserable Aulus
homeward, under the command of his cousin. The horses were jaded, and
bleeding from many a spur gall; the men were covered with dust and sweat;
and several of their number were wounded; but, what at once struck the
minds of all who beheld them, was that their faces, although stern and
resolute, were grave, dejected and sad, while still it would seem that
they were returning in triumph from some successful expedition.

At any other time, the entrance of such a party would have awakened much
astonishment and surprise, perhaps might have created a tumult among the
excitable and easily agitated Romans; but now so strangely had the popular
mind been stimulated during the last days, that they either paid no
attention to the train at all, or observed, pointing to the prisoner, that
there went another of the parricides.

Just, however, as the new-comers entered the gate, another armed band met
them, moving outward; the latter being a full troop, thirty in number, of
cavalry of the seventh legion, with a banner, and clarion, and Paullus
Arvina at their head, in complete armor, above which he wore a rich
scarlet cloak, or _paludamentum_, floating over his left shoulder.

The face of the young man was as pale as that of a corpse, his eyes were
sunken, and surrounded by dark circles, his cheeks were hollow, and among
the short black curls, which were visible beneath the brazen peak of his
sculptured casque, there was one as white as snow.

Since the dread news had reached him of Julia’s abduction, he had not
closed his eyes for a moment; and, although scarcely eight and forty hours
had elapsed, since he received the fatal intelligence, he had grown older
by many years.

No one, who looked upon him, would have judged him to be younger than
thirty-five or forty years, when he was in truth little more than half way
on life’s journey toward the second period.

There was a cold firm determination too written on all his features, such
as is rarely seen in young men; and the wild vacillating light which used
to flicker so changefully over his fine face, was lost in an expression of
mournful and despairing resolution.

Still his attitude on his charger’s back was fine and spirited; his head
was proudly erect; and his voice, as from time to time, he uttered some
command to his troopers, was clear, steady, and sonorous.

So much indeed was he altered, that Caius Fulvius, who knew him well,
gazed at him doubtfully for half a minute ere he addressed him, as the two
troops came almost into contact, the mounted clients of the Fulvian House,
withdrawing to the wayside to allow the legionaries to pass.

Assured at last that it was indeed Arvina, he called out as he passed—

"Tell me, I pray thee, Paullus, what means this concourse in the streets?
hath aught of ill befallen?"

"Ha! is it thou, Caius Fulvius?" replied Arvina. "I will speak with thee
anon. Lead the men forward," he added, turning round in his saddle to the
second Decurion of his troop, "my good Drusus. I will overtake you, ere
you shall reach the Mulvian bridge." Here wheeling his horse to the side
of the young nobleman, "Where hast thou been, Caius, that thou hast not
heard? All the conspirators have been arrested. Lentulus, and Cethegus,
Gabinius, Statilius, and Cæparius! They have confessed their letters—the
Gaulish ambassadors, and Titus Volturcius have given evidence against
them. The senate is debating even now on their doom."

"Indeed! indeed! when did all this fall out?" enquired the other evidently
in great astonishment.

"Yesterday morning they were taken. The previous night, in the third
watch, the ambassadors were stopped on the Mulvian bridge, and the
treasonable papers found on Volturcius."

"Ha! this is indeed news!" cried Caius. "What will befall Lentulus and the
rest? Do men know anything!"

"Death!" answered Arvina gravely.

"Death! art thou certain? A Prætor, a consular of Rome! and all the others
Senators! Death! Paullus?"

"Death!" replied the other still more solemnly, than before. "Yet
methinks! that rather should be a boon, than the fit penalty of such
guilt! But where have you been, that you are ignorant of all this, and
whom have you there?"

Caius Fulvius shook his head sorrowfully, and a deep groan burst from the
lips of the muffled man, a groan of rage mingled with hate and terror.

"I will tell _thee_, Arvina," said the young man, after a moment’s pause,
during which Paullus had been gazing with a singular, and even to himself
incomprehensible, emotion at the captive horseman. "We have been sent to
fetch _him_ back," and he pointed to his wretched cousin, "as he fled to
join Catiline. We overtook him nigh to Volsinii."

"Who—who—" exclaimed Arvina in a terrible hoarse voice—"By all the Gods!
who is he?—"

"Aulus—"

"Ha! villain! villain! He shall die by my hand!" burst from Arvina’s lips
with a stifled cry, and drawing his sword as he spoke, he made toward him.

But Caius Fulvius, and several others of the clients threw themselves into
the way, and the former said quietly but very firmly, "No—no, my Paullus,
that must not be. His life is devoted to a baser doom; nor must his blood
be shed by a hand so noble! But wherefore—Ha!" he exclaimed, interrupting
himself in mid speech. "Ha! Julia, I remember—I remember—would to the Gods
I could have rescued her."

For one second’s space Paullus Arvina glared upon the speaker, as if he
would have stabbed him where he sat on his horse motionless and
unresisting; then, shaking his head with an abrupt impatient motion as if
to rid himself of some fixed image or impression, he said,

"You are right, Caius. But tell me! by the Gods! was she with him? saw you
aught of her, as you took him?"

"She was in his power, my poor Paullus, as we were told at Sutrium; but
when we overtook him, he had sent forward all his band but a small party,
who fought so hard and handled us so roughly, that, he once taken, we
dared not set on them again. But, be of good cheer, my Paullus. There is a
gallant youth on the track of them; the same youth who went to save her at
the Latin villa but arrived too late; the same who brought us the tidings
of yon villain’s flight, who led us in pursuit of them. He follows still,
and swears that he will save her! The Gods grant it?"

"A youth, ha! who is he?"

"I know not. He refused to tell us, still saying that he was nameless. A
slight slender black-eyed youth. Exceeding dark-complexioned, but handsome
withal. You would have said, to look on him, he would lack strength to
ride an hour; yet, by the God of Faith! he was in the saddle incessantly
for nearly forty hours, and shewed less weariness than our sturdiest men.
Never saw I such fiery will, and resolute endurance, in one so young and
feeble."

"Strange!" muttered Paullus—"strange! why came he not to me?"

"He did go to your mansion, but found you not. You were absent on state
business—then came he to the father of this demon, who sent us in pursuit,
and we have, as I tell you, succeeded. May you do so likewise! He charged
me to say to you ’there was one on her track who would die to save her.’"

"’Tis passing strange! I may not even guess who it should be," he added
musing, "the Gods give him strength. But tell me, Caius, can I, by any
speed, overtake them?"

"I fear me not, Paullus, ere they have reached the camp. They were nigh to
Volsinii at noon yesterday; of course they will not loiter on the way."

"Alas!" replied the unhappy youth, "Curses! curses! ten thousand curses on
his head!" and he glanced savagely upon Aulus as he spoke—"to what doom do
ye lead him?"

"To an indignant father’s pitiless revenge!"

"May he perish ill!—may his unburied spirit wander and wail forever upon
the banks of Acheron, unpardoned and despairing!"

And turning suddenly away, as if afraid to trust himself longer in sight
of his mortal enemy, he plunged his spurs deep into his charger’s flank,
and gallopped away in order to overtake his troop, with which he was
proceeding to join the army which Antonius the consul and Petreius his
lieutenant were collecting on the sea-coast of Etruria in order to act
against Catiline.

Meanwhile the others rode forward on their gloomy errand toward the
Fulvian House.

They reached its doors, and at the trampling of their horses’ feet, before
any summons had been given, with a brow dark as night and a cold
determined eye, the aged Senator came forth to meet his faithful clients.

At the first glance he cast upon the party, the old man saw that they had
succeeded; and a strange expression of satisfaction mixed with agony
crossed his stern face.

"It is well!" he said gravely. "Ye have preserved the honor of my house. I
give ye thanks, my friends. Well have ye done your duty! It remains only
that I do my own. Bring in your prisoner, Caius, and ye, my friends, leave
us, I pray you, to our destiny."

The young man to whom he addressed himself, leaped down from his horse
with one or two of the clients, and, unbuckling the thong which fastened
his cousin’s legs under the belly of the beast he rode, lifted him to the
ground; for in a sort of sullen spite, although unable to resist, he moved
neither hand nor foot, more than a marble statue would have done; and when
he stood on the pavement, he made no step toward the door, and it was
necessary to carry him bodily up the steps of the colonnade, and through
the vestibule into the atrium.

In that vast hall a fearful group was assembled. On a large arm chair at
the upper end sat an aged matron, perfectly blind, with hair as white as
snow, and a face furrowed with wrinkles, the work of above a century. She
was the mother of the Senator, the grandmother of the young culprit. At
her right hand stood another large chair vacant, the seat of the master of
the house; and at her left sat another lady, already far advanced in
years, yet stately, firm, and unflinching—the wretched, but proud mother.
Behind her stood three girls of various ages, the youngest not counting
above sixteen years, all beautiful, and finely made, but pale as death,
with their superb dark eyes dilated and their white lips mute with strange
horror.

Lower down the hall toward the door, and not far removed from the altar of
the household gods, near the impluvium, stood a black wooden block, with a
huge broad axe lying on it, and a grim-visaged slave leaning against the
wall with folded arms in a sort of stoical indifference—the butcher of the
family. By his trade, he little cared whether he practised it on beasts or
men; and perhaps he looked forward with some pleasurable feelings to the
dealing of a blow against one of the proud lords of Empire.

No one could look upon that mute and sad assemblage without perceiving
that some dread domestic tragedy was in process; but how dreadful no one
could conceive, who was not thoroughly acquainted with the strange and
tremendous rigor of the old Roman Law.

The face of the mother was terribly convulsed, as she heard the clanging
hoof tramps at the door; and in an agony of unendurable suspense she laid
her hand upon her heart, as if to still its wild throbbing.

Roman although she was, and trained from her childhood upward in the
strictest school of Stoicism, he, on whom they were gathered there to sit
in judgment, was still her first-born, her only son; and she could not but
remember in this hour of wo the unutterable pleasure with which she had
listened to the first small cry of him, then so innocent and weak and
gentle, who now so strong in manhood and so fierce in sin, stood living on
the verge of death.

But now as the clanging of the horse hoofs ceased, different sounds
succeeded; and in a moment the anxious ears of the wife and mother could
discern the footsteps of the proud husband, and the fallen child.

They entered the hall, old Aulus Fulvius striding with martial steps and a
resolute yet solemn brow toward the chair of judgment, like to some
warlike Flamen about to execute the wrath of the Gods upon his fated
victim; the son shuffling along, with downcast eyes and an irregular pace,
supported on one hand by his detested cousin, and on the other by an aged
freedman of the house.

The head of the younger Aulus was yet veiled with the lappet of his gown;
so that he had seen none of those who were then assembled, none of the
fatal apparatus of his fore-ordered doom.

But now, as the old man took his seat, he made a movement with his hand,
and Caius, obedient to the gesture, lifted the woollen covering from the
son’s brow, and released his hold of his arm. At a second wafture, the
nephew and the freedman both departed, glad to be spared the witnessing a
scene so awful as that which was about to ensue.

The sound of their departing footsteps fell with an icy chill on the stout
heart of the young conspirator; and although he hated the man, who had
just left the room, more than any living being, he would yet willingly
have detained him at that crisis.

He felt that even hatred was less to be apprehended than the cold hard
decision of the impassive unrelenting father, in whose heart every
sentiment was dead but those of justice and of rigorous honor.

"Aulus, lift up your eyes!"

And, for the first time since he had entered the hall, the culprit looked
up, and gazed with a wild and haggard eye on the familiar objects which
met his glance on every side; and yet, familiar as they were, all seemed
to be strange, altered, and unusual.

The statues of his dead ancestors, as they stood, grim and uncouth in
their antique sculpture, between the pillars of the wall, seemed to dilate
in size, and, become gigantic, to frown stern contempt on their degenerate
descendant. The grotesque forms of the Etruscan household Gods appeared to
gibber at him; the very flames upon the altar, before them, cast lurid
gleams and ominous to his distempered fancy.

It was singular, that the last thing which he observed was that, which
would have been the first to attract the notice of a stranger—the block,
the axe, and the sullen headsman.

A quick shudder ran through every limb and artery of his body, and he
turned white and livid. His spirit was utterly appalled and broken; his
aspect was that of a sneaking culprit, a mean craven.

"Aulus, lift up your eyes!"

And he did lift them, with a strong effort, to meet the fixed and
searching gaze of his father; but so cold, so penetrating was that gaze,
that his glance fell abashed, and he trembled from head to foot, and came
well nigh to falling on the earth in his great terror.

"Aulus, art thou afraid to die?—thou, who hast sworn so deeply to dye
thine hands in _my_ gore, in the gore of all who loved their country? Art
thou afraid to die, stabber, adulterer, poisoner, ravisher, parricide,
Catilinarian? Art thou afraid to die? I should have thought, when thou
didst put on such resolves, thou wouldst have cast aside all that is
human! Once more, I say, art thou afraid to die?"

"To die!" he exclaimed in husky tones, which seemed to stick in his
parched throat—"to die! to be nothing!"

And again the convulsive shudder ran through his whole frame.

But ere the Senator could open his lips to reply, the blind old grandam
asked, in a voice so clear and shrill that its accents seemed to pierce
the very souls of all who heard it—

"Is he a coward, Aulus Fulvius? Is he a coward, too, as well as a villain?
The first of our race, is he a coward?"

"I fear it," answered the old man gloomily. "But, cowardly or brave, he
must disgrace our house no farther. His time is come! his fate cries out
for him! Aulus must die! happy to die without the taint of public and
detected infamy—happy to die unseen in his father’s house, not in the base
and sordid Tullianum."

"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the wretched youth in a paroxysm of agony.
"Sisters, speak for me—plead for me! I am young, oh, too young to die!"

"The mother, whom thou hast sworn to murder—the sisters, whose virgin
youth thou hast agreed to yield to the licentious arms of thy foul
confederates!" answered the old man sternly; while the women, with
blanched visages, convulsed with agony, were silent, even to that appeal.

"Speak, speak! will you not speak for me, for your first-born son, my
mother?"

"Farewell!"—the cold word came forth from her pallid lips, with a mighty
effort—"Farewell, unhappy!" And, unable to endure the dreadful scene any
longer, she arose from her seat, and laid her hand on the blind woman’s
arm. "Come," she said, "mother of my lord! our task is ended! his doom
spoken! Let us go hence!"

But the youngest sister, overcoming her fear of the stern father, her
modesty of youth, and her sense of high-strained honor, cast herself at
the old man’s feet, and clung about his knees, crying with a shrill
painful cry—

"Oh, father! by your right hand! by your gray head! by all the Gods! I
implore you, pardon, spare him!"

"Up! up! base girl!" cried the old man; "wouldst have the infamy of our
house made public? and thou, most miserable boy, spare her, thou, this
disgrace, and me this anguish—veil thy head! bow thee to the block! bid
the slave do his office! At least, Aulus, if thou hast not lived, at least
die, a Roman!"

The second of the girls, while her sister had made that fruitless appeal
to the father’s mercy, walked steadily to her brother, kissed his brow
with a tearless eye, and in a low voice bade him "Farewell for ever!" then
turned away, impassive as her father, and followed her mother and the
blind grandam from the fatal hall.

But the third daughter stepped up to the faltering youth with a hectic
flush on her cheek, and a fitful fire in her eye, and whispered in his
ear,

"Aulus, my brother! unhappy one, it is vain! Thou _must_ die, for our
house’s honor! Die, then, my brother, as it becomes a Fulvius, bravely,
and by a free hand! Which of our house perished ever by a base weapon, or
a slavish blow? Thou wert brave ever,—be brave now, oh! my brother!"

And at her words, his courage, his pride, rallied to his aid; and he met
her eye with a flashing glance, and answered in a firm tone, "I _will_,
sister, I will die as becomes a Roman, as becomes a Fulvius! But how shall
I die by a free hand, bound as I am, and weaponless?"

"Thus, brother," she replied, drawing a short keen knife from the bosom of
her linen stola; and severing the bonds which confined his elbows, she
placed it in his hands. "It is keen! it will not fail you! it is the last
gift of the last who loves you, Aulus!"

"The best gift! Farewell, sister!"

"Farewell, Aulus, for ever!" And she too kissed him on the brow; and as
she kissed him, a hot tear fell upon his cheek. Then, turning toward her
sister who was still clinging to the old man’s knees, embarrassing him
with useless prayers, so that he had observed none of that by-play, she
said to her firmly,

"Come, little girl, come! It is fruitless! Bid him farewell! he is
prepared to die! he cannot survive his honor!"

And she drew her away, screaming and struggling, with eyes deluged in
tears, from the apartment wherein the Senator now stood face to face with
his first born, the slave alone present as a witness of the last struggle.

But Aulus had by this time recovered all the courage of his race, all his
own natural audacity; and waving his hand with a proud gesture toward the
slave, he exclaimed in tones of severe authority:

"Dismiss that wretched slave, Aulus Fulvius. Ready I am to die—nay! I wish
not to live! But it becomes not _thee_ to doom me to such a death, nor
_me_ so to die! Noble I am, and free; and by a free hand will I die, and a
noble weapon!"

There was so much command, so much high pride, and spirit, in his tone,
his expression, and his gesture, that an answering chord was struck in the
mind of the old man; so that without reply, and without evincing any
surprise at seeing the youth’s arms unbound, he waved a signal to the
slave to depart from the atrium.

Then the youth knelt down on one knee before the altar, and cried aloud in
a solemn voice—

"Pardon me, ye Gods of our house, for this dishonor which I have brought
upon you; absolve me, ye grand ancestors; mine eyes are open now, and I
perceive the sin, the shame, the sorrow of my deeds! Absolve me, ye great
Gods, and ye glorious men; and thou, my father, think sometimes of the
son, whom it repented of his guilt, but whom it pained not"—he raised his
arm aloft, and the bright knife-blade glittered in the rays of the
altar-fire, when the old Senator sprang forward, with all his features
working strangely, and cried "Hold!"

It might be that he had relented; but if it were so, it was too late; for,
finishing his interrupted sentence with these words—

—"to die for his house’s honor!"—

the young man struck himself one quick blow on the breast, with a hand so
sure and steady, that the knife pierced through his ribs as if they had
been paper, and clove his heart asunder, standing fixed hilt-deep in his
chest; while, without word, or groan, or sigh or struggle, he dropped flat
on his back beside the _impluvium_, and was dead in less time than it has
taken to describe the deed.

The father looked on for a moment calmly; and then said in a cool hard
voice, "It is well! it is well! The Gods be thanked! he died as a Roman
should!"

Then he composed his limbs, and threw a white cloth which lay nigh the
block, over the face and body of the wretched youth.

But, as he turned to leave the atrium, nature was too strong for his
philosophy, for his pride; and crying out, "My son! my son! He was yet
mine own son! mine own Aulus!" and burying his face in his toga, he burst
into a paroxysm of loud grief, and threw himself at length on the dead
body: father and son victims alike to the inexorable Roman honor!





CHAPTER XIII.


THE DOOM.


      Without debatement further, more or less,
      He should the bearers put to sudden death,
      Not striving time allowed.
                  HAMLET.

The nones(11) of November were perilous indeed to Rome.

The conspirators, arrested two days previously, and fully convicted on the
evidence of the Gaulish ambassadors, of Titus Volturcius of Crotona, and
of Lucius Tarquinius,—convicted on the evidence of their own letters—and
lastly convicted by their own admissions, were yet uncondemned and in free
custody, as it was termed; under the charge of certain senators and
magistrates, whose zeal for the republic was undoubted.

There was still in the city a considerable mass of men, turbulent,
disaffected, ripe for tumult—there was still in the Senate a large party,
not indeed favorable to the plot, but far from being unfavorable to the
plotters,—Catiline was at the head of a power which had increased already
to nearly the force of two legions, and was in full march upon Rome.

Should the least check of the armies sent against him occur under such
circumstances, there was but little doubt that an eruption of the
Gladiators, and a servile insurrection, would liberate the traitors, and
perhaps even crown their frantic rashness with success.

Such was the state of things, on the morning of the nones; and the brow of
the great Consul was dark, and his heart heavy, as he entered the Senate,
convened on this occasion in the temple of Jupiter Stator, in order to
take the voice of that body on the fate of Lentulus and the rest.

But scarcely had he taken his seat, before a messenger was introduced,
breathless and pale, the herald of present insurrection.

The freedmen and clients of Lentulus were in arms; the gladiators and the
slaves of Cethegus were up already, and hurrying through the streets
toward the house of Quintus Cornificius, wherein their master was
confined.

Many slaves of other houses, and no small number of disaffected citizens
had joined them; and the watches were well nigh overpowered.

Ere long the roar of the mob might be heard even within those hallowed
precincts, booming up from the narrow streets about the Forum, like the
distant sound of a heavy surf.

Another, and another messenger followed the first in quick succession—one
manipule of soldiers had been overpowered, and driven into some houses
where they defended themselves, though hard set, with their missiles—the
multitude was thundering at the gates of the City Prisons; and, if not
quelled immediately, would shortly swell their numbers by the accession of
all the desperate criminals, convicted slaves, and reckless debtors, who
were crowded together in those abodes of guilt and wretchedness.

Then was it seen, when the howls of the rabble were echoing through the
arches of the sanctuary wherein they sate; when massacre and conflagration
were imminent, and close at hand; then was it seen, how much of real
majesty and power resided still in the Roman Senate.

Firm, as when Hannibal was thundering at their gates, solemn as when the
Gaul was ravaging their city, they sat, and debated, grave, fearless, and
unmoved.

Orders were issued to concentrate forces upon the spot where the tumult
was raging; the knights, who were collected under arms, in the whole force
of their order, without the gates of the Temple as a guard to the Senate,
were informed that the Fathers were sufficiently defended by their own
sanctity; and were requested to march down upon the forum, and disperse
the rioters.

The heavy tramp of their solid march instantly succeeded the transmission
of the order; and, in a short time after, the deep swell of their charging
shout rose high above the discordant clamors of the mob, from the hollow
of the Velabrum.

Still, not a Senator left his seat, or changed countenance; although it
might be seen, by the fiery glances and clinched hands of some among the
younger nobles, that they would have gladly joined the knights, in
charging their hereditary enemies, the Democratic rabble.

The question which was then debating was of more weight, however, than any
triumph over the mob; for by the decision of that question it was to be
determined whether the traitors and the treason should be crushed
simultaneously and forever, or whether Rome itself should be abandoned to
the pleasure of the rebels.

That question was the life or death of Lentulus, Cethegus, Gabinius,
Statilius, and Cæparius; all of whom were in separate custody, the last
having been brought in on the previous evening, arrested on his way to the
camp of Catiline and Manlius.

Should the Senate decree their death, the commonwealth might be deemed
safe—should it absolve them, by that weakness, the republic must be lost.

And on the turn of a die did that question seem to hang.

Decius Junius Silanus, whose opinion was first asked, spoke briefly, but
strenuously and to the point, and as became the Consul elect, soon to be
the first magistrate of that great empire. He declared for the capital
punishment of all those named above, and of four others, Lucius Cassius,
Publius Furius, Publius Umbrenus, and Quintus Annius, if they should be
thereafter apprehended.

Several others of the high Patrician family followed on the same side; and
no one had as yet ventured openly to urge the impunity of the parricides,
although Tiberius Nero had recommended a delay in taking the question, and
the casting of the prisoners meanwhile into actual incarceration under the
safeguard of a military force.

But it had now come to the turn of Caius Julius Cæsar, the great leader
then of the Democratic faction, the great captain that was to be in after
days, and the first Emperor of subjugated Rome.

An orator second, if second, to Cicero alone, ardent, impassioned, yet
bland, clement, easy; liberal both of hand and council; averse to Cicero
from personal pique, as well as from party opposition; an eager candidate
for popular applause and favor, it was most natural that he should take
side with the conspirators.

Still, his name having been coupled obscurely with their infamous designs,
although Cicero had positively refused to suffer his accusation or
impeachment, it required so much boldness, so much audacity indeed, to
enable him to stand forward as their open champion, that many men
disbelieved that he would venture on a step so hazardous.

The greatest possible anxiety was manifested, therefore, in the house,
when that distinguished Senator arose, and began in low, deep, harmonious
tones, and words which rolled forth like a gentle river in an easy and
silvery flow.

"It were well," he said, "Conscript Fathers, that all men who debate on
dubious matters, should be unbiassed in opinion by hate or friendship,
clemency or anger. When passions intervene, the mind can rarely perceive
truth; nor hath at one time any man obeyed his interests and his
pleasures. The intellect there prevails, where most it is exerted. If
passion governs it, passion hath the sole sway; reason is powerless. It
were an easy task for me, Conscript Fathers, to quote instances in which
kings and nations, impelled by enmity or pity, have taken unadvised and
evil counsels; but I prefer to cite those, wherein our ancestors, defying
the influence of passion, have acted well and wisely. During the
Macedonian war which we waged against King Perseus, the state of Rhodes,
splendid then and stately, which had been built up by the aid and opulence
of Rome, proved faithless to us, and a foe. Yet, when, the war being
ended, debate was had concerning her, our fathers suffered her citizens to
go unpunished, in order that no men might infer that Rome had gone to war
for greed, and not for just resentment. Again, in all the Punic wars,
although the Carthaginians repeatedly committed outrages against them, in
violation both of truce and treaties, never once did they follow that
example, considering rather what should seem worthy of themselves, than
what might be inflicted justly on their foes.

"This same consideration you should now take, Conscript Fathers; having
care that the crimes of Publius Lentulus and his fellows weigh not upon
your minds with greater potency, than your own dignity and honor; and that
ye obey not rather the dictates of resentment, than the teachings of your
old renown. For if a punishment worthy their crimes can be discovered, I
approve of it, of how new precedent soever; but if the enormity of their
guilt overtop the invention of all men, then, I shall vote that we abide
by the customs, prescribed by our laws and institutions.

"Many of those who have already spoken, have dilated in glowing and set
phrases on the perils which have menaced the republic. They have descanted
on the horrors of warfare, on the woes which befall the vanquished. The
rape of virgins; the tearing of children from parental arms; the
ransacking of human homes and divine temples; the subjecting of matrons to
the brutal will of the conquerors; havoc and conflagration, and all places
filled with arms and corpses, with massacre and misery—But, in the name of
the immortal Gods! to what do such orations tend? Do they aim at inflaming
your wrath against this conspiracy? Vain, vain were such intent; for is it
probable that words will inflame the mind of any one, if such and so
atrocious facts have failed to inflame it? That is indeed impossible! Nor
hath any man, at any period, esteemed his own injuries too lightly. Most
persons, on the contrary, hold them more heavy than they are. But
consequences fall not equally on all men, Conscript Fathers. They who in
lowly places pass their lives in obscurity, escape the censure of the
world, if they err on occasion under the influences of passion. Their
fortunes and their fame are equal. They who, endowed with high commands,
live in exalted stations, perform every action of their lives in the full
gaze of all men. Thus to the greatest fortunes, the smallest licence is
conceded. The great man must in no case consult his affections, or his
anger. Least of all, must he yield to passion. That which is styled wrath
in the lowly-born, becomes tyranny and cruel pride in the high and noble.

"I indeed think, with those who have preceded me, that every torture is
too small for their atrocity and crime. But it is human nature’s trick to
remember always that which occurs the last in order. Forgetful of the
criminal’s guilt, the world dwells ever on the horror of his punishment,
if it lean never so little to the side of severity. Well sure am I, that
the speech of Decius Silanus, a brave and energetic man, was dictated by
his love for the republic—that in a cause so weighty he is moved neither
by favor nor resentment. Yet his vote to my eyes appears, I say not cruel
—for what could be cruel, inflicted on such men?—but foreign to the sense
of our institutions. Now it is clear, Silanus, that either fear of future
peril, or indignation at past wrong, impelled you to vote for an
unprecedented penalty! Of fear it is needless to speak farther; when
through the active energy of that most eminent man, our consul, such
forces are assembled under arms! concerning the punishment of these men we
must speak, however, as the circumstances of the case require. We must
admit that in agony and wo death is no penalty, but rather the repose from
sorrow. Death alone is the refuge from every mortal suffering—in death
alone there is no place for joy or grief. But if this be not so,
wherefore, in the name of the Gods! have ye not added also to your
sentence, that they be scourged before their execution? Is it, that the
Porcian law forbids? That cannot be—since other laws as strenuously
prohibit the infliction of capital punishment on condemned citizens,
enjoining that they be suffered to go into exile. Is it, then, that to be
scourged is more severe and cruel than to be slain? Not so—for what can be
too severe or too cruel for men convicted of such crime. If on the other
hand it be less severe, how is it fitting to obey that law in the lesser,
which you set at naught in the greater article? But, you will ask me
perchance, who will find fault with any punishment inflicted upon the
parricides of the republic? Time—future days—fortune, whose caprice
governs nations! True, these men merit all that can befall them; but do
ye, Conscript Fathers, pause on the precedent which you establish against
others? Never did bad example arise but from a good precedent—only when
the reins of empire have fallen from wise hands into ignorant or wicked
guidance, that good example is perverted from grand and worthy to base and
unworthy ends. The men of Lacedemon, when they had conquered Athens, set
thirty tyrants at the helm who should control the commonwealth. They at
the first began to take off the guiltiest individuals, wretches hated by
all, without form of trial. Thereat the people were rejoiced, and cried
out that their deaths were just and merited. Ere long, when license had
gained ground, they slew alike the virtuous and the guilty, and governed
all by terror. Thus did that state, oppressed by slavery, rue bitterly its
insane mirth. Within our memory, when victorious Sylla commanded
Damasippus and his crew, who had grown up a blight to the republic, to be
put to the sword’s edge, who did not praise the deed? Who did not exclaim
earnestly that men, factious and infamous, who had torn the republic by
their tumults, were slain justly? And yet that deed was the commencement
of great havoc. For, when one envied the city mansion or the country farm,
nay, but the plate or garment of another, he strove with all his energy to
have him on the lists of the proscription. Therefore, they who exulted at
the death of Damasippus were themselves, ere long, dragged to execution;
nor was there an end put to the massacre, until Sylla had satiated all his
men with plunder. These things, indeed, I fear not under Marcus Tullius,
nor at this day; but in a mighty state there are many and diverse
dispositions. It may be at another time, under another consul, who shall
perhaps hold an army at his back, that the wrong shall be taken for the
right. If it be so when—on this precedent, by this decree, of this
Senate—that consul shall have drawn the sword, who will compel him to put
it back into the scabbard, who moderate his execution? Our ancestors, O
Conscript Fathers, never lacked either wisdom in design, or energy in
action; nor did their pride restrain them from copying those institutions
of their neighbors, which they deemed good and wise. Their arms offensive
and defensive they imitated from the Samnites—most of the ensigns of their
magistracies they borrowed of the Tuscans. In a word, whatsoever they
observed good and fitting, among their allies or their foes, they followed
up with the greatest zeal at home. They chose to imitate, rather than
envy, what was good. But in those days, after the fashion of the Greeks,
they punished citizens with stripes; they took the lives of condemned
criminals. As the republic grew in size, and party strife arose among its
multitudinous citizens, innocent persons were taken off under the pretext
of the law, and many wrongful deeds were committed with impunity. Then was
the Porcian Law enacted, with others of like tenor, permitting convicts to
depart into exile. This I esteem, O Conscript Fathers, the first great
cause wherefore this novel penalty be not established as a precedent. The
wisdom and the valor of our ancestors who from a small beginning created
this vast empire, were greater far than we, who scarcely can retain what
they won so nobly. Would I have, therefore, you will ask, these men
suffered to go at large, and so to augment the hosts of Catiline? Far from
it. But I shall vote thus, that their property be confiscated, and they
themselves detained in perpetual fetters, in those municipalities of Italy
which are the wealthiest and the strongest. That the Senate never again
consider their case, or bring their cause before the people—and that
whosoever shall speak for them, be pronounced, of the Senate, an enemy to
his country, and to the common good of all men."

This specious and artful oration, in which, while affecting to condemn
what he dared not defend openly, he had more than insinuated a doubt of
the legality of sentencing the traitors, was listened to by all present,
with deep attention; and by the secret partizans of the conspiracy with
joy and exultation. So sure did they esteem it that, in the teeth of this
insidious argument, the Senate would not venture to inflict capital
punishment on their friends, that they evinced their approbation by loud
cheers; while many of the patrician party were shaken in their previous
convictions; and many of those who perceived the fallacy of his
sophistical reasoning, and detected his latent determination to screen the
parricides of the state, felt the hazard and difficulty of proceeding as
the exigencies of the case required.

Cicero’s brow grew dark; as Silanus avowed openly that he had altered his
opinion, and should vote for the motion of Tiberius Nero, to defer
judgment.

Then Cicero himself arose, and in the noblest perhaps of all his orations,
exerted himself strenuously to controvert the arguments and abolish the
evil influence of the noble demagogue.

He did not, indeed, openly urge the death of the traitors; but he dwelt
with tremendous force on the atrocious nature of the crimes, and on the
consequence of their success. He showed the fallacy of Cæsar’s
insinuation, that death was a less severe enactment than perpetual
imprisonment. He pointed out the impossibility and injustice of compelling
the municipalities to take charge of the prisoners—the insecurity of those
towns, as places of detention—the almost entire certainty, that the men
would ere long be released, either by some popular tumult, or some party
measure; and he concluded with a forcible and earnest peroration,
appealing to the Senators, by their love of life, of their families, of
their country, to take counsel worthily of themselves, and of their common
mother; entreating them to decree firmly, and promising that he would
execute their sentence, be it what it might, fearlessly.

As he sat down, the order was agitated like a sea in the tumultuous calm,
which succeeds to the wrath and riot created by a succession of gales
blowing from different quarters. Murmurs of approbation and encouragement
were mixed with groans and loud evidences of displeasure.

The passions of the great concourse were aroused thoroughly, and the
debate waxed wild and stormy.

Senator arose after Senator, advocating some the death, some the
banishment, and some, emboldened by Cæsar’s remarks, even proposing the
enlargement of the conspirators.

At length, when all arguments appeared to be exhausted, and no hope left
of anything like an unanimous decision being adopted, Marcus Portius Cato
arose from his seat, stern, grave, composed, and awful from the severe
integrity of his grand character.

The turbulent assembly was calm in a moment. All eyes were fixed on the
harsh features of the stoic; all ears hung rivetted in expectation, on his
deep guttural intonations, and short vigorous sentences. It was evident,
almost ere he began to speak, that his opinion would sway the votes of the
order.

"My mind is greatly different," he said, "Conscript Fathers, when I
consider the perils of our case, and recall to my memory the speeches of
some whom I have heard to-day. Those Senators, it seems to me, have
descanted on the punishment of the men who have levied war against their
country and their parents, against their healths and their altars. But the
facts of the case require not punishment of their crimes, but defence from
their assaults.—Other crimes you may punish after their commission—unless
you prevent this from being done, when it is done, vainly shall ye ask for
judgment. The city stormed, nothing remains to the vanquished. Now, in the
name of the immortal Gods! I call upon you, _you_, who have always set
more store on your mansions, your farms, your statues and your pictures,
than on the interests of the state, if you desire to retain these things,
be they what they may, to which you cling so lovingly, if you desire to
give yourselves leisure for your luxuries, arouse yourselves, now or
never, and take up the commonwealth! It is no question now of taxes! No
question of plundering our allies! The lives, the liberties of every one
of us, are hanging on your doubtful decision. Oftentimes, Conscript
Fathers, have I spoken at length in this assembly. Oftentimes have I
inveighed against the luxury and avarice of our citizens, and, therefore,
have I many men my enemies. I, who have never pardoned my own soul even
for any trivial error, could not readily excuse in others the lusts which
result in open criminality. But, although you neglected those crimes as
matters of small moment, still the republic, by its stability and
opulence, sustained the weight cast on it by your negligence. Now,
however, we ask not whether we shall live, corrupt or virtuous; we ask not
how we shall render Rome most great, and most magnificent; we ask
this—whether we ourselves, and with ourselves all that we possess
whatsoever, shall be yielded up to the enemy? Who here will speak to me of
clemency and pity? Long, long ago have we cast away the true names of
things; for now to be lavish of the goods of others is termed liberality;
audacity in guilt is denominated valor. Into such extremity has the
republic fallen. Let Senators, therefore, since such are their habitudes
and morals, be liberal of the fortunes of our allies, be merciful to the
pilferers of the treasury; but let them not be lavish in bestowing our
blood upon them! Let them not, in pity for a few scoundrels, send all good
citizens to perdition. Caius Cæsar spoke a while since, eloquently and in
set terms, in this house, concerning life and death; esteeming those
things false, I presume, which are believed by most men of a future state
that the wicked, I mean, journey on a different road from the righteous,
and inhabit places aloof from them, dark, horrid, waste, and fearful.

"He hath declared his intent, therefore, to vote for the confiscation of
their property; and the detention of themselves in the borough towns in
close custody. Fearing, forsooth, that if they be kept in Rome, they may
be rescued forcibly, either by the confederates in their plot, or by a
hireling rabble. Just as if there were only rogues and villains in this
city, and none throughout all Italy.—Just as if audacity cannot effect the
greatest things there, where the means of defence are the smallest.
Wherefore his plan is absurd, if he fear peril from these men. And if he
alone, in the midst of consternation so general, do not fear, the more
need is there that you and I do fear them. Wherefore, when you vote on the
fate of Publius Lentulus and the rest, hold this assured, that you are
voting also on the fate of Catiline’s army, on the fate of the whole
conspiracy. With the more energy you act, the more will their courage fail
them. If they shall see you falter but a little, all at once they will
fall on fiercely. Be far from believing that our ancestors raised this
republic from a small state to a great empire, by dint of arms alone. Had
it been so, much greater should we have rendered it, who have much greater
force than they, of citizens and of allies, of arms and of horses. But
there were other things which made them great, which we lack altogether.
At home, industry, abroad justice! A mind free to take counsel, unbiassed
by crime or passion. Instead of these things we possess luxury and
avarice. Public need, private opulence. We praise wealth, and practice
indolence. Between righteous and guilty we make no distinction. Ambition
gains all the rewards of virtue. Nor is this strange, when separately
every one of you takes counsel for himself alone. When at home, you are
slaves to pleasure; here in the Senate house, to bribery or favor. Thence
it arises that a general charge is made from all quarters against the
helpless commonwealth.

"But this I will pass over.

"The noblest of our citizens have conspired to put the torch to the
republic. They have called to their aid, in open war, the Gallic nation
most hostile to the name of Roman. The chief of your enemy is thundering
above your very heads; and are you hesitating even now what you shall do
with enemies taken within your very walls?—Oh! you had better pity them, I
think—the poor young men have only erred a little, misled by ambition—you
had better send them away in arms! I swear that, should they once take
those arms, that clemency and mercifulness of yours will be changed into
wo and wailing. Forsooth, it is a desperate crisis; and yet you fear it
not. Yea, by the Gods! but you do fear it vehemently. Yet, in your
indolence and feebleness of mind, waiting the one upon the other, you
hesitate, relying, I presume, on the protection of the Immortals, who have
so many times preserved this republic in its greatest dangers. The aid of
the Gods is not gained by prayers or womanish supplication. To those who
watch, who act, who take counsel, wisely, all things turn out successful.
Yield yourselves up to idleness and sloth, and in vain you shall implore
the Gods—they are irate and hostile.

"In the time of our forefathers, Titus Manlius Torquatus during the Gallic
war commanded his own son to be slain, because he had fought against
orders; and that illustrious youth suffered the penalty of his immoderate
valor.—Do ye know this, and delay what ye shall decide against the
cruellest parricides? Is it forsooth that the lives of these men are in
their character repugnant to this guilt.—Oh! spare the dignity of
Lentulus, if he have ever spared his own modesty, his own good report; if
he have ever spared any man or any God! Oh! pardon the youth of Cethegus,
if this be not the second time that he has waged war on his country. For
wherefore should I speak of Gabinius, Statilius or Cæparius?—who if they
ever felt any care for the republic, would never have taken these
councils. To conclude, Conscript Fathers, if there were any space for a
mistake, I would leave you right willingly, by Hercules, to be corrected
by facts, since you will not be warned by words! But we are hemmed in on
all sides. Catiline with his army is at our very throats—others of our
foes are within our walls in the bosom of the state. Nothing can be
prepared, nor any counsel taken, so privately but they must know
it.—Wherefore I shall vote thus, seeing that the republic is plunged into
most fearful peril by the guilty plot of atrocious citizens, seeing that
these men are convicted on the evidence of Titus Volturcius, and of the
ambassadors of the Allobroges, and seeing that they have confessed the
intent of murder, conflagration, and other foul and barbarous crimes,
against their fellow citizens and native country—I shall vote, I say, that
execution, according to the custom of our ancestors, be done upon them
having thus confessed, as upon men manifestly convicted of capital
treason."

The stern voice ceased. The bitter irony, which had stung so many souls to
the quick, the cutting sarcasm, which had demolished Cæsar’s sophistry,
the clear reasoning, which had so manifestly found the heart of the
mystery, were silent. And, folding his narrow toga closely about him, the
severe patriot resumed his seat, he alone unexcited and impassive.

But his words had done their work. The guilty were smitten into silence;
even the daring eloquence and high heart of the ambitious Cæsar, were
subdued and mute.—The friends of their country were encouraged to shake
off their apathy.

With one voice, unanimous, the consulars of Rome cried out for the
question, applauding loudly the energy and fearlessness of Cato, and
accusing one another of timidity and weakness.

A great majority of the Senate, likewise, exclaimed aloud that they
required no more words, but were prepared to vote.

And convinced that the time had arrived for striking, Cicero put it to the
vote, according to the regular form, requiring those who thought with
Marcus Porcius Cato, to pass over to the right of the curule chair.

The question was not in doubt a moment; for above three-fourths of the
whole body arose, as a single man, and passed over to the right of the
chair, and gathered about the seat of Cato; while very few joined
themselves openly to Julius Cæsar, who sat, somewhat crest-fallen and
scarcely able to conceal his disappointment, immediately on the left of
the consul.

Rallying, however, before the vote of the Senate had been taken, the
factious noble sprang to his feet and loudly called upon the tribunes in
general, and upon Lucius Bestia, in particular, a private friend of
Catiline, and understood by all to be one of the conspirators, to
interpose their VETO.

That was too much, however, even for tribunician daring. No answer was
made from the benches of the popular magistrates, for once awed into
patriotic silence.

But a low sneering laugh ran through the crowded ranks of the Patricians,
and the vote was taken, now nearly unanimous; for many men disgusted by
that last step, who had believed the measure to be unconstitutional,
passed across openly from Cæsar’s side to that of Cato.

A decree of the Senate was framed forthwith, and committed to writing by
the persons appointed, in presence of Marcus Porcius Cato and Decius
Julius Silanus, as authorities or witnesses of the act, empowering the
consul to see execution done upon the guilty, where and when it should to
him seem fitting.

Thus was it that Cicero and Cato for a while saved the commonwealth, and
checked the future Dictator in his first efforts to subvert the liberties
of Rome, happy for him and for his country if it had been his last.





CHAPTER XIV.


THE TULLIANUM.


        To be, or not be, that is the question.
                  HAMLET.

Night was at hand.

The Roman Senate might not sit after the sun had set.

Although the Tribunes had failed, in the consternation of the moment, to
respond to the call of Cæsar, there was no doubt, that, if one night
should intervene, those miscalled magistrates would check the course of
justice.

Confined, apart one from the other, in free custody, the traitors had not
failed to learn all that was passing, almost ere it passed.

Their hopes had been high, when the rabble were alert and thundering at
the prison gates—nor when the charge of the knights had beaten back the
multitude, did they despair; for simultaneously with those evil tidings,
they learned the effect of Cæsar’s speech; and shortly afterward the news
reached them that Cicero’s reply had found few willing auditors.

Confined, apart one from the other, they had eaten and drunken, and their
hearts were "jocund and sublime"; the eloquence of Cæsar, the turbulence
of the tribunes, were their predominant ideas. Confined, apart one from
the other, one thought was common to them all,—immediate liberation,
speedy vengeance.

And, in truth, immediate was the liberation; speedy the vengeance.

Night was at hand.

The Triumvirs, whose duty it was to superintend all capital punishments—a
thing almost unknown in Rome—had been instructed to prepare whatever
should be needful.

Lentulus sat alone in an inner chamber of the house of Publius Lentulus
Spintherus, an Ædile at that time. There was, it is true, a guard at the
door, and clients under arms in the atrium; but in his own apartment the
proud conspirator was still master of himself indeed, soon to be master of
Rome, in his own frantic fantasy.

Bright lights were burning in bronze candelabra; rich wines were before
him; his own favorite freedman leaned on the back of his ivory arm chair,
and jested lightly on the discomfiture of _noble_ Cicero, on the sure
triumph of _democratic_ Cæsar.

"Fill up the glass again, my Phormio," cried the exhilarated parricide;
"this namesake of my own hath good wine, at the least—we may not taste it
again shortly—fill up, I say; and do not spare to brim your own. What if
our boys were beaten in the streets to-day. Brave Cæsar was not beaten in
the Senate."

"By Hercules! no!" cried the wily Greek, base inheritor of a superb
name—"and if he had been checked, there are the tribunes."

"But he was _not_ checked, Phormio?" asked the conspirator in evident
anxiety.

"By your head, no! You shall yet be the THIRD CORNELIUS!"—

"WHO SHALL RULE ROME!"—

The door of the small room was suddenly thrown open, and the tall form of
Cicero stood in the shadow of the entrance. The gleam of the lamps fell
full on his white robes, and glittered on his ivory sceptre; but behind
him it showed the grim dark features of the Capital Triumvirs, and
flickered on the axe-heads of the lictors.

The glass fell from the hand of Lentulus, the wine untasted; and so deep
was the silence of that awful moment, that the gurgling of the liquor as
it trickled from the shattered fragments of the crystal goblet, was
distinctly audible.

There was a silent pause—no word, no motion followed the entrance of the
Consul. Face to face, he stood with the deadliest of his foes, Catiline
absent. Face to face, he stood with his overthrown and subdued enemy. And
yet on his broad tranquil brow there was no frown of hatred; on his calm
lip there there was no curl of gratified resentment, of high triumph.

Raising his hand, with a slow but very solemn gesture, he uttered in his
deep harmonious accents, accents which at that moment spoke in almost an
unnatural cadence, this one word—

"Come."

And calm, and proud, as the Consul, the degraded Senator, the fallen
Consul replied, with a question,

"To death, Consul?"

"Come!"

"Give me my toga, Phormio."

And robing himself, with an air as quiet and an expression as unconcerned
as if he had been setting forth to a banquet, the proud Epicurean gazed
with a calmer eye upon the Consul, than that good man could fix upon his
victim.

"This signet to Sempronia—that sword to—no! no!—this purse to thyself,
Phormio! Consul, precede. I follow."

And the step of the convicted Traitor, as he descended from the portico of
that mansion, for the last time, was firmer, statelier, prouder, than that
of his conductor.

The streets were thronged—the windows crowded—the housetops heaped—with
glaring mute spectators.

Some twenty knights, no more, unarmed, with the exception of their swords,
composed the Consul’s escort. Lentulus knew them, man by man, had drunk
with them, played with them, lent money to them, borrowed of them.

He looked upon them.

They were the handful leading him to death! What made them break the ties
which bound them to their brother noble? What made them forget mutual
pleasures enjoyed, mutual perils incurred, mutual benefits accepted?

They were the nobles, true to their order.

He looked upon the thronged streets—upon the crowded windows—upon the
heaped housetops, he saw myriads, myriads who had fed on his bounty,
encouraged his infamy, hoped from his atrocity, urged him to his crime,
myriads who now frowned upon him—cursed him—howled at him—or—more
cowardly—were silent. Myriads, who might have saved him, and did not.

Wherefore?

They were the people, false to their leader.

He looked from the handful to the myriad—and shook himself, as a lion in
his wrath; and stamped the dust from his sandals.

Cicero saw the movement, and read its meaning. He met the glance, not
humiliated, but prouder for the mob’s reprobation; and said, what he would
not have said had the glance been conscious—

"Thou seest!—Hearest!"

"The voice of the People!" answered the traitor with a bitter sneer.

"The voice of God!" replied the Consul, looking upward.

"That voice of God shall shout for joy at thy head on the rostrum! Such is
the fate of all who would serve the people!"

The eloquent tongue, stabbed with the harlot’s bodkin, the head and the
hand, nailed on the beaked column in after days, showed which best knew
the people, their savior, or their parricide.

There is a place in Rome—there _is_ a place—reader, thou mayest have seen
it—on the right hand as thou goest up the steps of the Asylum ascending
from the forum to the capitol.

"There _is_ a place," wrote Sallust, some nineteen hundred years
ago—"There _is_ a place, within the prison, which is called Tullianum,
after you have ascended a little way to the left, about twelve feet
underground. It is built strongly with walls on every side, and arched
above with a stone vaulting. But its aspect is foul and terrible from
neglect, darkness, and stench."

It is there _now_—thou mayest have seen it, reader. Men call it the
Mamertine Prison. It was then called Tullianum, because it was so antique
at that time, that vague tradition only told of its origin long centuries
before, built by the fabulous King Tullius.

The Tullianum—The Mamertine Prison.

The _bath_, which Jugurtha found very cold, when the earrings had been
torn from his bleeding ears, and, stript of his last vestment, he was let
down to die by the hangman’s noose.

The prison, in which, scarce one century later, Saint Paul was held in
durance, what time "Agrippa said unto Festus, This man might have been set
at liberty, had he not appealed unto _Cæsar_."

Unto _Cæsar_?

Cæsar the third Emperor, the third tyrant of the Roman people.

Lentulus _had_ appealed unto Cæsar, and was cast likewise into the
Tullianum.

The voice of the people, is the voice of God.

Whether of the twain slew Lentulus? whether of the twain set free Paul,
from the Tullianum?

In those days, there was a tall and massive structure above that sordid
and tremendous vault, on the right hand as you go up towards the capitol.

The steps of the asylum were lined on either side by legionaries in full
armor; and as the Consul walked up with his victim, side by side, each
soldier faced about, and, by a simple movement, doubling their files,
occupied the whole space of the steep ascent with a solid column; while
all the heights above, and the great capitol itself, bristled with spears,
and flashed with tawny light from the dense ranks of brazen corslets.

The Capital Triumvirs received the Consul at the door; and with his
prisoner he passed inward.

It was in perfect keeping with the Roman character, that a man, hopeless
of success, should die without an effort; and to the fullest, Lentulus
acted out that character.

Impassive and unmoved, he went to his death. He disgraced his evil life by
no cowardice in death; by no fruitless call upon the people for
assistance, by no vain cry to the nobles for mercy.

But it was the impassibility of the Epicurean, not of the Stoic, that
sustained him.

He went to die, like his brother democrats of France, with the madness of
Atheism in his heart, the mirth of Perdition on his tongue.

They two, the Convict and the Consul, ascended a little, two or three
steps, to the left, and entered a large apartment, paved, walled, and
roofed with stone; but in the centre of the floor there was a small round
aperture.

There were a dozen persons in that guard-room, four of whom were his
fellow-traitors—Gabinius, Statilius, Cæparius, and Cethegus—two prætors,
four legionaries, and two Moorish slaves composed the group, until with
the Triumvirs, and his twelve lictors, Cicero entered.

"Ha! my Cæparius!" exclaimed Lentulus, who had not seen him since the
morning of his arrest. "We have met again. But I slept my sleep out. Thou
might’st as well have slept too; for we are both met here"—

"To die! to die! Great Gods! to die!" cried Cæparius utterly overcome, and
almost fainting with despair.

"Great Gods indeed!" replied Lentulus with his accustomed half-sardonic,
half-indolent sneer. "They must be great, indeed, to let such a puppet as
that," and he pointed to Cicero, as he spoke, "do as he will with us. To
die! to die! Tush—what is that but to sleep? to sleep without the trouble
of awaking, or the annoyance of to-morrow? What sayest thou, my Cethegus?"

"That thou art a sluggard, a fool, and a coward; curses! curses! curses
upon thee!" And he made an effort to rush against his comrade, as if to
strike him; and, when the guards seized him and dragged him back, he shook
his fist at Cicero, and gnashed his teeth, and howling out, "Thou too!
thou too shalt die proscribed, and thy country’s foe!" by a sudden effort
cast off the men who held him, and crying, "Slaves and dastards, see how a
Roman noble dies," rushed, with his head down, at the solid wall, as a
buffalo rushes blindly against an elephant.

He fell as if he were dead, the blood gushing from eyes, nose, and mouth,
and lay senseless.

Lentulus thought he was killed, gazed on him for a moment tranquilly, and
then said with a quiet laugh—

"He was a fool always—a rash fool!" Then turning to Cicero, he added—"By
Hercules! this is slow work. I am exceeding hungry, and somewhat dry; and,
as I fancy I shall eat nothing more to-day, nor drink, I would fain go to
sleep."

"Would’st thou drink, Lentulus?" asked one of the Triumvirs.

"Would I not, had I wine?"

"Bring wine," said the magistrate to one of the Moorish slaves; who went
out and returned in an instant with a large brazen platter supporting
several goblets.

Lentulus seized one quickly, and swallowed it at a mouthful—there is a hot
thirst in that last excitement—but as the flavor reached his palate, when
the roughness of the harsh draught had passed away, he flung the cup down
scornfully and said,

"Finish it! Take this filthy taste from my lips! Let me rest!"

And with the words, he advanced to the Moors who stood beside the
well-like aperture, and without a word suffered them to place the rope
under his arms, and lower him into the pit.

Just as his head, however, was disappearing, he cast his eyes upward, and
met the earnest gaze of the Consul.

"The voice of the people! the man of the people!" he cried sarcastically.
"Fool! fool! _they_ shall avenge me! Think upon me near Formiæ!"

Was that spite, or a prophecy?

The eyes of the dying sometimes look far into futurity.

The haughty traitor was beyond the sight, before his words had ceased to
ring in the ears of the spectators.

There was a small low sound heard from below—not a groan, not a
struggle—but a rustle, a sob, a flutter—silence.

’So did(12) that Patrician, of the most noble house of the Cornelii, who
once held consular dominion in Rome, meet his end, merited by his course
of life, and his overt actions.’

Cethegus perished senseless, half dead by his own deed.

Cæparius died sullen; Gabinius weak and almost fainting; Statilius
struggling and howling. All by a hard and slavish death, strangled by the
base noose of a foreign hangman.

An hour afterward, their corpses were hurled down the Gemonian Stairs,
among the shouts and acclamations of the drunken slavish rabble.

An hour afterward, Cicero stood on the rostrum, near the Libonian
well—that rostrum whereon, at a later day Lentulus’ prophecy was
fulfilled—and called out, in a voice as solemn and almost as deep as
thunder,

"THEY WERE!"

And the voice of the people yelled out its joy, because they _were_ no
longer; and hailed their slayer the Savior and Father of his country.

A few years afterward, how did they not hail Anthony?





CHAPTER XV.


THE CAMP IN THE APPENNINES.


        With that he gave his able horse the head.
                  HENRY IV.

There is a wild gorge in the very summit of the Appennines, not quite
midway between Florence and Pistoia, the waters of which, shed in
different directions, flow on the one hand tributaries to the Po, and on
the other to the Arno, swelling the Adriatic, and the Mediterranean seas.

The mountains rise abruptly in bare crags, covered here and there by a low
growth of myrtle and wild olives, on either hand this gorge, quite
inaccessible to any large array of armed men, though capable of being
traversed by solitary foresters or shepherds. Below, the hills fall
downward in a succession of vast broken ridges, in places rocky and almost
perpendicular, in places swelling into rounded knolls, feathered with dark
rich forests of holm oak and chesnut.

In the highest part of this gorge, where it spreads out into a little
plain, perched like the eyry of some ravenous bird of prey, the camp of
Catiline was pitched, on the second evening after the execution of his
comrades.

Selected with rare judgment, commanding all the lower country, and the
descent on one hand into the Val d’Arno and thence to Rome, on the other
into the plain of the Po and thence into Cisalpine Gaul, the whole of
which was ripe for insurrection, that camp secured to him an advance upon
the city, should his friends prove successful, or a retreat into regions
where he could raise new levies in case of their failure.

A Roman camp was little less than a regular fortification, being formed
mostly in an oblong square, with a broad ditch and earthen ramparts
garnished by a stockade, with wooden towers at the gates, one of which
pierced each side of the intrenchment.

And to such a degree of perfection and celerity had long experience and
the most rigid discipline brought the legions, that it required an
incredibly short time to prepare such a camp for any number of men; a
thing which never was omitted to be done nightly even during the most
arduous marches and in the face of an enemy.

Catiline was too able and too old a soldier to neglect such precaution
under any circumstances; and assuredly he would not have done so now, when
the consul Antonius lay with two veteran legions within twenty miles
distance in the low country east of Florence, while Quintus Metellus
Celer, at the head of a yet larger force, was in the Picene district on
his rear, and not so far off but he might have attempted to strike a blow
at him.

His camp, capable of containing two full legions, the number of which he
had completed, all free-born men and Roman citizens, for he had refused
the slaves who flocked at first to his standard in great force, was
perfectly defended, and provided with all the usual tents and divisions;
so that every cohort, manipule, and century, nay every man, knew his own
station.

The sun had just sunk beneath the horizon and the night watches had been
set by sound of trumpets, the horsemen had been appointed for the rounds,
and an outpost of light-armed soldiers pushed forward in front of all the
gates.

There was a rosy tinge still lingering in the sky, and a few slant rays
were shot through the gaps in the mountain ridge, gilding the evergreen
foliage of the holm-oaks with bright lustre, and warming the cold grey
stones which cumbered the sides and summits of the giant hills; but all
the level country at their feet was covered with deep purple shadow.

Catiline sat alone in his _prætorium_, as the general’s pavilion was
entitled, situated on a little knoll nearly in the centre of the camp
between the tents of the tribunes, and the quarters of the extraordinary
horse.

He was completely armed, all but his head, and wore a rich scarlet cloak
above his panoply, his helmet and buckler lying upon the ground beside him
in easy reach of his hand. A pen was in his fingers, and a sheet of
parchment was stretched on the board before him; but he was not writing,
although there were several lines scrawled on it in a bold coarse hand.

His face was paler and more livid than usual, and his frame thinner,
almost indeed emaciated, yet every sinew and muscle was hard as tempered
steel.

But now there was a strange expression in his features; it was not doubt
nor hesitation, much less fear; and consisted perhaps rather in the
absence of his wonted characteristics, the unquiet and quick changes, the
passionate restlessness, the fell deadly sneer, and the blighting flash of
the dark eye, than in any token of peculiar meaning.—There was a cold and
almost vacant expression in his gaze; and an impassive calmness in all his
lineaments, that were in singular contrast with the character of the man;
and he sat, a thing most unusual for him, perfectly motionless, buried in
deep thought.

The night was very cold, and, without, a heavy hoar frost was falling; so
that a fire of charcoal had keen kindled in a bronze brazier, and as the
light of the sky died away strange lurid gleams and fantastic shadows rose
and fell, upon the walls of the large tent, rendered more fickle and
grotesque by the wavering of the canvass in the gusty night air. There was
wine with several goblets upon the board, at which he sat, with his eyes
fixed straight before him; and at his elbow there stood a tall brazen
tripod supporting a large lamp with several burners; but none of these
were lighted, and, but for the fitful glare of the charcoal, the tent
would have been completely dark.

Still he called not to any slave, nor appeared to observe the growing
obscurity, but sat gloomily pondering—on what?

Once or twice he drew his hand across his eyes, and then glared still more
fixedly upon the dark and waving shadows, as if he saw something more than
common in their uncertain outlines.

Suddenly he spoke, in a hoarse altered voice—"This is strange," he said,
"very strange! Now, were I one of these weak fools who believe in omens, I
should shake. But tush! tush! how should there be omens? for who should
send them? there must be Gods, to have omens! and that is too absurd for
credence! Gods! Gods!" he repeated half dubiously—"Yet, if there
should—ha! ha! art thou turned dotard, Catiline! There are _no_ Gods, or
why sleep their thunders? Aye! there it is again," he added, gazing on
vacancy. "By my right hand! it is very strange! three times last night,
the first time when the watch was set, and twice afterward I saw him! And
three times again tonight, since the trumpet was blown. Lentulus, with his
lips distorted, his face black and full of blood, his eyes starting from
their sockets, like a man strangled! and he beckoned me with his pale
hand! I saw him, yet so shadowy and so transparent, that I might mark the
waving of the canvass through his figure!—But tush! tush! it is but a
trick of the fancy. I am worn out with this daily marching; and the body’s
fatigue hath made the mind weak and weary. And it is dull here too, no
dice, no women, and no revelling. I will take some wine," he added,
starting up and quaffing two or three goblets’ full in quick succession,
"my blood is thin and cold, and wants warming. Ha! that is better—It is
right old Setinian too; I marvel whence Manlius had it." Then he rose from
his seat, and began to stride about the room impatiently. After a moment
or two he dashed his hand fiercely against his brow, and cried in a voice
full of anguish and perturbation, "Tidings! tidings! I would give half the
world for tidings! Curses! curses upon it! that I began this game at all,
or had not brave colleagues! It is time! can it be that their hearts have
failed them? that they have feared or delayed to strike, or have been
overthrown, detected?—Tidings, tidings! By Hades! I must have tidings!
What ho!" he exclaimed, raising his voice to a higher pitch, "Ho, I say,
ho! Chærea!"

And from an outer compartment of the tent the Greek freedman entered,
bearing a lighted lamp in his hand.

"Chærea, summon Manlius hither, and leave the lamp, have been long in the
darkness!"

"Wert sleeping, Catiline?"

"Sleeping!" exclaimed the traitor, with a savage cry, hoarse as the roar
of a wounded lion—"sleeping, thou idiot! Do men sleep on volcanoes? Do men
sleep in the crisis of their fortunes? I have not slept these six nights.
Get thee gone! summon Manlius!" and then, as the freedman left the room,
he added; "perchance I shall sleep no more until—I sleep for ever! I would
I could sleep, and not see those faces; they never troubled me till now. I
would I knew if _that_ sleep is dreamless. If it were so—perhaps, perhaps!
but no! no! By all the Furies! no! until my foot hath trodden on the neck
of Cicero."

As he spoke, Manlius entered the room, a tall dark sinister-looking
scar-seamed veteran, equipped in splendid armor, of which the helmet alone
was visible, so closely was he wrapped against the cold in a huge shaggy
watch-cloak.

As his subordinate appeared, every trace of the conflict which had been in
progress within him vanished, and his brow became as impassive, his eye as
hard and keen as its wont.

"Welcome, my Caius," he exclaimed. "Look you, we have present need of
council. The blow must be stricken before this in Rome, or must have
failed altogether. If it have been stricken, we should be nearer Rome to
profit by it—if it have failed, we must destroy Antonius’ army, before
Metellus join him. I doubt not he is marching hitherward even now.
Besides, we must, we _must_ have tidings—we _must_ know all, and all
truly!"

Then, seeing that Manlius doubted, "Look you," he continued. "Let us march
at daybreak to-morrow upon Fæsulæ, leaving Antonius in the plain on our
right. Marching along the crest of the hills, he cannot assail our flank.
We can outstrip him too, and reach Arretium ere the second sunset. He,
thinking we have surely tidings from our friends in the city, will follow
in disordered haste; and should we have bad news, doubling upon him on a
sudden we may overpower him at one blow. It is a sure scheme either
way—think’st thou not so, good friend? nay more, it is the only one."

"I think so, Sergius," he replied. "In very deed I think so. Forage too is
becoming scarce in the camp, and the baggage horses are dying. The men are
murmuring also for want of the pleasures, the carouses, and the women of
the cities. They will regain their spirits in an hour, when they shall
hear of the march upon Rome."

"I prithee, let them hear it, then, my Caius; and that presently. Give
orders to the tribunes and centurions to have the tents struck, and the
baggage loaded in the first hour of the last night-watch. We will advance
at—ha!" he exclaimed, interrupting himself suddenly, and listening with
eager attention. "There is a horse tramp crossing from the gates. By the
Gods! news from Rome! Tarry with me, until we hear it."

Within five minutes, Chærea re-entered the tent, introducing a man dressed
and armed as a light-horseman, covered with mudstains, travelworn, bending
with fatigue, and shivering with cold, the hoar-frost hanging white upon
his eyebrows and beard.

"From Rome, good fellow?" Catiline inquired quickly. "From Rome,
Catiline!" replied the other, "bearing a letter from the noble Lentulus."

"Give—give it quick!" and with the word he snatched the scroll from the
man’s hand, tore it violently open, and read aloud as follows.

"Who I may be, you will learn from the bearer. All things go bravely. The
ambassadors have lost their suit, but we have won ours. They return home
to-morrow, by the Flaminian way, one Titus of Crotona guiding them, who
shall explain to you our thoughts and hopes—but, of this doubt not,
thoughts shall be deeds, and hopes success, before this hour to-morrow."

"By all the Gods!" cried Catiline with a shout of joy, "Ere this time all
is won! Cicero, Cicero, I have triumphed, and thou, mine enemy, art
nothing;" then turning to the messenger, he asked, "When didst leave Rome,
with these joyous tidings? when sawest the noble Lentulus?"

"On the fourth(13) day before the nones, at sunset."

"And we are now in the sixth(14) before the Ides. Thou hast loitered on
the way, Sirrah."

"I was compelled to quit my road, Catiline, and to lie hid four days among
the hills to avoid a troop of horse which pursued me, seeing that I was
armed; an advanced guard, I think, of Antonius’ army."

"Thou didst well. Get thee gone, and bid them supply thy wants. Eat,
drink, and sleep—we march upon Rome at day-break to-morrow."

The man left the apartment, and looking to Manlius with a flushed cheek
and exulting aspect, Catiline exclaimed,

"Murmuring for pleasure, and for women, are they? Tell them, good friend,
they shall have all the gold of Rome for their pleasure, and all its
patrician dames for their women. Stir up their souls, my Manlius, kindle
their blood with it matters not what fire! See to it, my good comrade, I
am aweary, and will lay me down, I can sleep after these good tidings."

But it was not destined that he should sleep so soon.

He had thrown himself again into a chair, and filled himself a brimming
goblet of the rich wine, when he repeated to himself in a half musing
tone—

"Murmuring for their women? ha!—By Venus! I cannot blame the knaves. It is
dull work enough without the darlings. By Hercules! I would Aurelia were
here; or that jade Lucia! Pestilent handsome was she, and then so furious
and so fiery! By the Gods! were she here, I would bestow one caress on her
at the least, before she died, as die she shall, in torture by my hand!
Curses on her, she has thwarted, defied, foiled me! By every fiend and
Fury! ill shall she perish, were she ten times my daughter!"

Again there was a bustle without the entrance of the pavilion, and again
Chærea introduced a messenger.

It was Niger, one of the swordsmith’s men. Catiline recognized him in an
instant.

"Ha! Niger, my good lad, from Caius Crispus, ha?"—

"From Caius Crispus, praying succor, and that swift, lest it be too late."

"Succor against whom? succor where, and wherefore?"

"Against a century of Antonius’ foot. They came upon us unawares, killed
forty of our men, and drove the stout smith for shelter into a ruined
watch-tower, on the hill above the cataract, near to Usella, which happily
afforded him a shelter. They have besieged us there these two days; but
cannot storm us until our arrows fail, or they bring up engines. But our
food is finished, and our wine wakes low, and Julia"—

"Who? Julia?" shouted Catiline, scarce able to believe his ears, and
springing from his chair in rapturous agitation—"By your life! speak! what
Julia?"—

"Hortensia’s daughter, whom"—

"Enough! enough! Chærea"—he scrawled a few words on a strip of
parchment—"this to Terentius the captain of my guard. Three hundred select
horsemen to be in arms and mounted within half an hour. Let them take
torches, and a guide for Usella. Saddle the black horse Erebus. Get me
some food and a watch-cloak. Get thee away. Now tell me all, good fellow."

The man stated rapidly, but circumstantially, all that he knew of the
occurrences of Julia’s seizure, of the capture of Aulus, and of their
journey; and then, his eyes gleaming with the fierce blaze of excited
passion and triumphant hatred, Catiline cross-questioned him concerning
the unhappy girl. Had she been brought thus far safely and with
unblemished honor? Had she suffered from hunger or fatigue? Had her beauty
been impaired by privation?

And, having received satisfactory replies to all his queries, he gave
himself up to transports of exultation, such as his own most confidential
freedman never before had witnessed.

Dismissing the messenger, he strode to and fro the hut, tossing his arms
aloft and bursting into paroxysms of fierce laughter.

"Ha! ha! too much!—it is too much for one night! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Love,
hatred, passion, triumph, rage, revenge, ambition, all, all gratified! Ha!
ha! Soft, gentle Julia—proud, virtuous one that did despise me, thou shalt
writhe for it—from thy soul shalt thou bleed for it! Ha! ha! Arvina—liar!
fool! perjurer! but this will wring thee worse than Ixion’s wheel, or
whips of scorpions!—Ha! ha! Cicero! Cicero!—No! no! Chærea. There are no
Gods! no Gods who guard the innocent! no Gods who smile on virtue! no
gods! I say, no Gods! no Gods, Chærea!"—

But, as he spoke, there burst close over head an appaling crash of
thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning so vivid and pervading that
the whole tent seemed to be on fire. The terrified Greek fell to the
earth, stunned and dazzled; but the audacious and insane blasphemer,
tossing his arms and lifting his front proudly, exclaimed with his cynical
sneer, "If ye be Gods! strike! strike! I defy your vain noise! your
harmless thunder!"

For ten minutes or more, blaze succeeded blaze, and crash followed crash,
with such tremendous rapidity, that the whole heavens, nay, the whole
atmosphere, appeared incandescent with white, sulphureous, omnipresent
fire; and that the roar of the volleyed thunder was continuous and
incessant.

Still the fierce traitor blenched not. Crime and success had maddened him.
His heart was hardened, his head frenzied, to his own destruction.

But the winter storm in the mountains was as brief as it was sudden, and
tremendous; and it ceased as abruptly as it broke out unexpectedly. A
tempest of hail came pelting down, the grape-shot as it were of that
heavenly artillery, scourging the earth with furious force during ten
minutes more; and then the night was as serene and tranquil as it had been
before that elemental uproar.

As the last flash of lightning flickered faintly away, and the last
thunder roll died out in the sky, Catiline stirred the freedman with his
foot.

"Get up, thou coward fool. Did I not tell thee that there are no Gods? lo!
you now! for what should they have roused this trumpery pother, if not to
strike me? Tush, man, I say, get up!"

"Is it thou, Sergius Catiline?" asked the Greek, scarce daring to raise
his head from the ground. "Did not the bolt annihilate thee? art thou not
indeed dead?"—

"Judge if I be dead, fool, by this, and this, and this!"—

And, with each word, he kicked and trampled on the grovelling wretch with
such savage violence and fury, that he bellowed and howled for mercy, and
was scarce able to creep out of the apartment, when he ceased stamping
upon him, and ordered him to begone speedily and bring his charger.

Ere many minutes had elapsed, the traitor was on horse-back.

And issuing from the gates of his camp into the calm and starry night, he
drove, with his escort at his heels, with the impetuosity and din of a
whirlwind, waking the mountain echoes by the clang of the thundering
hoofs, and the clash of the brazen armor and steel scabbards, down the
steep defile toward Usella.





CHAPTER XVI.


THE WATCHTOWER OF USELLA.


              Our castle’s strength
                   Will laugh a siege to scorn.
                  MACBETH.

The watchtower in which Caius Crispus and his gang had taken refuge from
the legionaries, was one of those small isolated structures, many of which
had been perched in the olden time on the summits of the jutting crags, or
in the passes of the Appennines, but most of which had fallen long before
into utter ruin.

Some had been destroyed in the border wars of the innumerable petty
tribes, which, ere the Romans became masters of the peninsula, divided
among themselves that portion of Italy, and held it in continual turmoil
with their incessant wars and forays.

Some had mouldered away, by the slow hand of ruthless time; and yet more
had been pulled down for the sake of their materials, which now filled a
more useful if less glorious station, in the enclosures of tilled fields,
and the walls of rustic dwellings.

From such a fate the watchtower of Usella had been saved by several
accidents. Its natural and artificial strength had prevented its sack or
storm during the earlier period of its existence—the difficulty of
approaching it had saved its solid masonry from the cupidity of the rural
proprietors—and, yet more, its formidable situation, commanding one of the
great hill passes into Cisalpine Gaul, had induced the Roman government to
retain it in use, as a fortified post, so long as their Gallic neighbors
were half subdued only, and capable of giving them trouble by their
tumultuous incursions.

Although it had consisted, therefore, in the first instance, of little
more than a rude circular tower of that architecture called Cyclopean,
additions had been made to it by the Romans of a strong brick wall with a
parapet, enclosing a space of about a hundred feet in diameter, accessible
only by a single gateway, with a steep and narrow path leading to it, and
thoroughly commanded by the tower itself.

In front, this wall was founded on a rough craggy bank of some thirty feet
in height, rising from the main road traversing the defile, by which alone
it could be approached; for, on the right and left, the rocks had been
scarped artificially; and, in the rear, there was a natural gorge through
which a narrow but impetuous torrent raved, between precipices a hundred
feet in depth, although an arch of twenty foot span would have crossed the
ravine with ease.

Against the wall at this point, on the inner side, the Romans had
constructed a small barrack with three apartments, each of which had a
narrow window overlooking the bed of the torrent, no danger being
apprehended from that quarter.

Such was the place into which Crispus had retreated, under the guidance of
one of the Etruscan conspirators, after the attack of the Roman infantry;
and, having succeeded in reaching it by aid of their horses half an hour
before their pursuers came up, they had contrived to barricade the gateway
solidly with some felled pine trees; and had even managed to bring in with
them a yoke of oxen and a mule laden with wine, which they had seized from
the peasants in the street of the little village of Usella, as they
gallopped through it, goading their blown and weary animals to the top of
their speed.

It was singularly characteristic of the brutal pertinacity, and perhaps of
the sagacity also, of Caius Crispus, that nothing could induce him to
release the miserable Julia, who was but an incumbrance to their flight,
and a hindrance to their defence.

To all her entreaties, and promises of safety from his captors, and reward
from her friends, if he would release her, he had replied only with a
sneer; saying that he would ensure his own safety at an obolus’ fee, and
that, for his reward, he would trust noble Catiline.

"For the rest," he added, "imagine not that you shall escape, to rejoice
the heart of that slave Arvina. No! minion, no! We will fight ’till our
flesh be hacked from our bones, ere they shall make their way in hither;
and if they do so, they shall find thee—dead and dishonored! Pray,
therefore, if thou be wise, for our success."

Such might in part indeed have been his reasoning; for he was cruel and
licentious, as well as reckless and audacious; but it is probable that,
knowing himself to be in the vicinity of Catiline’s army, he calculated on
finding some method of conveying to him information of the prize that lay
within his grasp, and so of securing both rescue and reward.

If he had not, however, in the first instance thought of this, it was not
long ere it occurred to him; when he at once proceeded to put it into
execution.

Within half an hour of the entrance of the little party into this
semi-ruinous strong-hold, the legionary foot came up, about a hundred and
fifty men in number, but without scaling ladders, artillery, or engines.

Elated by their success, however, they immediately formed what was called
the _tortoise_, by raising their shields and overlapping the edges of them
above their heads, in such a manner as to make a complete penthouse, which
might defend them from the missiles of the besieged; and, under cover of
this, they rushed forward dauntlessly, to cut down the palisade with their
hooks and axes.

In this they would have probably succeeded, for the arrows and ordinary
missiles of the defenders rebounded and rolled down innocuous from the
tough brass-bound bull-hides; and the rebels were already well nigh in
despair, when Caius Crispus, who had been playing his part gallantly at
the barricade, and had stabbed two or three of the legionaries with his
pilum, in hand to hand encounter, through the apertures of the grating,
rushed up to the battlements, covered with blood and dust, and shouting—

"Ho! by Hercules! this will never do, friends. Give me yon crow-bar—So!
take levers, all of you, and axes! We must roll down the coping on their
heads,"—applied his own skill and vast personal strength to the task. In
an instant the levers were fixed, and grasping his crow-bar with gigantic
energy, he set up his favorite chaunt, as cheerily as he had done of old
in his smithy on the Sacred Way—

  "Ply, ply, my boys, now ply the lever!
   Heave at it, heave at it, all! Together!
  Great Mars, the war God, watches ye laboring
   Joyously. Joyous watches"—

But his words were cut short by a thundering crash; for, animated by his
untamed spirit, his fellows had heaved with such a will at the long line
of freestone coping, that, after tottering for a few seconds, and reeling
to and fro, it all rushed down with the speed and havoc of an avalanche,
drowning all human sounds with the exception of one piercing yell of
anguish, which rose clear above the confused roar and clatter.

"Ho! by the Thunderer! we have smashed them beneath their tortoise, like
an egg in its shell! Now ply your bows, brave boys! now hurl your
javelins! Well shot! well shot indeed, my Niger! You hit that high-crested
centurion full in the mouth, as he called on them to rally, and nailed his
tongue to his jaws. Give me another pilum, Rufus! This," he continued, as
he poised and launched it hurtling through the air, "This to the
ensign-bearer!" And, scarce was the word said, ere the ponderous missile
alighted on his extended shield, pierced its tough fourfold bull-hide, as
if it had been a sheet of parchment; drove through his bronze cuirass, and
hurled him to the ground, slain outright in an instant. "Ha! they have got
enough of it! Shout, boys! Victoria! Victoria!"

And the wild cheering of the rebels pealed high above the roar of the
torrent, striking dismay into the soul of the wretched Julia.

But, although the rebels had thus far succeeded, and the legionaries had
fallen back, bearing their dead and wounded with them, the success was by
no means absolute or final; and this no man knew better than the
swordsmith.

He watched the soldiers eagerly, as they drew off in orderly array into
the hollow way, and after a short consultation, posting themselves
directly in front of the gate with sentinels thrown out in all directions,
lighted a large watch fire in the road, with the intention, evidently, of
converting the storm into a blockade.

A few moments afterward, he saw a soldier mount the horse of the slain
centurion, and gallop down the hill in the direction of Antonius’ army,
which was well known to be lying to the south-eastward. Still a few
minutes later a small party was sent down into the village, and returned
bringing provisions, which the men almost immediately began to cook, after
having posted a chain of videttes from one bank to the other of the
precipitous ravine, so as to assure themselves that no possibility of
escape was left to the besieged in any direction, by which they conceived
escape to be practicable.

"Ha!" exclaimed Crispus, as he watched their movements, "they will give us
no more trouble to-night, but we will make sure of them by posting one
sentinel above the gate, and another on the head of the watch-tower. Then
we will light us a good fire in the yard below, and feast there on the
beef and wine of those brute peasants. The legionaries fancy that they can
starve us out; but they know not how well we are provided. Hark you, my
Niger. Go down and butcher those two beeves, and when they are flayed and
decapitated, blow me a good loud trumpet blast and roll down the heads
over the battlements. Long ere we have consumed our provender, Catiline
will be down on them in force! I go to look around the place, and make all
certain."

And, with the words, he ascended to the summit of the old watch-tower and
stood there for many minutes, surveying the whole conformation of the
country, and all the defences of the place, with a calm and skilful eye.

The man was by no means destitute of certain natural talents, and an
aptitude for war, which, had it been cultivated or improved, might
possibly have made him a captain. He speedily perceived, therefore, that
the defences were tenable so long only as no ladders or engines should be
brought against them; which he was well assured would be done, within
twenty-four hours at the latest. He knew also that want of provisions must
compel him to surrender at discretion before many days; and he felt it to
be very doubtful whether, without some strong effort on their part
Catiline would hear at all of their situation, until it should be entirely
too late.

He began, therefore, at once, to look about him for means of despatching
an envoy, nothing doubting that succor would be sent to him instantly,
could the arch traitor be informed, that the lovely Julia was a prisoner
awaiting his licentious pleasure.

Descending from the battlements, he proceeded at once to the barrack rooms
in the rear, hoping to find some possibility of lowering a messenger into
the bed of the stream, or transporting him across the ravine, unseen by
the sentinels of the enemy.

Then, casting open a door of fast decaying wood-work, he entered the first
of the low mouldering unfurnished rooms; and, stepping across the paved
floor with a noiseless foot, thrust his head out of the window and gazed
anxiously up and down the course of the ravine.

He became satisfied at once that his idea was feasible; for the old wall
was built, at this place, in salient angles, following the natural line of
the cliffs; and the window of the central room was situated in the bottom
of the recess, between two jutting curtains, in each of which was another
embrasure. It was evident, therefore, that a person lowered by the middle
window, into the gorge beneath, would be screened from the view of any
watchers, by the projection of the walls; and Crispus nothing doubted but
that, once in the bottom of the ravine, a path might be found more or less
difficult by which to reach the upper country.

Beyond the ravine rose many broken knolls covered with a thick undergrowth
of young chesnut hollies, wild laurels, and the like; and through these, a
winding road might be discovered, penetrating the passes of the hills, and
crossing the glen at a half mile’s distance below on a single-arched brick
bridge, by which it joined the causeway occupied by the legionaries.

Having observed so much, Caius Crispus was on the point of withdrawing his
head, forgetting all about his prisoner, who, on their entrance into this
dismantled hold, had been thrust in hither, as into the place where she
would be most out of harm’s way, and least likely to escape.

But just as he was satisfied with gazing, the lovely face of Julia, pale
as an image of statuary marble, with all her splendid auburn hair unbound,
was advanced out of the middle window; evidently looking out like himself
for means of escape. But to her the prospect was not, as to him,
satisfactory; and uttering a deep sigh she shook her head sadly, and wrung
her hands with an expression of utter despair.

"Ha! ha! my pretty one, it is too deep, I trow!" cried Crispus, whom she
had not yet observed, with a cruel laugh, "Nothing, I swear, without wings
can descend that abyss; unless like Sappho, whom the poets tell us of, it
would put an end to both love and life together. No! no! you cannot escape
thus, my pretty one; and, on the outside, I will make sure of you. For the
rest I will send you some watch cloaks for a bed, some supper, and some
wine. We will not starve you, my fair Julia, and no one shall harm you
here, for I will sleep across your door, myself, this night, and ere
to-morrow’s sunset we shall be in the camp with Catiline."

He was as good as his word, for he returned almost immediately, bringing a
pile of watch-cloaks, which he arranged into a rude semblance of a bed,
with a pack saddle for the pillow, in the innermost recess of the inner
room, with some bread, and beef broiled hastily on the embers, and some
wine mixed with water, which last she drank eagerly; for fear and anxiety
had parched her, and she was faint with thirst.

Before he went out, again he looked earnestly from the unlatticed window,
in order to assure himself that she had no means of escape. Scarce was he
gone, before she heard the shrill blast of the Roman trumpets blown
clearly and scientifically, for the watch-setting; and, soon afterward,
all the din and bustle, which had been rife through the livelong day, sank
into silence, and she could hear the brawling of the brook below chafing
and raving against the rocks which barred its bed, and the wind murmuring
against the leafless treetops.

Shortly after this, it became quite dark; and after sitting musing awhile
with a sad and despairing heart, and putting up a wild prayer to the Gods
for mercy and protection, she went once more and leaned out of the window,
gazing wistfully on the black stones and foamy water.

"Nothing," she said to herself sadly, repeating Caius Crispus’ words,
"could descend hence, without wings, and live. It is too true! alas! too
true!—" she paused for a moment, and then, while a flash of singular
enthusiastic joy irradiated all her pallid lineaments, she exclaimed, "but
the Great Gods be praised? one can leap down, and die! Let life go! what
is life? since I can thus preserve my honor!" She paused again and
considered; then clasped her hands together, and seemed to be on the point
of casting herself into that awful gulf; but she resisted the temptation,
and said, "Not yet! not yet! There is hope yet, on earth! and I will live
awhile, for hope and for Paullus. I can do this at any time—of this
refuge, at least, they cannot rob me. I will live yet awhile!" And with
the words she turned away quietly, went to the pile of watch-cloaks, and
lying down forgot ere long her sorrows and her dread, in calm and innocent
slumber.

She had not been very long asleep, however, when a sound from without the
door aroused her; and, as she started to her feet, Caius Crispus looked
into the cell with a flambeau of pine-wood blazing in his right hand, to
ascertain if she was still within, and safe under his keeping.

"You have been sleeping, ha!" he exclaimed. "That is well, you must be
weary. Will you have more wine?"

"Some water, if you will, but no wine. I am athirst and feverish."

"You shall have water."

And thrusting the flambeau into the earth, between the crevices in the
pavement, he left the room abruptly.

Scarce was he gone, leaving the whole apartment blazing with a bright
light which rendered every object within clearly visible to any spectator
from the farther side of the ravine, before a shrill voice with something
of a feminine tone, was heard on the other brink, exclaiming in suppressed
tones—

"Hist! hist! Julia?"

"Great Gods! who calls on Julia?"

"Julia Serena, is it thou?"

"Most miserable I!" she made answer. "But who calls me?"

"A friend—be wary, and silent, and you shall not lack aid."

But Julia heard the heavy step of the swordsmith approaching, and laying
her finger on her lips, she sprang back hastily from the window, and when
her gaoler entered, was busy, apparently, in arranging her miserable bed.

It was not long that he tarried; for after casting one keen glance around
him, to see that all was right; he freed her of his hated presence, taking
the torch along with him, and leaving her in utter darkness.

As soon as his footstep had died away into silence, she hurried back to
the embrasure, and gazed forth earnestly; but the moon had not yet risen,
and all the gulf of the ravine and the banks on both sides were black as
night, and she could discern nothing.

She coughed gently, hoping to attract the attention of her unknown friend,
and to learn more of her chances of escape; but no farther sound or signal
was made to her; and, after watching long in hope deferred, and anxiety
unspeakable, she returned to her sad pallet and bathed her pillow with hot
tears, until she wept herself at length into unconsciousness of suffering,
the last refuge of the wretched, when they have not the christian’s hope
to sustain them.

She was almost worn out with anxiety and toil, and she slept soundly,
until the blowing of the Roman trumpets in the pass again aroused her; and
before she had well collected her thoughts so as to satisfy herself where
she was and wherefore, the shouts and groans of a sudden conflict, the
rattling of stones and javelins on the tiled roof, the clang of arms, and
all the dread accompaniments of a mortal conflict, awoke her to a full
sense of her situation.

The day lagged tediously and slow. No one came near her, and, although she
watched the farther side of the gorge, with all the frantic hope which is
so near akin to despair, she saw nothing, heard nothing, but a few
wood-pigeons among the leafless tree-tops, but the sob of the torrent and
the sigh of the wintry wind.

At times indeed the long stern swell of the legionary trumpets would again
sound for the assault, and the din of warfare would follow it; but the
skirmishes were of shorter and shorter duration, and the tumultuous
cheering of the rebels at the close of every onslaught, proved that their
defence had been maintained at least, and that the besiegers had gained no
advantage.

It was, perhaps, four o’clock in the afternoon; and the sun was beginning
to verge to the westward, when, just after the cessation of one of the
brief attacks—by which it would appear that the besiegers intended rather
to harass the garrison and keep them constantly on the alert, than to
effect anything decided—the sound of armed footsteps again reached the
ears of Julia.

A moment afterward, Caius Crispus entered the room hastily, accompanied by
Niger and Rufus, the latter bearing in his hand a coil of twisted rope,
manufactured from the raw hide of the slaughtered cattle, cut into narrow
stripes, and ingeniously interwoven.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, starting for a moment, as he saw Julia. "I had
forgotten you. We have been hardly pressed all day, and I have had no time
to think of you; but we shall have more leisure now. Are you hungry,
Julia?"

For her only reply she pointed to the food yet untouched, which he had
brought to her on the previous evening, and shook her head sadly; but
uttered not a word.

"Well! well!" he exclaimed, "we have no time to talk about such matters
now; but eat you shall, or I will have you crammed, as they stuff
fat-livered geese! Come, Niger, we must lose no minute. If they attack
again, and miss me from the battlements, they will be suspecting
something, and will perhaps come prying to the rear.—Have you seen any
soldiers, girl, on this side? I trow you have been gazing from the window
all day long in the hope of escaping, but I suppose you will not tell me
truly."

"If I tell you not truly, I shall hold my peace. But I will tell you, that
I have seen no human being, no living thing, indeed; unless it be a
thrush, and three wood pigeons, fluttering in the treetops yonder."

"That is a lie, I dare be sworn!" cried Niger. "If it had been the truth
she would not have breathed a word of it to us. Beside which, it is too
cool altogether!"

"By Mulciber my patron! if I believed so, it should go hardly with her;
but it matters not. Come, we must lose no time."

And passing into the central room of the three, they made one end of the
rope fast about the waist of Niger, and the other to an upright mullion in
the embrasure, which, although broken half way up, afforded ample purchase
whereby to lower him into the chasm.

This done, the man clambered out of the window very coolly, going
backward, as if he were about to descend a ladder; but, when his face was
on the point of disappearing below the sill, as he hung by his hands
alone, having no foothold whatever, he said quietly, "If I shout, Caius
Crispus, haul me up instantly. I shall not do so, if there be any path
below. But if I whistle, be sure that all is right. Lower away. Farewell."

"Hold on! hold on, man!" replied Crispus quickly, "turn yourself round so
as to bring your back to the crag’s face, else shall the angles of the
rock maim, and the dust blind you. That’s it; most bravely done! you are a
right good cragsman."

"I was born among the crags, at all events," answered the other, "and I
think now that I am going to die among them. But what of that? One must
die some day! Fewer words! lower away, I say, I am tired of hanging here
between Heaven and Tartarus!"

No words were spoken farther, by any of the party; but the smith with the
aid of Rufus paid out the line rapidly although steadily, hand under hand,
until the whole length was run out with the exception of some three or
four feet.

Just at this moment, when Crispus was beginning to despair of success, and
was half afraid that he had miscalculated the length of the rope, the
strain on it was slackened for a moment, and then ceased altogether.

The next instant a low and guarded whistle rose from the gorge, above the
gurgling of the waters, but not so loud as to reach any ears save those
for which it was intended.

A grim smile curled the swordsmith’s lip, and his fierce eye glittered
with cruel triumph. "We are safe now.—Catiline will be here long before
daybreak. Your prayers have availed us, Julia; for I doubt not," he added,
with malicious irony, "that you have prayed for us."

Before she had time to reply to his cruel sarcasm, a fresh swell of the
besiegers’ trumpets, and a loud burst of shouts and warcries from the
battlement announced a fresh attack. The smith rushed from the room
instantly with Rufus at his heels, and Julia had already made one step
toward the window, intending to attempt the perilous descent, alone and
unaided, when Crispus turned back suddenly, crying,

"The Rope! the Rope! By the Gods! do not leave the rope! She hath enough
of the Amazon’s blood in her to attempt it—"

"Of the _Roman’s_ blood, say rather!" she exclaimed, springing toward the
casement, half maddened in perceiving her last hope frustrated.

Had she reached it, she surely would have perished; for no female head and
hands, how strong and resolute so ever, could have descended that frail
rope, and even if they could, the ruffian, rather than see her so escape,
would have cut it asunder, and so precipitated her to the bottom of the
rocky chasm.

But she did not attain her object; for Caius Crispus caught her with both
arms around the waist and threw her so violently to the after end of the
room, that, her head striking the angle of the wall, she was stunned for
the moment, and lay almost senseless on the floor, while the savage, with
a rude brutal laugh at her disappointment, rushed out of the room, bearing
the rope along with him.

Scarce had he gone, however, when, audible distinctly amid the dissonant
danger of the fray, the same feminine voice, which she had heard on the
previous night, again aroused her, crying "Hist! hist! hist! Julia."

She sprang to her feet, and gained the window in a moment, and there, on
the other verge of the chasm, near twenty feet distant from the window at
which she stood, she discovered the figure of a slender dark-eyed and
dark-complexioned boy, clad in a hunter’s tunic, and bearing a bow in his
hand, and a quiver full of arrows on his shoulder.

She had never seen that boy before; yet was there something in his
features and expression that seemed familiar to her; that sort of vague
resemblance to something well known and accustomed, which leads men to
suppose that they must have dreamed of things which mysteriously enough
they seem to remember on their first occurrence.

The boy raised his hand joyously, and cried aloud, without any fear of
being heard, well knowing that all eyes and ears of the defenders of the
place were turned to the side when the fight was raging, "Be of good
cheer; you are saved, Julia. Paullus is nigh at hand, but ere he come, _I_
will save you! Be of good courage, watch well these windows, but seem to
be observing nothing."

And with the words, he turned away, and was lost to her sight in an
instant, among the thickly-set underwood. Ere long, however, she caught a
glimpse of him again, mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and gallopping
like the wind down the sandy road, which wound through the wooded knolls
toward the bridge below.

Again she lost him; and again he glanced upon her sight, for a single
second, as he spurred his fleet horse across the single arch of brick, and
dashed into the woods on the hither side of the torrent.

Two weary hours passed; and the sun was nigh to his setting, and she had
seen, heard nothing more. Her heart, sickening with hope deferred, and all
her frame trembling with terrible excitement, she had almost begun to
doubt, whether the whole appearance of the boy might not have been a mere
illusion of her feverish senses, a vain creation of her distempered fancy.

Still, fiercer than before, the battle raged without, and now there was no
intermission of the uproar; to which was added the crashing of the roofs
beneath heavy stones, betokening that engines of some kind had been
brought up from the host, or constructed on the spot.

At length, however, her close watch was rewarded. A slight stir among the
evergreen bushes on the brink of the opposite cliff caught her quick eye,
and in another moment the head of a man, not of the boy whom she had seen
before, nor yet, as her hope suggested, of her own Paullus, but of an
aquiline-nosed clean-shorn Roman soldier, with an intelligent expression
and quick eye, was thrust forward.

Perceiving Julia at the window, he drew back for a second; and the boy
appeared in his place, and then both showed themselves together, the
soldier holding in his hand the bow and arrows of the hunter youth.

"He is a friend," said the boy, "do all that he commands you."

But so fiercely was the battle raging now, that it was his signs, rather
than his words, which she comprehended.

The next moment, a gesture of his hand warned her to withdraw from the
embrasure; and scarcely had she done so before an arrow whistled from the
bow and dropped into the room, having a piece of very slender twine
attached to the end of it.

Perceiving the intention at a glance, the quick witted girl detached the
string from the shaft without delay, and, throwing the latter out of the
window lest it should betray the plan, drew in the twine, until she had
some forty yards within the room, when it was checked from the other side,
neither the soldier nor the youth showing themselves at all during the
operation.

This done, however, the boy again stood forth, and pitched a leaden
bullet, such as was used by the slingers of the day, into the window.

Perceiving that the ball was perforated, she secured it in an instant to
the end of the clue, which she held in her hand, and, judging that the
object of her friends was to establish a communication from their side,
cast it back to them with a great effort, having first passed the twine
around the mullion, by aid of which Crispus had lowered down his
messenger.

The soldier caught the bullet, and nodded his approbation with a smile,
but again receded into the bushes, suffering the slack of the twine to
fall down in an easy curve into the ravine: so that the double
communication would scarce have been perceived, even by one looking for
it, in the gathering twilight.

The boy’s voice once more reached her ears, though his form was concealed
among the shrubbery. "Fear nothing, you are safe," he said, "But we can do
no more until after midnight, when the moon shall give us light to rescue
you. Be tranquil, and farewell."—

Be tranquil!—tranquil, when life or death—honor or infamy—bliss or
despair, hung on that feeble twine, scarce thicker than the spider’s web!
hung on the chance of every flying second, each one of which was bringing
nigher and more nigh, the hoofs of Catiline’s atrocious band.

When voice of man can bid the waves be tranquil, while the north-wester is
tossing their ruffian tops, and when the billows slumber at his bidding,
then may the comforter assay, with some chance of success, to still the
throbbings of the human heart, convulsed by such hopes, such terrors, as
then were all but maddening the innocent and tranquil heart of Julia.

Tranquil she could not be; but she was calm and self-possessed, and
patient.

Hour after hour lagged away; and the night fell black as the pit of
Acheron, and still by the glare of pale fires and torches, the lurid light
of which she could perceive from her windows, reflected on the heavens,
the savage combatants fought on, unwearied, and unsparing.

Once only she went again to that window, wherefrom hung all her hopes; so
fearful was she, that Crispus might find her there, and suspect what was
in process.

With trembling fingers she felt for the twine, fatal as the thread of
destiny should any fell chance sever it; and in its place she found a
stout cord, which had been quietly drawn around the mullion, still hanging
in a deep double bight, invisible amid the gloom, from side to side of the
chasm.

And now, for the first time, she comprehended clearly the means by which
her unknown friends proposed to reach her. By hauling on one end of the
rope, any light plank or ladder might be drawn over to the hither from the
farther bank, and the gorge might so be securely bridged, and safely
traversed.

Perceiving this, and fancying that she could distinguish the faint clink
of a hammer among the trees beyond the forest knoll, she did indeed become
almost tranquil.

She even lay down on her couch, and closed her eyes, and exerted all the
power of her mind to be composed and self-possessed, when the moment of
her destiny should arrive.

But oh! how day-long did the minutes seem; how more than year-long the
hours.

She opened her curtained lids, and lo! what was that faint pale lustre,
glimmering through the tree-tops on the far mountain’s brow?—all glory to
Diana, chaste guardian of the chaste and pure! it was the signal of her
safety! it was! it was the ever-blessed moon!—

Breathless with joy, she darted to the opening, and slowly, warily
creeping athwart the gloomy void, she saw the cords drawn taught, and
running stiffly, it is true, and reluctantly, but surely, around the
mouldering stone mullion; while from the other side, ghost-like and pale,
the skeleton of a light ladder, was advancing to meet her hand as if by
magic.

Ten minutes more and she would be free! oh! the strange bliss, the
inconceivable rapture of that thought! free from pollution, infamy! free
to live happy and unblemished! free to be the beloved, the honored bride
of her own Arvina.

Why did she shudder suddenly? why grew she rigid with dilated eyes, and
lips apart, like a carved effigy of agonized surprise?—

Hark to that rising sound, more rapid than the rush of the stream, and
louder than the wailing of the wind! thick pattering down the rocky gorge!
nearer and nearer, ’till it thunders high above all the tumult of the
battle! the furious gallop of approaching horse, the sharp and angry clang
of harness!—

Lo! the hot glare, outfacing the pale moonbeam, the fierce crimson blaze
of torches gleaming far down the mountain side, a torrent of rushing fire!

Hark! the wild cheer, "Catiline! Catiline!" to the skies! mixed with the
wailing blast of the Roman trumpets, unwillingly retreating from the
half-won watchtower!—

"Pull for your lives!" she cried, in accents full of horror and appalling
anguish—"Pull! pull! if ye would not see me perish!"—

But it was all too late. Amid a storm of tumultuous acclamation, Catiline
drew his panting charger up before the barricaded gateway, which had so
long resisted the dread onset of the legionaries, and which now instantly
flew open to admit him. Waving his hand to his men to pursue the
retreating infantry, he sprang down from his horse, uttering but one word
in the deep voice of smothered passion—"Julia!"—

His armed foot clanged on the pavement, ere the bridge was entirely
withdrawn; for they, who manned the ropes, now dragged it back, as
vehemently as they had urged forward a moment since.

"Back from the window, Julia!"—cried the voice—"If he perceive the ropes,
all is lost! Trust me, we never will forsake you! Meet him! be bold! be
daring! but defy him not!"—

Scarce had she time to catch the friendly admonition and act on it, as she
did instantly, before the door of the outer room was thrown violently
open; and, with his sallow face inflamed and fiery, and his black eye
blazing with hellish light, Catiline exclaimed, as he strode in hot haste
across the threshold,

"At last! at last, I have thee, Julia!"





CHAPTER XVII.


TIDINGS FROM ROME.


      Time and the tide wear through the longest day.
                  SHAKSPEARE.

"At last, I have thee, Julia!"

Mighty indeed was the effort of the mind, which enabled that fair slight
girl to bear up with an undaunted lip and serene eye against the presence
of that atrocious villain; and hope, never-dying hope, was the spirit
which nerved her to that effort.

It was strange, knowing as she did the character of that atrocious and
bloodthirsty tyrant, that she should not have given way entirely to
feminine despair and terror, or sought by tears and prayers to disarm his
purpose.

But her high blood cried out from every vein and artery of her body; and
she stood calm and sustained by conscious virtue, even in that extremity
of peril; neither tempting assault by any display of coward weakness, nor
provoking it by any show of defiance.

There is nothing, perhaps, so difficult to any one who is not a butcher or
an executioner by trade, with sensibilities blunted by the force of habit,
as to attack or injure any thing, which neither flies, nor resists,
neither braves, nor trembles.

And Catiline himself, savage and brutal as he was, full of ungoverned
impulse and unbridled passion, felt, though he knew not wherefore, this
difficulty at this moment.

Had she fallen at his feet, trembling, and tearful, and implored his
mercy, he would have gloated on her terrors, laughed tears and prayers to
scorn, yea! torn her from an altar’s foot, to pour out upon her the vials
of agony and foul pollution.

Had she defied, or braved his violence, his fury would have trampled her
to the earth in an instant, and murder would have followed in the
footsteps of worse violence.

But as she stood there, firm, cold, erect, and motionless as a statue of
rare marble, with scarcely a pulse throbbing in her veins, and her clear
azure eyes fixed on him with a cold and steady gaze, as if she would have
fascinated him by their serene chaste influence, he likewise stood and
gazed upon her with a strange mixture of impressions, wherein something
akin to love and admiration were blent with what, in minds of better
mould, should have been reverence and awe.

He felt, in short, that he lacked ’a spur to prick the sides of his
intent,’ a provocation to insult and aggression yet stronger than the
passion and hot thirst of vengeance, which had been well nigh chilled by
her severe and icy fortitude.

      ’Tis said that a lion will turn and flee,
      From a maid in the pride of her purity;

and here a fiercer and more dangerous savage stood powerless and daunted
for the moment, by the same holy influence of virtue, which, it is said,
has potency to tame the pinched king of the desert.

It was not, however, in the nature of that man to yield himself up long to
any influence, save that of his own passions, and after standing mute for
perhaps a minute, during which the flush on his sallow cheek, and the
glare of his fiery eye, were blanched and dimmed somewhat, he advanced a
step or two toward her, repeating the words,

"I have thee; thou art mine, Julia."

"Thy prisoner, Catiline," she replied quietly—"if you make women
prisoners."

"My slave, minion."

"I am free-born, and noble. A patrician of a house as ancient as thine
own. My ancestors, I have heard say, fought side by side with Sergius
Silo."

"The more cause, that their daughter should sleep side by side with
Sergius Catiline!" he replied with bitter irony; but there was less of
actual passion in his tones, than of a desire to lash himself into fury.

"The less cause that a free-born lady should be disgraced by the grandson
of his comrade in arms, who gave her father being."

Thus far her replies had been conducted in the spirit most likely to
control, if any thing could control, the demon that possessed him; but
seeing that her words had produced more effect on him than she had deemed
possible, she made an effort to improve her advantage, and added, looking
him firmly in the eye,

"I have heard tell that thou art proud, Catiline, as thou art nobly born.
Let, then, thine own pride"——

"Proud! Proud! Ha! minion! What have your _nobles_ left me that I should
glory in—what of which I may still be proud? A name of the grandest,
blasted by their base lies, and infamous! Service converted into shame!
valor warped into crime! At home poverty, degradation, ruin! Abroad, debt,
mockery, disgrace! Proud! proud! By Nemesis! fond girl. I am proud—to be
the thing that they have made me, a terror, and a curse to all who call
themselves patrician. For daring, remorseless! for brave, cruel! for
voluptuous, sensual! for fearless, ruthless! for enterprising, reckless!
for ambitious, desperate! for a man, a monster! for a philosopher, an
atheist! Ha! ha! ha! ha! I am proud, minion, proud to be that I am—that
which thou, Julia, shalt soon find me!"

She perceived, when it was too late, the error which she had made, and
fearful of incensing him farther, answered nothing. But he was not so to
be set at naught, for he had succeeded now in lashing himself into a fit
of fury, and advancing upon her, with a face full of all hideous passions,
a face that denoted his fell purpose, as plainly as any words could
declare them.

"Dost hear me, girl, I say? Thou art mine, Julia."

"Thy prisoner, Catiline," she again repeated in the same steady tone as at
first; but the charm had now failed of its effect, and it was fortunate
for the sweet girl, that the fell wretch before whom she stood
defenceless, had so much of the cat-like, tiger-like spirit in his nature,
so much that prompted him to tantalize and torment before striking, to
teaze and harass and break down the mind, before doing violence to the
body of his subject enemies, or of those whom he chose to deem such.

Had he suspected at this moment that any chance of succor was at hand,
however remote, he lacked neither the will nor the occasion to destroy
her. He fancied that she was completely at his mercy; and perceiving that,
in despite of her assumed coolness, she writhed beneath the terrors of his
tongue, he revelled in the fiendish pleasure of triumphing in words over
her spirit, before wreaking his vengeance on her person.

"My slave! Julia. My slave, soul and body! my slave, here and for ever!
Slave to my passions, and my pleasures! Wilt yield, or resist, fair girl?
Resist, I do beseech thee! Let some fire animate those lovely eyes, even
if it be the fire of fury—some light kindle those pallid cheeks, even if
it be the light of hatred! I am aweary of tame conquests."

"Then wherefore conquer; or conquering, wherefore not spare?"—she
answered.

"I conquer, to slake my thirst of vengeance. I spare not, for the wise
man’s word to the fallen, is still, VÆ VICTIS. Wilt yield, or resist,
Julia? wilt be the sharer, or the victim of my pleasures? speak, I say,
speak!" he shouted savagely, perceiving that she sought to evade a direct
answer. "Speak and reply, directly, or I will do to thee forthwith what
most thou dreadest! and then wipe out thy shame by agonies of death, to
which the tortures of old Regulus were luxury."

"If I must choose, the victim!" she replied steadily. "But I believe you
will not so disgrace your manhood."

"Ha! you believe so, you shall feel soon and know. One question more, wilt
thou yield or resist?"—

"Resist," she answered, "to the last, and when dishonored, die, and by
death, like Lucretia, win back greater honor! Lucretia’s death had
witnesses, and her tale found men’s ears."

"Thy death shall be silent, thy shame loud. I will proclaim the first my
deed, the last thy voluntary——."

"Proclaim it!"—she interrupted him, with her eyes flashing bright
indignation, and her lip curling with ineffable disdain; as she forgot all
prudence in the scorn called forth by his injurious words—"Proclaim it to
the world! who will believe it?"—

"The world. Frailty’s name is woman!"—

"And Falsehood’s—Catiline!"—

"By Hades!"—and he sprang upon her with a bound like that of a tiger, and
twined his arms about her waist, clasping her to his breast with brutal
violence, and striving to press his foul lips on her innocent mouth; but
she, endowed with momentary strength, infinitely unwonted and unnatural,
the strength of despair and frenzy, caught his bare throat with both her
hands, and writhing herself back to the full length of her arms, uttered a
volume of shrieks, so awfully shrill and piercing, that they struck terror
into the souls of the brutal rebels without, and harrowed up the spirits
of her friends, who lay concealed within earshot, waiting, now almost in
despair, an opportunity to aid her.

So strong was the clutch which her small hands had fixed upon his throat,
that ere he could release himself, sufficiently to draw a full breath, he
was compelled to let her go; and ere he fully recovered himself, she had
made a spring back toward the window, with the evident purpose of throwing
herself out into the yawning gulf below it.

But something caught her eye which apparently deterred her, and turning
her back upon it quickly, she faced her persecutor once again.

At this moment, there was a loud and angry bustle in the outer court,
immediately followed by a violent knocking at the door; but so terrible
was the excitement of both these human beings, her’s the excitement of
innocence in trial, his of atrocity triumphant, that neither heard it,
though it was sudden and strong enough to have startled any sleepers, save
those of the grave.

"Ha! but this charms me! I knew not that you had so much of the Tigress to
fit you for the Tiger’s mate. But what a fool you are to waste your breath
in yells and your strength in struggles, like to those, when there are
none to hear, or to witness them."

"Witnesses are found to all crimes right early and avengers!" she
exclaimed with the high mien of a prophetess; and still that vehement
knocking continued, unheeded as the earthquake which reeled unnoticed
beneath the feet of the combatants at Thrasymene.

"To this at least there are no witnesses! there shall be no avengers!"

"The Gods are my witnesses! shall be my avengers!"

"Tush! there are no Gods, Julia!"

And again he rushed on her and caught her in his arms. But as he spoke
those impious words, sprang to do that atrocious deed, a witness was
found, and it might be an avenger.

Unnoticed by the traitor in the fierce whirlwind of his passion, that
hunter boy stood forth on the further brink; revealed, a boy no longer;
for the Phrygian bonnet had fallen off, and the redundant raven tresses of
a girl flowed back on the wind. Her attitude and air were those of Diana
as she bent her good bow against the ravisher Orion. Her right foot
advanced firmly, her right hand drawn back to the ear, her fine eye
glaring upon the arrow which bore with unerring aim full on the breast of
her own corrupter, her own father, Catiline.

Who had more wrongs to avenge than Lucia?

Another second, and the shaft would have quivered in the heart of the arch
villain, sped by the hand from which he deserved it the most dearly. The
room within was brighter than day from the red torch light which filled
it, falling full on the gaunt form and grim visage of the monster. Her
hand was firm, her eye steady, her heart pitiless. But in the better
course of her changed life, heaven spared her the dread crime of
parricide.

Just as the chord was at the tightest, just as the feathers quivered, and
the barb thrilled, about to leap from the terse string, the tall form of
the soldier sprang up into the clear moonlight from the underwood, and
crying "Hold! hold!" mastered her bowhand, with the speed of light, and
dragged her down into the covert.

Well was it that he did so. For just as Catiline seized Julia the second
time in his resistless grasp, and ere his lips had contaminated her sweet
mouth, the giant Crispus, who had so long been knocking unheeded, rushed
into the room, and seized his leader by the shoulder unseen, until he
literally touched him.

"Another time for this;" he said, "Catiline. There are tidings from Rome;
which—"

"To Tartarus with thy tidings! Let them tarry!"

"They will not tarry, Catiline," replied the smith, who was as pale as a
ghost and almost trembling—"least of all for such painted woman’s flesh as
this is!"

"Get thee away! It were better, wiser, safer to stand between the Lion and
his prey, than between Catiline and Julia."

"Then have it!" shouted the smith. "All is discovered! all undone!
Lentulus and Cethegus, Gabinius and Statilius, and Cæparius all dead by
the hangman’s noose in the Tullianum!"

"The idiots! is that all? thy precious tidings! See! how I will avenge
them." And he struggled to shake himself free from the grasp of Crispus.

But the smith held him firmly, and replied, "It is not all, Catiline.
Metellus Celer is within ten leagues of the camp, at the foot of the
mountains. We have no retreat left into Gaul. Come! come! speak to the
soldiers! You can deal with this harlotry hereafter."

Catiline glared upon him, as if he would have stabbed him to the heart;
but seeing the absolute necessity of enquiring into the truth of this
report, he turned to leave the room.

"The Gods be praised! the Gods have spoken loud! The Gods have saved me!"
cried Julia falling on her knees. "Are there no Gods now, O Catiline?"

"To Hades! with thy Gods!" and, striking the unhappy girl a coward blow,
which felled her to the ground senseless, he rushed from the room with his
confederate in crime, barring the outer door behind him.





CHAPTER XVIII.


THE RESCUE.


        Speed, Malise, speed, the dun deer’s hide
        On fleeter foot was never tied.
                 LADY OF THE LAKE.

Scarcely had the door closed behind Catiline, who rushed forth torch in
hand, as if goaded by the furies of Orestes, when half a dozen stout men,
sheathed in the full armor of Roman legionaries, sprang out of the
brushwood on the gorge’s brink, and seizing the ropes which had hung idle
during that critical hour, hauled on them with such energetical and
zealous power, that the ladder was drawn across the chasm with almost
lightning speed.

The hooks, with which its outer end was garnished, caught in the crevices
of the ruined wall, and a slender communication was established, although
the slight structure which bridged the abyss was scarcely capable of
supporting the weight of a human being.

The soldiers, accustomed, as all Roman soldiers were, to all the
expediences and resources of warfare, had prepared planks which were to be
run forward on the ladder, in order to construct a firm bridge. For the
plan of the besiegers, until interrupted by Catiline’s arrival, had been
to take the stronghold in reverse, while a false attack in front should be
in progress, and throwing ten or twelve stout soldiers into the heart of
the place, to make themselves masters of it by a coup-de-main.

This well-devised scheme being rendered unfeasible by the sudden charge of
Catiline’s horse, and the rout of the legionaries, the small subaltern’s
detachment which had been sent round under Lucia’s guidance—for it was
she, who had discerned the means of passing the chasm, while lying in wait
to assist Julia, and disclosed it to the centurion commanding—had been
left alone, and isolated, its line of retreat cut off, and itself without
a leader.

The singular scenes, however, which they had witnessed, the interest which
almost involuntarily they had been led to take in the fate of the fair
girl, her calm and dauntless fortitude, and above all the atrocious
villainy of Catiline, had inspired every individual of that little band
with an heroic resolution to set their lives upon a cast, in order to
rescue one who to all of them was personally unknown.

In addition to this, the discovery of Lucia’s sex—for they had believed
her to be what she appeared, a boy—which followed immediately on the loss
of her Phrygian bonnet, and the story of her bitter wrongs, which had
taken wind, acted as a powerful incentive to men naturally bold and
enterprising.

For it is needless to add, that with the revelation of her sex, that of
her character as the arch-traitor’s child and victim went, as it were,
hand in hand.

They had resolved, therefore, on rescuing the one, and revenging the other
of these women, at any risk to themselves whatsoever; and now having
waited their opportunity with the accustomed patience of Roman veterans,
they acted upon it with their habitual skill and celerity.

But rapid as were their movements, they were outstripped by the almost
superhuman agility of Lucia, who, knowing well the character of the human
fiend with whom they had to contend, his wondrous promptitude in counsel,
his lightning speed in execution, was well assured that there was not one
moment to be lost, if they would save Arvina’s betrothed bride from a fate
worse than many deaths.

As soon therefore as she saw the hooks of the scaling ladder catch firm
hold of the broken wall, before a single plank had been laid over its
frail and distant rungs, she bounded over it with the light and airy foot
of a practised dancer—finding account at that perilous moment in one of
those indelicate accomplishments in which she had been instructed for
purposes the basest and most horrible.

Accustomed as they were to deeds of energy and rapid daring, the stout
soldiers stood aghast; for, measuring the action by their own weight and
ponderous armature, they naturally overrated its peril to one so slightly
made as Lucia.

And yet the hazard was extreme, for not taking it into account that a
single slip or false step must precipitate her into the abyss, the slender
woodwork of the ladder actually bent as she alighted on it, from each of
her long airy bounds.

It was but a second, however, in which she glanced across it, darted
through the small embrasure, and was lost to the eyes of the men within
the darkness of the old barrack.

Astonished though they were at the girl’s successful daring, the soldiers
were not paralyzed at all, nor did they cease from their work.

In less than a minute after she had entered the window, a board was thrust
forward, running upon the framework of the ladder, and upon that a stout
plank, two feet in breadth, capable of supporting, if necessary, the
weight of several armed men.

Nor had this bridge been established many seconds before the soldier in
command ran forward upon it, and met Lucia at the embrasure, bearing with
strength far greater than her slight form and unmuscular limbs appeared to
promise, the still senseless form of Julia.

Catching her from the arms of Lucia, the robust legionary cast the
fainting girl across his shoulder as though she had been a feather; and
rushed back with her toward his comrades, crying aloud in haste alarm—

"Quick! quick! follow me quick, Lucia. I hear footsteps, they are
coming!"—

The caution was needless, for almost outstripping the heavy soldier, the
fleet-footed girl stood with him on the farther bank.

Yet had it come a moment later, it would have come all too late.

For having with his wonted celerity ascertained the truth of these fatal
tidings, and ordered the body of horse whom he had brought up with him,
and who had returned from pursuing the infantry, on seeing a larger body
coming up from Antonius’ army, to return with all speed to the camp of
Manlius, retaining only a dozen troopers as a personal escort, Catiline
had come back to bear off his lovely captive.

The clang of his haughty step had reached the ears of the legionary just
as he drew poor Julia, unconscious of her rescue, through the barrack
window; and as they stood on the brink of the ravine, thus far in safety,
the red glare of the torches streaming through the embrasures, announced
the arrival of their enemies, within almost arm’s length of them.

The awful burst of imprecations which thundered from the lips of Catiline,
as he perceived that his victim had been snatched from him, struck awe
even into the hearts of those brave veterans.

A tiger robbed of its young is but a weak and poor example of the frantic,
ungovernable, beast-like rage which appeared to prevail entirely above all
senses, all consideration, and all reason.

"May I perish ill! may I die crucified! may the fowls of the air, the
beasts of the field devour me, if she so escape!" he shouted; and
perceiving the means by which she had been carried off, he called loudly
for his men to follow, and was in the very act of leaping out from the
embrasure upon the bridge, which they had not time to withdraw, when one
of the legionaries spurned away the frail fabric with his foot, and
drawing his short falchion severed the cords which secured it, at a single
blow.

Swinging off instantly in mid air, it was dashed heavily against the rocky
wall of the precipice, and, dislodged by the shock, the planks went
thundering down into the torrent, at the bottom of the gorge; while upheld
by the hooks to the stone window sill, the ladder hung useless on
Catiline’s side of the chasm, all communication thus completely
interrupted.

At the same moment three of the heavy pila, which were the peculiar
missiles of the legion, were hurled by as many stout arms at the furious
desperado; but it was not his fate so to perish. One of the pondrous
weapons hurtled so close to his temple that the keen head razed the skin,
the others, blunted or shivered against the sides or lintel of the window,
fell harmless into the abyss.

"Thou fool!" cried the man who had rescued Julia, addressing him who had
cut away the bridge, "thou shouldst have let him reach the middle, ere
thou didst strike that blow. Then would he have lain there now," and he
pointed downward with his finger into the yawning gulf.

"I do not know," replied the other. "By the Gods! Catiline is near enough
to me, when he is twenty paces distant."

"Thou art right, soldier, and didst well and wisely," said Lucia, hastily.
"Hadst thou tarried to strike until he reached the middle, thou never
wouldst have stricken at all. One foot without that window, he would have
cleared that chasm, as easily as I would leap a furrow. But come! come!
come! we must not loiter, nor lose one instant. He will not so submit to
be thwarted, I have two horses by the roadside yonder. Their speed alone
shall save us."

"Right! right!" replied the soldier, "lead to them quickly. It is for life
or death! Hark! he is calling his men now to horse. We shall have a close
run for it, by Hercules!"—

"And we?"—asked one of the veterans—

"Disperse yourselves among the hills, and make your way singly to the
camp. He will not think of you, with us before him!"—

"Farewell! The Gods guide and guard thee!"—

"We shall much need, I fear, their guidance!" answered the legionary,
setting off at a swift pace, still bearing Julia, who was now beginning to
revive in the fresh air, following hard on Lucia, who ran, literally like
the wind, to the spot where she had tied her own beautiful white Ister,
and another horse, a powerful and well-bred Thracian charger, to the stems
of two chesnut trees, in readiness for any fortunes.

Rapidly as the soldier ran, still the light-footed girl outstripped him,
and when he reached the sandy road, she had already loosened the reins
from the trees to which they had been attached, and held them in
readiness.

"Mount, mount" cried Lucia, "for your life! I will help you to lift her."

"I am better now," exclaimed Julia—"Oh ye Gods! and safe too! I can help
myself now! and in an instant she was seated behind the stout man-at-arms,
and clinging with both hands to his sword belt.

"If you see me no more, as I think you will not, Julia, tell Paullus,
Lucia saved you, and—died, for love of him! Now—ride! ride! ride! for your
life ride!"

And giving their good horses head they sprang forth, plying the rein and
scourge, at headlong speed.

As they ascended the first little hillock, they saw the troopers of
Catiline pouring out of the watch-tower gate, and thundering down the
slope toward the bridge, with furious shouts, at a rate scarcely inferior
to their own.

They had but one hope of safety. To reach the little bridge and pass it
before their pursuers should gain it, and cut off their retreat toward
their friends, whom they knew to be nigh at hand; but to do so appeared
well nigh impossible.

It was a little in their favor that the steeds of Catiline’s troopers had
been harassed by a long and unusually rapid night march, while their own
were fresh and full of spirit; but this advantage was neutralized at least
by the double weight which impeded the progress and bore down the energies
of the noble Thracian courser, bearing Julia and the soldier.

Again it was in their favor that the road on their side the chasm was
somewhat shorter and much more level than that by which Catiline and his
riders were straining every nerve, gallopping on a parallel line with the
tremulous and excited fugitives; but this advantage also was diminished by
the fact that they must turn twice at right angles—once to gain the
bridge, and once more into the high road beyond it—while the rebels had a
straight course, though down a hill side so steep that it might well be
called precipitous.

The day had by this time broken, and either party could see the other
clearly, even to the dresses of the men and the colors of the horses, not
above the sixth part of a mile being occupied by the valley of the stream
dividing the two roads.

For life! fire flashed from the flinty road at every bound of the brave
coursers, and blood flew from every whirl of the knotted thong; but
gallantly the high-blooded beasts answered it. At every bound they gained
a little on their pursuers, whose horses foamed and labored down the
abrupt descent, one or two of them falling and rolling over their riders,
so steep was the declivity.

For life! Catiline had gained the head of his party, and his black horse
had outstripped them by several lengths.

If the course had been longer the safety of the fugitives would have been
now certain; but so brief was the space and so little did they gain in
that awful race, that the nicest eye hardly could have calculated which
first would reach the bridge.

So secure of his prize was Catiline, that his keen blade was already out,
and as he bowed over his charger’s neck, goring his flanks with his bloody
spurs, he shouted in his hoarse demoniacal accents, "Victory and
vengeance!"

Still, hopeful and dauntless, the stout legionary gallopped on—"Courage!"
he exclaimed, "courage, lady, we shall first cross the bridge!"—

Had Lucia chosen it, with her light weight and splendid horsemanship, she
might easily have left Julia and the soldier, easily have crossed the
defile in advance of Catiline, easily have escaped his vengeance. But she
reined in white Ister, and held him well in hand behind the others,
muttering to herself in low determined accents, "She shall be saved, but
my time is come!"

Suddenly there was a hasty shout of alarm from the troopers on the other
side, "Hold, Catiline! Rein up! Rein up!" and several of the foremost
riders drew in their horses. Within a minute all except Catiline had
halted.

"They see our friends! they are close at hand! We are saved! by the
Immortal Gods! we are saved!" cried the legionary, with a cry of triumph.

But in reply, across the narrow gorge, came the hoarse roar of Catiline,
above the din of his thundering gallop.—"By Hades! Death! or vengeance!"

"Ride! ride!" shrieked Lucia from behind, "Ride, I say, fool! you are
_not_ saved! He will not halt for a beat when revenge spurs him! For your
life! ride!"

It was a fearful crisis.

The Thracian charger reached the bridge. The hollow arch resounded but
once under his clanging hoofs—the second stride cleared it. He wheeled
down the road, and Julia, pale as death, whose eyes had been closed in the
agony of that fearful expectation, unclosed them at the legionary’s joyous
shout, but closed them again in terror and despair with a faint shriek, as
they met the grim countenance of Catiline, distorted with every hellish
passion, and splashed with blood gouts from his reeking courser’s side,
thrust forward parallel nearly to the black courser’s foamy jaws—both
nearly within arm’s length of her, as it appeared to her excited fancy.

"We are lost! we are lost!" she screamed.

"We are saved! we are saved!" shouted the soldier as he saw coming up the
road at a gallop to meet them, the bronze casques and floating horse-hair
crests, and scarlet cloaks, of a whole squadron of legionary cavalry,
arrayed beneath a golden eagle—the head of their column scarcely distant
three hundred yards.

But they were not saved yet, nor would have been—for Catiline’s horse was
close upon their croupe and his uplifted blade almost flashed over
them—when, with a wild cry, Lucia dashed her white Ister at full speed, as
she crossed the bridge, athwart the counter of black Erebus.

The thundering speed at which the black horse came down the hill, and the
superior weight of himself and his rider, hurled the white palfrey and the
brave girl headlong; but his stride was checked, and, blown as he was, he
stumbled, and rolled over, horse and man.

A minute was enough to save them, and before Lucia had regained her feet,
the ranks of the new comers had opened to receive the fugitives, and had
halted around them, in some slight confusion.

"The Gods be blessed for ever!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and
raising her eyes to heaven. "I have saved her!"

"And lost thyself, thrice miserable fool!" hissed a hoarse well known
voice in her ear, as a heavy hand seized her by the shoulder, and twisted
her violently round.

She stood face to face with Catiline, and met his horrid glare of hate
with a glance prouder than his own and brighter. She smiled triumphantly,
as she said in a clear high voice,

"I have saved her!"

"For which, take thy reward, in this, and this, and this!"

And with the words he dealt her three stabs, the least of which was
mortal; but, even in that moment of dread passion, with fiendish ingenuity
he endeavored to avoid giving her a wound that should be directly fatal.

"There writhe, and howl, ’till slow death relieve you!"

"Meet end to such beginning!" cried the unhappy girl. "Adulterous parent!
incestuous seducer! kindred slayer! ha! ha! ha! ha!" and with a wild laugh
she fell to the ground and lay with her eyes closed, motionless and for
the moment senseless.

But he, with his child’s blood smoking on his hand, shook his sword aloft
fiercely against the legionaries, and leaping on his black horse which had
arisen from the ground unhurt by its fall, gallopped across the bridge;
and plunging through the underwood into the deep chesnut forest was lost
to the view of the soldiers, who had spurred up in pursuit of him, that
they abandoned it ere long as hopeless.

It was not long that Lucia lay oblivious of her sufferings. A sense of
fresh coolness on her brow, and the checked flow of the blood, which
gushed from those cruel wounds, were the first sensations of which she
became aware.

But, as she opened her eyes, they met well known and loving faces; and
soft hands were busy about her bleeding gashes; and hot tears were falling
on her poor pallid face from eyes that seldom wept.

Julia was kneeling at her side, Paullus Arvina was bending over her in
speechless gratitude, and sorrow; and the stern cavaliers of the legion,
unused to any soft emotions, stood round holding their chargers’ bridles
with frowning brows, and lips quivering with sentiments, which few of them
had experienced since the far days of their gentler boyhood.

"Oh! happy," she exclaimed, in a soft low tone, "how happy it is so to
die! and in dying to see thee, Paullus."

"Oh! no! no! no!" cried Julia, "you must not, shall not die! my friend, my
sister! O, tell her, Paullus, that she will not die, that she will yet be
spared to our prayers, our love, our gratitude, our veneration."

But Paullus spoke not; a soldier, and a man used to see death in all
shapes in the arena, he knew that there was no hope, and, had his life
depended on it, he could not, at that moment have deceived her.

Little, however, cared the dying girl for that; even if she had heard or
comprehended the appeal. Her ears, her mind, were full of other thoughts,
and a bright beautiful irradiation played over her wan lips and ashy
features, as she cried joyously, although her voice was very tremulous and
weak.

"Paullus, do you hear that? her friend! her sister! Paullus, Paullus, do
you hear that? Julia calls me her friend—me, me her sister! me the
disgraced—"

"Peace! peace! Dear Lucia! you must not speak such words!" said Paullus.
"Be your past errors what they may—and who am I, that I should talk of
errors?—this pure high love—this delicate devotion—this death most
heroical and glorious no! no! I cannot—" and the strong man bowed his head
upon his hands, and burst into an agony of tears and passion.

No revelation from on high had taught those poor Romans, that ’joy shall
be in heaven, over the sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and
nine just persons that need no repentance.’

Yet groping darkly on their way by the dim lights of nature and
philosophy, they had perceived, at least, that it is harder far for one
corrupted from her very childhood, corrupted by the very parents who
should have guided, with all her highest qualities of mind and body
perverted studiously till they had hardened into vices, to raise herself
erect at once from the slough of sensuality and sin, and spring aloft, as
the butterfly transmuted from the grub, into the purity and loveliness of
virtue—than for one, who hath known no trial, suffered no temptation, to
hold the path of rectitude unswerving.

And Julia, whose high soul and native delicacy were all incapable of
comprehending the nature, much less the seductions, of such degradation,
as that poor victim of parental villainy had undergone, saw clearly and
understood at a glance, the difficulty, the gloriousness, the wonder of
that beautiful regeneration.

"No, no. Dear Lucia, dear sister, if you love that name," she said in
soothing tones, holding her cold hands clasped in her own quivering
fingers, "indeed, indeed you must not think or speak of yourself thus.
Your sins, if you have sinned, are the sins of others, your virtues and
your excellence, all, all your own. I have heard many times of women, who
have fallen from high virtue, in spite of noble teachings, in spite of
high examples, and whom neither love nor shame could rescue from
pollution—but never, never, did I hear of one who so raised herself,
alone, unaided, in spite of evil teaching, in spite the atrocity of
others, in spite of infamous examples, to purity, devotion such as thine!
But, fear not, Lucia. Fear not, dearest girl, you shall not die, believe—"

"I do not fear, I desire it," said the dying girl, who was growing weaker
and fainter every moment. "To a life, and a love like mine, both guilty,
both unhappy, death is a refuge, not a terror; and if there be, as you
believe, who are so wise and virtuous, a place beyond the grave, where
souls parted here on earth, may meet and dwell in serene and tranquil
bliss, perhaps, I say, perhaps, Julia, this death may compensate that
life—this blood may wash away the sin, the shame, the pollution."

"Believe it, O believe it!" exclaimed Julia earnestly. "How else should
the Gods be all-great and all-wise; since vice triumphs often _here_, and
virtue pines in sorrow. Be sure, I say, be sure of it, there is a place
hereafter, where all sorrows shall be turned to joy, all sufferings
compensated, all inequalities made even. Be sure of that, dear Lucia."

"I am sure of it," she replied, a brighter gleam of pleasure crossing her
features, on which the hues of death were fast darkening. "I am sure of it
_now_. I think my mind grows clearer, as my body dies away. I see—I
see—there _is_ God! Julia—there is an hereafter—an eternity—rest for the
weary, joy for the woful! yes! yes! I see—I feel it. We shall meet, Julia.
We shall meet, Paullus, Paullus!" And she sank back fainting and
overpowered upon Julia’s bosom.

In a moment or two, however, she opened her eyes again, but it was clear
that the spirit was on the point of taking its departure.

"I am going!" she said in a very low voice. "I am going. His sword was
more merciful than its master.—Bury me in a nameless grave. Let no stone
tell the tale of unhappy, guilty Lucia. But come sometimes, Julia,
Paullus, and look where I lie; and sometimes—will you not sometimes
remember Lucia?"

"You shall live in our souls forever!" replied Julia, stooping down to
kiss her.

"In your arms, Paullus, in your arms! will you not let me, Julia? ’Twere
sweet to die in your arms, Paullus."—

"How can you ask?" cried Julia, who scarce could speak for the tears and
sobs, which almost choked her.

"Here, Paullus, take her, gently, gently."

"Oh! sweet—oh! happy!" she murmured, as she leaned her head against his
heart, and fixed her glazing eyes upon his features, and clasped his hand
with her poor dying fingers. "She told you, Paullus, that for your love I
died to save her!"

"She did—she did—dear, dearest Lucia!"—

"Kiss me," she whispered; "I am going very fast. Kiss me on the brow,
Paullus, where years ago you kissed me, when I was yet an innocent child."
Then, fancying that he hesitated, she cried, "you will let him kiss me,
now, will you not, Julia? He is yours"—

"Oh! kiss her, kiss her, Paullus," exclaimed Julia eagerly, "how could you
fancy, Lucia, that I should wish otherwise? kiss her lips, not her brow,
Paullus Arvina."

"Kiss me first thou, dear Julia. I _may_ call you dear."

"Dear Lucia, dearest sister!"

And the pure girl leaned over and pressed a long kiss on the cold lips of
the unhappy, guilty, regenerated being, whose death had won for her honor,
and life, and happiness.

"Now, Paullus, now," cried Lucia, raising herself from his bosom by a last
feeble effort, and stretching out her arms, "now, ere it be too late!"—

He bowed down to her and kissed her lips, and she clasped her arms close
about his neck, and returned that last chaste caress, murmuring "Paullus,
mine own in death, mine own, own Paullus!"—

There was a sudden rigor, a passing tremulous spasm, which ran through her
whole frame for a moment—her arms clasped his neck more tightly than
before, and then released their hold, all listless and unconscious—her
head fell back, with the eyes glazed and visionless, and the white lips
half open.

"She is dead, Julia!" exclaimed Paullus, who was not ashamed to weep at
that sad close of so young and sorrowful a life, "dead for our happiness!"

"Hush! hush!" cried Julia, who was still gazing on the face of the
dead—"There is a change—see! see! how beautiful, how tranquil!"—

And in truth a sweet placid smile had settled about the pallid mouth, and
nothing can be conceived more lovely than the calm, holy, pure expression
which breathed from every lineament of the lifeless countenance.

"She is gone, peace to her manes."

"She is at rest, now, Paullus, she is happy!" murmured Julia. "How
excellent she was, how true, how brave, how devoted! Oh! yes! I doubt not,
she is happy."

"The Gods grant it!" he replied fervently. "But I have yet a duty," and
drawing his short straight sword he severed one long dark curl from the
lifeless head, and raising it aloft in his left hand, while with the right
he pointed heavenward the gleaming steel, "Ye Gods!" he cried, "supernal
and infernal! and ye spirits and powers, shades of the mighty dead! Hear
earth, and heaven, and thou Tartarus! by this good steel, by this right
hand, in presence of this sacred dead, I swear, I devote Catiline and his
hated head to vengeance! By this sword may he perish; may this hair be
steeped in his lifeblood; may he know himself, when dying, the victim of
my vengeance—may dogs eat his body—and his unburied spirit know neither
Tartarus nor Elysium!"—

It was strange, but as he ceased from that wild imprecation, a faint flash
of lightning veined the remote horizon, and a low clap of thunder rumbled
afar off, echoing among the hills—perchance the last of a storm, unheard
before and unnoticed by the distracted minds of the spectators of that
scene.

But the superstitious Romans accepted it as an omen.

"Thunder!"—cried one.

"The Gods have spoken!"—

"I hail the omen!" exclaimed Paullus, sheathing his sword, and thrusting
the tress of hair into his bosom. "By my hand shall he perish!"

And thenceforth, it was believed generally by the soldiers, that in the
coming struggle Catiline was destined to fall, and by the hand of Paul
Arvina.





CHAPTER XIX.


THE EVE OF BATTLE.


        Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased.
                  MACBETH.

Nearly a fortnight had elapsed since the rescue of Julia, and the sad
death of Catiline’s unhappy daughter, and yet the battle which was daily
and hourly expected, had not been fought.

With rare ability and generalship, Catiline had avoided an action with the
troops of Antonius, marching and countermarching among the rugged passes
of the Appennines, now toward Rome, now toward Gaul, keeping the enemy
constantly on the alert, harassing the consul’s outposts, threatening the
city itself with an assault, and maintaining with studious skill that
appearance of mystery, which is so potent an instrument whether to terrify
or to fascinate the vulgar mind.

During this period the celerity of his movements had been such that his
little host appeared to be almost ubiquitous, and men knew not where to
look for his descent, or how to anticipate the blow, which he evidently
had it in contemplation to deliver.

In the meantime, he had given such of his adherents as fled from Rome
immediately on the execution of the conspirators, an opportunity to join
him, and many had in fact done so with their clients, and bands of
gladiators.

The disaffected of the open country had all united themselves to him; and
having commenced operations with a force not exceeding two thousand men,
he was now at the head of six times that number, whom he had formed into
two complete legions, and disciplined them with equal assiduity and
success.

Now, however, the time had arrived when it was for his advantage no longer
to avoid an encounter with the troops of the commonwealth; for having
gained all that he proposed to himself by his dilatory movements and
Fabian policy, time namely for the concentration of his adherents, and
opportunity to discipline his men, he now began to suffer from the
inconveniences of the system.

Unsupplied with magazines, or any regular supply of provisions, his army
like a flight of locusts had stripped the country bare at every halting
place, and that wild hill country had few resources, even when shorn by
the licentious band of his desperadoes, upon which to support an army. The
consequence, therefore, of his incessant hurrying to and fro, was that the
valleys of the mountain chain which he had made the theatre of his
campaign, were now utterly exhausted; that his beasts of burden were
broken down and foundered; and that the line of his march might be traced
by the carcasses of mules and horses which had given out by the wayside,
and by the flights of carrion birds which hovered in clouds about his
rear, prescient of the coming carnage.

His first attempt was to elude Metellus Celer, who had marched down from
the Picene district on the Adriatic sea, with great rapidity, and taken
post at the foot of the mountains, on the head waters of the streams which
flow down into the great plain of the Po.

In this attempt he had been frustrated by the ability of the officer who
was opposed to him, who had raised no less than three legions fully
equipped for war.

By him every movement of the conspirator was anticipated, and met by some
corresponding measure, which rendered it abortive. Nor was it, any longer,
difficult for him to penetrate the designs of Catiline, since the
peasantry and mountaineers, who had throughout that district been
favorable to the conspiracy in the first instance, and who were prepared
to favor any design which promised to deliver them from inexorable
taxation, had been by this time so unmercifully plundered and harassed by
that banditti, that they were now as willing to betray Catiline to the
Romans, as they had been desirous before of giving the Romans into his
hands at disadvantage.

Fully aware of all these facts, and knowing farther that Antonius had now
come up so close to his rear, with a large army, that he was in imminent
danger of being surrounded and taken between two fires, the desperate
traitor suddenly took the boldest and perhaps the wisest measure.

Wheeling directly round he turned his back toward Gaul, whither he had
been marching, and set his face toward the city. Then making three great
forced marches he came upon the army of Antonius, as it was in column of
march, among the heights above Pistoria, and had there been daylight for
the attack when the heads of the consul’s cohorts were discovered, it is
possible that he might have forced him to fight at disadvantage, and even
defeated him.

In that case there would have been no force capable of opposing him on
that side Rome, and every probability would have been in favor of his
making himself master of the city, a success which would have gone far to
insure his triumph.

It was late in the evening, however, when the hostile armies came into
presence, each of the other, and on that account, and, perhaps, for
another and stronger reason, Catiline determined on foregoing the
advantages of a surprise.

Caius Antonius, the consul in command, it must be remembered, had been one
of the original confederates in Catiline’s first scheme of massacre and
conflagration, which had been defeated by the unexpected death of Curius
Piso.

Detached from the conspiracy only by Cicero’s rare skill, and
disinterested cession to him of the rich province of Macedonia, Antonius
might therefore justly be supposed unlikely to urge matters to extremities
against his quondam comrades; and it was probably in no small degree on
this account that Catiline had resolved on trying the chances of battle
rather against an old friend, than against an enemy so fixed, and of so
resolute patrician principles as Metellus Celer.

He thought, moreover, that it was just within the calculation of chances
that Antonius might either purposely mismanœuvre, so as to allow him to
descend upon Rome without a battle, or adopt such tactics as should give
him a victory.

He halted his army, therefore, in a little gorge of the hills opening out
upon a level plain, flanked on the left by the steep acclivities of the
mountain, which towered in that direction, ridge above ridge,
inaccessible, and on the right by a rugged and rocky spur, jutting out
from the same ridge, by which his line of battle would be rendered
entirely unassailable on the flanks and rear.

In this wild spot, amid huge gray rocks, and hanging woods of ancient
chesnuts and wild olive, as gray and hoary as the stones among which they
grew, he had pitched his camp, and now lay awaiting in grim anticipation
what the morrow should bring forth; while, opposite to his front, on a
lower plateau of the same eminence, the great army of the consul might be
descried, with its regular entrenchments and superb array of tents, its
forests of gleaming spears, and its innumerable ensigns, glancing and
waving in the cold wintry moonshine.

The mind of the traitor was darker and more gloomy than its wont. He had
supped with his officers, Manlius and a nobleman of Fæsulæ, whose name the
historian has not recorded, who held the third rank in the rebel army, but
their fare had been meagre and insipid, their wines the thin vintage of
that hill country; a little attempt at festivity had been made, but it had
failed altogether; the spirits of the men, although undaunted and prepared
to dare the utmost, lacked all that fiery and enthusiastic ardor, which
kindles patriot breasts with a flame so pure and pervading, on the eve of
the most desperate encounters.

Enemies of their country, enemies almost of mankind, these desperadoes
were prepared to fight desperately, to fight unto the death, because to
win was their only salvation, and, if defeated, death their only refuge.

But for them there was no grand heart-elevating spur to action, no fame to
be won, no deathless name to be purchased—their names deathless already,
as they knew too well, through black infamy!—no grateful country’s
praises, to be gained cheaply by a soldier’s death!—no! there were none of
these things.

All their excitements were temporal, sensual, earthy. The hope to conquer,
the lust to bask in the sunshine of power, the desire to revel at ease in
boundless luxury and riot.

And against these, the rewards of victory, what were the penalties of
defeat—death, infamy, the hatred and the scorn of ages.

The wicked have no friends. Never, perhaps, was this fact exemplified more
clearly than on that battle eve. Community of guilt, indeed, bound those
vicious souls together—community of interests, of fears, of perils, held
them in league—yet, feeling as they did feel that their sole chance of
safety lay in the maintenance of that confederation, each looked with evil
eyes upon his neighbor, each almost hated the others, accusing them
internally of having drawn them into their present perilous peril, of
having failed at need, or of being swayed by selfish motives only.

So little truth there is in the principle, which Catiline had set forth in
his first address to his banded parricides, "that the community of desires
and dislikes constitutes, in one word, true friendship!"—

And now so darkly did their destiny lower on those depraved and ruined
spirits, that even their recklessness, that last light which emanates from
crime in despair, had burned out, and the furies of conscience,—that
conscience which they had so often stifled, so often laughed to scorn, so
often drowned with riot and debauch, so often silenced by fierce
sophistry—now hunted them, harpies of the soul, worse than the fabulous
Eumenides of parricide Orestes.

The gloomy meal was ended; the parties separated, all of them, as it would
seem, relieved by the termination of those mock festivities which, while
they brought no gayity to the heart, imposed a necessity of seeming
mirthful and at ease, when they were in truth disturbed by dark thoughts
of the past, and terrible forebodings of the future.

As soon as his guests had departed and the traitor was left alone, he
arose from his seat, according to his custom, and began to pace the room
with vehement and rapid strides, gesticulating wildly, and muttering
sentences, the terrible oaths and blasphemies of which were alone audible.

Just at this time a prolonged flourish of trumpets from without, announced
the changing of the watch. It was nine o’clock. "Ha! the third hour!"
already, he exclaimed, starting as he heard the wild blast, "and Chærea
not yet returned from Antonius. Can it be that the dog freedman has played
me false, or can Antonius have seized him as a hostage?—I will go forth,"
he added, after a short pause, "I will go forth, and observe the night."

And throwing a large cloak over his armor, and putting a broad-brimmed
felt hat upon his head, in lieu of the high crested helmet, he sallied out
into the camp, carrying in addition to his sword a short massive javelin
in his right hand.

The night was extremely dark and murky. The moon had not yet risen, and
but for the camp-fires of the two armies, it would have been impossible to
walk any distance without the aid of a torch or lantern. A faint lurid
light was dispersed from these, however, over the whole sky, and thence
was reflected weakly on the rugged and broken ground which lay between the
entrenched lines of the two hosts.

For a while, concealed entirely by his disguise, Catiline wandered through
the long streets of tents, listening to the conversation of the soldiers
about the watch-fires, their strange superstitious legends, and old
traditionary songs; and, to say truth, the heart of that desperate man was
somewhat lightened by his discovery that the spirits of the men were alert
and eager for the battle, their temper keen and courageous, their
confidence in the prowess and ability of their chief unbounded.

"He is the best soldier, since the days of Sylla," said one gray-headed
veteran, whose face was scarred by the Pontic scymetars of Mithridates.

"He is a better soldier in the field, than ever Sylla was, by Hercules!"
replied another.

"Aye! in the field! Sylla, I have heard say, rarely unsheathed his sword,
and never led his men to hand and hand encounter," interposed a younger
man, than the old colonists to whom he spoke.

"It is the head to plan, not the hand to execute, that makes the great
captain. Caius, or Marcus, Titus or Tullus, can any one of them strike
home as far, perhaps farther, than your Syllas or your Catilines."

"By Mars! I much doubt it!" cried another. "I would back Catiline with
sword and buckler against the stoutest and the deftest gladiator that ever
wielded blade. He is as active and as strong as a Libyan tiger."

"Aye! and as merciless."

"May the foe find him so to-morrow!"

"To-morrow, by the Gods! I wish it were to-morrow. It is cold work this,
whereas, to-morrow night, I promise you, we shall be ransacking Antonius’
camp, with store of choice wines, and rare viands."

"But who shall live to share them is another question."

"One which concerns not those who win."

"And by the God of Battles! we will do that to-morrow, let who may fall
asleep, and who may keep awake to tell of it."

"A sound sleep to the slumberers, a merry rouse to the quick boys, who
shall keep waking!" shouted another, and the cups were brimmed, and
quaffed amid a storm of loud tumultuous cheering.

Under cover of this tumult, Catiline withdrew from the neighborhood, into
which he had intruded with the stealthy pace of the beast to which the
soldiers had compared him; and as he retired, he muttered to himself—"They
are in the right frame of mind—of the right stuff to win—and yet—and yet—"
he paused, and shook his head gloomily, as if he dared not trust his own
lips to complete the sentence he had thus begun.

A moment afterward he exclaimed—"But Chærea! but Chærea! how long the
villain tarries! By heaven! I will go forth and meet him."

And suiting the action to the word, he walked rapidly down the Quintana or
central way to the Prætorian gate, there giving the word to the
night-watch in a whisper, and showing his grim face to the half-astonished
sentinel on duty, he passed out of the lines, alone and unguarded.

After advancing a few paces, he was challenged again by the pickets of the
velites, who were thrust out in advance of the gates, and again giving the
word was suffered to pass on, and now stood beyond the farthest outpost of
his army.

Cautiously and silently, but with a swift step and determined air, he now
advanced directly toward the front of the Roman entrenchments, which lay
at a little more than a mile’s distance from his own lines, and ere long
reached a knoll or hillock which would by daylight have commanded a
complete view of the whole area of the consul’s camp, not being much out
of a sling’s cast from the ramparts.

The camp of the consul lay on the slope of a hill, so that the rear was
considerably higher than the front; Catiline’s eye, as he stood on that
little eminence, could therefore clearly discern all the different streets
and divisions of the camp, by the long lines of lamps and torches which
blazed along the several avenues, and he gazed anxiously and long, at that
strange silent picture.

With the exception of a slight clash and clang heard at times on the
walls, where the skirmishers were going on their rounds, and the neigh of
some restless charger, there was nothing that should have indicated to the
ear that nearly twenty thousand men were sleeping among those tented lines
of light—sleeping how many of them their last natural slumber.

No thoughts of that kind, however, intruded on the mind of the desperado.

Careless of human life, reckless of human suffering, he gazed only with
his enquiring glance of profound penetration, hoping to espy something,
whereby he might learn the fate—not of his messenger, that was to him a
matter of supreme indifference—but of his message to Antonius.

Nor was he very long in doubt on this head; for while he was yet gazing,
there was a bustle clearly perceptible about the prætorium, lights were
seen flitting to and fro, voices were heard calling and answering to one
another, and then the din of hammers and sounds of busy preparation.

This might have lasted perchance half an hour, to the great amazement of
the traitor, who could not conceive the meaning of that nocturnal hubbub,
when the clang of harness succeeded by the heavy regular tramp of men
marching followed the turmoil, and, with many torches borne before them,
the spears and eagle of a cohort were seen coming rapidly toward the
Prætorian Gate.

"By Hecate!" cried Catiline—"what may this mean, I wonder. They are too
few for an assault, nay! even for a false alarm. They have halted at the
gate! By the Gods! they are filing out! they march hitherward! and lo!
Manlius is aware of them. I will risk something to tarry here and watch
them."

As he spoke, the cohort marched forward, straight on the hillock where he
stood; and so far was it from seeking to conceal its whereabout, that its
trumpets were blown frequently and loudly, as if to attract observation.

Meantime the camp of Catiline was on the alert also, the ramparts were
lined with torches, by the red glare of which the legionaries might be
seen mustering in dense array with shields in serried order, and spear
heads twinkling in the torch-light.

As the cohorts approached the hill, Catiline fell back toward his own camp
a little, and soon found shelter in a small thicket of holleys and wild
myrtle which would effectually conceal him from the enemy, while he could
observe their every motion from its safe covert.

On the hillock, the cohort halted—one manipule stood to its arms in front,
while the rest formed a hollow square, all facing outward around its
summit. The torches were lowered, so that with all his endeavors, Catiline
could by no means discover what was in process within that guarded space.

Again the din of hammers rose on his ear, mixed now with groans and
agonizing supplications, which waxed at length into a fearful howl, the
utterance of one, past doubt, in more than mortal agony.

A strange and terrible suspicion broke upon Catiline, and the sweat
started in beadlike drops from his sallow brow. It was not long ere that
suspicion became certainty.

The clang of the hammers ceased; the wild howls sank into a continuous
weak pitiful wailing. The creak of pullies and cordage, the shouts of men
plying levers, and hauling ropes, succeeded, and slowly sullenly uprose,
hardly seen in the black night air, a huge black cross. It reached its
elevation, and was made fast in almost less time than it has taken to
relate it, and instantly a pile of faggots which had been raised a short
distance in front if it, and steeped in oil or some other unctuous matter,
was set on fire.

A tall wavering snowwhite glare shot upward, and revealed, writhing in
agony, and wailing wofully, the naked form of Chærea, bleeding at every
pore from the effects of the merciless Roman scourging, nailed on the
fatal cross.

So near was the little thicket in which Catiline lay, that he could mark
every sinew of that gory frame working in agony, could read every twitch
of those convulsed features.

Again the Roman trumpets were blown shrill and piercing, and a centurion
stepping forward a little way in front of the advanced manipule, shouted
at the pitch of his voice,

"THUS PERISH ALL THE MESSENGERS OF PARRICIDES AND TRAITORS!"

Excited, almost beyond his powers of endurance, by what he beheld and
heard, the fierce traitor writhed in his hiding place, not sixty paces
distant from the speaker, and gnashed his teeth in impotent malignity. His
fingers griped the tough shaft of his massive pilum, as if they would have
left their prints in the close-grained ash.

While that ferocious spirit was yet strong within him, the wretched
freedman, half frenzied doubtless by his tortures, lifted his voice in a
wild cry on his master—

"Catiline! Catiline!" he shrieked so thrillingly that every man in both
camps heard every syllable distinct and clear. "Chærea calls on Catiline.
Help! save! Avenge! Catiline! Catiline!"

A loud hoarse laugh burst from the Roman legionaries, and the centurion
shouted in derision.

But at that instant the desperate spectator of that horrid scene sprang to
his feet reckless, and shouting, as he leaped into the circle of bright
radiance,

"Catiline hears Chærea, and delivers,"—hurled his massive javelin with
deadly aim at his tortured servant.

It was the first blow Catiline ever dealt in mercy, and mercifully did it
perform its errand.

The broad head was buried in the naked breast of the victim, and with one
sob, one shudder, the spirit was released from the tortured clay.

Had a thunderbolt fallen among the cohort, the men could not have been
more stunned—more astounded. Before they had sufficiently recovered from
their shock to cast a missile at him, much less to start forth in pursuit,
he was half way toward his own camp in safety; and ere long a prolonged
burst, again and again reiterated, of joyous acclamations, told to the
consular camp that the traitors knew and appreciated the strange and
dauntless daring of their almost ubiquitous leader.

An hour afterward that leader was alone, in his tent, stretched on his
couch, sleeping. But oh! that sleep—not gentle slumber, not nature’s soft
nurse—but nature’s horrible convulsion! The eyes wide open, glaring,
dilated in their sockets as of a strangled man—the brow beaded with black
sweat drops—the teeth grinded together—the white lips muttering words too
horrible to be recorded—the talon-like fingers clutching at vacancy.

It was too horrible to last. With a wild cry, "Lucia! Ha! Lucia! Fury!
Avenger! Fiend!" he started to his feet, and glared around him with a
bewildered eye, as if expecting to behold some ghastly supernatural
visitant.

At length, he said, with a shudder—which he could not repress, "It was a
dream! A dream—but ye Gods! what a dream! I will sleep no more—’till
to-morrow. To-morrow," he repeated in a doubtful and enquiring tone,
"to-morrow. If I should fall to-morrow, and such dreams come in that sleep
which hath no waking, those dreams should be reality—that reality should
be—HELL! I know not—I begin to doubt some things, which of yore I held
certain! What if there should be Gods! avenging, everlasting torturers! If
there should be a HELL! Ha! ha!" he laughed wildly and almost frantically.
"Ha! ha! what matters it? Methinks this is a hell already!" and with the
words he struck his hand heavily on his broad breast, and relapsed into
gloomy and sullen meditation.

That night he slept no more, but strode backward and forward hour after
hour, gnawing his nether lip till the blood streamed from the wounds
inflicted by his unconscious teeth.

What awful and mysterious retribution might await him in the land of
spirits, it is not for mortals to premise; but in this at least did he
speak truth that night—conscience and crime may kindle in the human heart
a Hell, which nothing can extinguish, so long as the soul live identical
self-knowing, self-tormenting.





CHAPTER XX.


THE FIELD OF PISTORIA.


      Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath,
      Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
                  MACBETH.

The first faint streaks of day were scarcely visible in the east, when
Catiline, glad to escape the horrors which he had endured through the dark
solitude of the night watches, issued from his tent, armed at all points,
and every inch a captain.

All irresolution, all doubt, all nervousness had passed away. Energy and
the strong excitement of the moment had overpowered conscience; and
looking on his high, haughty port, his cold hard eye, his resolute
impassive face, one would have said that man, at least, never trembled at
realities, far less at shadows.

But who shall say in truth, which are the shadows of this world, which the
realities? Many a one, it may be, will find to his sorrow, when the great
day shall come, that the hard, selfish, narrow fact, the reality after
which his whole life was a chase, a struggle, is but the shadow of a
shade; the unsubstantial good, the scholar’s or the poet’s dream, which he
scorned as an empty nothing, is an immortal truth, an everlasting and
immutable reality.

Catiline shook at shadows, whom not the ’substance of ten thousand
soldiers armed in proof,’ could move, unless it were to emulation and
defiance.

Which were in truth more real, more substantial causes of dismay, those
shadows which appalled him, or those realities which he despised.

Ere that sun set, upon whose rising he gazed with an eye so calm and
steadfast, that question, to him at least, was solved for ever—to us it
is, perhaps, still a question.

But, at that moment, he thought nothing of the past, nothing of the
future. The present claimed his whole undivided mind, and to the present
he surrendered it, abstracted from all speculations, clear and unclouded,
and pervading as an eagle’s vision.

All his arrangements for the day had been made on the previous night so
perfectly, that the troops were already filing out from the Prætorian gate
in orderly array, and taking their ground on the little plain at the mouth
of the gorge, in the order of battle which had been determined by the
chiefs beforehand.

The space which he had selected whereon to receive the attack of Antonius’
army, was indeed admirably chosen. It front it was so narrow, that eight
cohorts, drawn up in a line ten deep, according to the Roman usage, filled
it completely; behind these, the twelve remaining cohorts, which completed
the force of his two legions, were arrayed in reserve in denser and more
solid order, the interval between the mountains on the left, and the
craggy hill on the right, which protected his flanks, being much narrower
as it ascended toward the gorge in which the rebel camp was pitched.

In front of the army, there was a small plain, perfectly level, lying in
an amphitheatre, as it were, of rocks and mountains, with neither thicket,
brake, nor hillock to mar its smooth expanse or hinder the shock of
armies, and extending perhaps half a mile toward the consular army. Below
this, the ground fell off in a long abrupt and rugged declivity, somewhat
exceeding a second half mile in length, with many thickets and clumps of
trees on its slope, and the hillock at its foot, whereon still frowned
Chærea’s cross with the gory and hideous carcase, already blackened by the
frosty night wind, hanging from its rough timbers, an awful omen to that
army of desperate traitors.

Beyond that hillock, the ground swelled again into a lofty ridge, facing
the mouth of the gorge in which Catiline had arrayed his army, with all
advantages of position, sun and wind in his favor.

The sun rose splendid and unclouded, and as his long rays streamed through
the hollows in the mountain top, nothing can be conceived more wildly
romantic than the mountain scene, more gorgeous and exciting than the
living picture, which they illuminated.

The hoary pinnacles of the huge mountains with their crowns of
thunder-splintered rocks, the eyries of innumerable birds of prey,
gleaming all golden in the splendors of the dawn—their long abrupt
declivities, broken with crags, feathered with gray and leafless forests,
and dotted here and there with masses of rich evergreens, all bathed in
soft and misty light—and at the base of them the mouth of the deep gorge,
a gulf of massive purple shadow, through which could be descried
indistinctly the lines of the deserted palisades and ramparts, whence had
marched out that mass of living valor, which now was arrayed in splendid
order, just where the broad rays, sweeping down the hills, dwelt in their
morning glory.

Motionless they stood in their solid formation, as living statues, one
mass, as it appeared, of gold and scarlet; for all their casques and
shields and corslets were of bright burnished bronze, and all the cassocks
of the men, and cloaks of the officers of the vivid hue, named from the
flower of the pomegranate; so that, to borrow a splendid image of Xenophon
describing the array of the ten thousand, the whole army lightened with
brass, and bloomed with crimson.

And now, from the camp in the rear a splendid train came sweeping at full
speed, with waving crests of crimson horse-hair dancing above their
gleaming helmets, and a broad banner fluttering in the air, under the
well-known silver eagle, the tutelar bird of Marius, the God of the
arch-traitor’s sacrilegious worship.

Armed in bright steel, these were the body guard of Catiline, three
hundred chosen veterans, the clients of his own and the Cornelian houses,
men steeped to the lips in infamy and crime, soldiers of fifty victories,
Sylla’s atrocious colonists.

Mounted on splendid Thracian chargers, with Catiline at their head,
enthroned like a conquering king on his superb black Erebus, they came
sweeping at full gallop through the intervals of the foot, and, as they
reached the front of the array, wheeled up at once into a long single
line, facing their infantry, and at a single wafture of their leader’s
hand, halted all like a single man.

Then riding forward at a foot’s pace into the interval between the horse
and foot, Catiline passed along the whole line from end to end, surveying
every man, and taking in with his rapid and instinctive glance, every
minute detail in silence.

At the right wing, which Manlius commanded, he paused a moment or two, and
spoke eagerly but shortly to his subordinate; but when he reached the
extreme left he merely nodded his approbation to the Florentine, crying
aloud in his deep tones the one word, "Remember!"

Then gallopping back at the top of his horse’s speed to the eagle which
stood in front of the centre, he checked black Erebus so suddenly that he
reared bolt upright and stood for a second’s space pawing the vacant air,
uncertain if he could recover that rude impulse. But the rare horsemanship
of Catiline prevailed, and horse and man stood statue-like and immoveable.

Then, pitching his voice so high and clear that every man of that dense
host could hear and follow him, he burst abruptly into the spirited and
stirring speech which has been preserved complete by the most elegant(15)
of Roman writers.

"Soldiers, I hold it an established fact, that words cannot give
valor—that a weak army cannot be made strong, nor a coward army brave, by
any speech of their commander. How much audacity is given to each man’s
spirit, by nature, or by habit, so much will be displayed in battle. Whom
neither glory nor peril can excite, you shall exhort in vain. Terror
deafens the ears of his intellect. I have convoked you, therefore, not to
exhort, but to admonish you in brief, and to inform you of the causes of
my counsel. Soldiers, you all well know how terrible a disaster the
cowardice and sloth of Lentulus brought on himself and us; and how,
expecting reinforcements from the city, I was hindered from marching into
Gaul. Now I would have you understand, all equally with me, in what
condition we are placed. The armies of our enemy, two in number, one from
the city, the other from the side of Gaul, are pressing hard upon us. In
this place, were it our interest to do so, we can hold out no longer, the
scarcity of corn and forage forbid that. Whithersoever we desire to go,
our path must be opened by the sword. Wherefore I warn you that you be of
a bold and ready spirit; and, when the battle have commenced, that ye
remember this, that in your own right hand ye carry wealth, honor, glory,
moreover liberty and your country. Victorious, all things are safe to us,
supplies in abundance shall be ours, the colonies and free boroughs will
open their gates to us. Failing, through cowardice, these self-same things
will become hostile to us. Not any place nor any friend shall protect him,
whom his own arms have not protected. However, soldiers, the same
necessity doth not actuate us and our enemies. We fight for our country,
our liberty, our life! To them it is supererogatory to do battle for the
power of a few nobles. Wherefore, fall on with the greater boldness,
mindful of your own valor. We might all of us, have passed our lives in
utter infamy as exiles; a few of you, stripped of your property, might
still have dwelt in Rome, coveting that of your neighbors. Because these
things appeared too base and foul for men’s endurance, you resolved upon
this career. If you would quit it, you must perforce be bold. No one,
except victorious, hath ever exchanged war for peace. Since to expect
safety from flight, when you have turned away from the foe, that armor
which defends the body, is indeed madness. Always in battle to who most
fears, there is most peril. Valor stands as a wall to shield its
possessor. Soldiers, when I consider you, and recall to mind your deeds,
great hopes of victory possess me. Your spirit, age, and valor, give me
confidence; moreover that necessity of conquest, which renders even
cowards brave. As for the numbers of the enemy, the defiles will not
permit them to surround you. And yet, should Fortune prove jealous of your
valor, beware that ye lose not your lives unavenged; beware that, being
captured, ye be not rather butchered like sheep, than slain fighting like
men, and leaving to your foes a victory of blood and lamentation."

He ceased, and what a shout went up, seeming to shake the earth-fast hill,
scaring the eagles from their high nests, and rolling in long echoes, like
reverberated thunder among the resounding hills. Twice, thrice, that soul
fraught acclamation pealed up to heaven, sure token of resolution unto
death, in the hardened hearts of that desperate banditti.

Catiline drank delighted inspiration from the sound, and cried in
triumphant tones:

"Enough! your shout is prophetic! Soldiers, already we have conquered!"

Then leaping from his charger to the ground, he turned to his body-guard,
exclaiming,

"To fight, my friends, we have no need of horses; to fly we desire them
not! On foot we must conquer, or on foot die! In all events, our peril as
our hope must be equal. Dismount then, all of ye, and leading your
chargers to the rear slay them; so shall we all run equal in this race of
death or glory!"

And, with the word, leading his superb horse through the intervals between
the cohorts of the foot, he drew his heavy sword, and smote him one
tremendous blow which clove through spine and muscle, through artery and
vein and gullet, severing the beauteous head from the graceful and
swanlike neck, and hurling the noble animal to the earth a motionless and
quivering mass.

It was most characteristic of the ruthless and brutal temper of that
parricidal monster, that he cut down the noble animal which had so long
and so gallantly borne him, which had saved his life more than once by its
speed and courage, which followed him, fed from his hand, obeyed his
voice, like a dog, almost like a child, without the slightest show of pity
or compunction.

Many bad, cruel, savage-hearted men, ruthless to their own fellows, have
proved themselves not devoid altogether of humanity by their love to some
faithful animal, but it would seem that this most atrocious of mankind
lacked even the "one touch of nature which makes the whole world kin."

He killed his favorite horse, the only friend, perhaps, that he possessed
on earth, not only unreluctant, but with a sort of savage glee, and a
sneering jest—

"If things go ill with us to day, I shall be fitly horsed on Erebus, by
Hades!"

Then, hurrying to the van, he took post with his three hundred, and all
the picked centurions and veterans of the reserve, mustered beneath the
famous Cimbric Eagle, in the centre of the first rank, prepared to play
out to the last his desperate and deadly game, the ablest chief, and the
most daring soldier, that ever buckled blade for parricide and treason.





CHAPTER XXI.


THE BATTLE.


       At least we’ll die with harness on our back.
                  MACBETH.

It was indeed time that the last arrangements of the traitor were
completed; for, long since, from the gates of the Consular camp the great
army of the enemy had been filing out, and falling into order, not a mile
distant.

One third, at least, superior to the rebel host in numbers, the loyal
soldiers were as high in spirit, as firm in resolution; were better armed,
better officered, and, above all, strong in a better cause.

Nor if those had the incentive of despair to spur them to great deeds, did
these lack a yet stronger stimulus to action. There were bright eyes, and
fair forms in their camp, dependent on their victory for life, and, yet
dearer, honor. So great was the terror spread through those regions by the
name of Catiline, and by the outrages committed already by his barbarous
banditti, that all the female nobility of the provinces, wherein the war
was waging, had fled to the Roman camp, as to their only place of safety.

For all that district was ripe for insurrection; the borough towns awaited
only the first sunshine of success, to join the rebellion; the rural
slaves were, to a man, false at heart; and it was evident to all that the
slightest check of the Consular forces would be the signal for tumult,
massacre, and conflagration in the provincial towns, for all the horrors
of a servile rising in the champaign.

Flight to Rome was impossible, since all the villainy and desperate crime
of the land was afloat, and every where, beyond the outposts of Antonius’
head quarters, the roads were infested with banditti, runaway slaves, and
rustic robbers.

To the camp, therefore, had all the patricians of the district flocked,
the men as volunteers, with such of their clients as they could trust, and
such of their wealth as was portable; the women as suppliants, tearful and
terrified, for Rome’s powerful protection.

Meanwhile, for leagues around, by day the open country was seen blackened
by numberless columns of smoke, by night flashing with numberless pyres of
flame, the blaze of country seats and villas; and terror was on all sides,
murder and rape, havoc and desolation.

The minds of the Roman soldiery were inflamed, therefore, to the utmost;
the sight of the ravaged country, the charms, the tears, the terrors of
the suppliant ladies, had kindled all that was patriotic, all that was
generous, all that was manly in their nature; and it was with
deep-recorded vows of vengeance that they had buckled on their armor, and
grinded their thirsty swords for the conflict.

But throughout all that ardent host there was not one so determined, so
calm in his resolved ire, so deadly bent on vengeance, as Paullus Arvina.

Julia was in the camp; for no means had occurred of sending her to Rome in
safety, and her high counsels, her noble feminine courage, would have
given birth alone to contagious valor in her lover’s spirit, had he been
weak and faltering as of old between his principles and his passions.

But it was not so. The stern trials to which his constancy had been
subjected, the fearful strife of the hottest passions which had raged so
long in his bosom, had hardened him like steel thrice tempered in the
furnace, and he was now no longer the impulsive, enthusiastic, changeful
stripling, in whom to-day’s imagination swept away yesterday’s resolve,
but a cool, resolute, thoughtful man.

It is events, not years, which make men old or young. It is adversity and
trial, not ease and prosperity, which make men, from dwarfs, giants.

And events had so crowded on the boy in the last few months, that those
months had matured his wisdom more than all the years of his previous
life. Adversity and trial had so swelled his mental stature, that aged men
might have been proud to cope with him in counsel, strong men to rival him
in execution.

The sun was already high in heaven, when the cavalry of the seventh
legion, which had been selected to act as the general’s escort, in
addition to the Prætorian cohort of infantry, swept forth from the gates,
following Petreius, who, although holding the second rank only in the
army, was actually in command; Antonius, on the pretext of a fit of the
gout, having declined to lead that day.

The men were already marshalled at the base of the ascent, leading to the
narrow plain on which, as in the amphitheatre, the fight was to be fought
out hand to hand, with little room for generalship, or intricate
manoeuvring, but every opportunity for the display of mortal strength and
desperate gallantry.

Here they had halted, on the verge of the broken ground, awaiting the
arrival of their general in chief to reform their array, and complete
their preparations, before advancing to the attack.

The lines of the enemy were concealed from them by the abrupt acclivity,
and the level space on the top of the plateau, which intervened between
the hosts; and it seemed probable that an officer of Catiline’s intuitive
eye and rapid resource, would not fail to profit by the difficulties of
the ground, in order to assail the consular troops while struggling among
the rocks and thickets which encumbered the ascent. It behoved, therefore,
to hold the men well in hand, to fortify the heads of the advancing
columns with the best soldiers, and to be ready with reinforcements at all
points; and to this end Petreius had ordered a brief halt, before
attacking.

So eager were the spirits of the men, however, and so hot for the
encounter, that they were murmuring already almost angrily, and calling on
their centurions and tribunes to lead them at once to the shock.

The fierce acclamations of the rebels, consequent on the address of
Catiline, had kindled not daunted the brave indignation which possessed
them; and stung, as it were, by some personal insult, each soldier of the
array burned to be at it.

So stood the case, when, escorted by the magnificent array of the
legionary horse, Petreius gallopped through the ranks. A military man, by
habit as by nature, who had served for more than thirty years as tribune,
præfect of allies, commander of a legion, and lastly prætor, all with
exceeding great distinction, he knew nearly all the men in his ranks by
sight, was acquainted with their services and honors, had led them
oftentimes to glory, and was their especial favorite.

He made no set speech, therefore, to his legions, but as he gallopped
through the lines called to this man or that by name, bidding him
recollect this skirmish, or think upon that storm, fight, as he did in
this pitched battle, or win a civic crown as in that sally, and finally
shouted to them all in a high voice, entreating them to remember that they
were Roman soldiers, fighting against a rabble of unarmed banditti, for
their country, their wives, their children, their hearths and their
altars.

One full-mouthed shout replied to his brief address.

"Lead on! Petreius, we will conquer!"

He waved his hand toward the trumpeters, and nodded his high crested
helmet; and instant there pealed forth that thrilling brazen clangor,
"that bids the Romans close."

Nor less sonorously did the war music of the rebels make reply, ringing
among the hills their bold defiance.

Then onward rolled that bright array, with a long steady sweep, like that
of an unbroken line of billows rushing in grand and majestical upon some
sandy cape.

In vain did the sinuosities of the broken ground, in vain did crag and
thicket, ravine and torrents’ bed impede their passage; closing their
files or serrying them, as the nature of the ascent required, now wheeling
into solid column, deploying now into extended line, still they rolled
onward, unchecked, irresistible—

    A long array of helmets bright,
    A long array of spears.

The glorious eagles glittered above them in the unclouded sunshine, the
proud initials, which had gleamed from their crimson banners over one half
the world, shone out conspicuous, SPQR, as the broad folds streamed to
their length upon the frosty air.

A solitary trumpet spoke at times, to order their slow terrible advance;
there was no hum of voices, no shout, no confusion; only the solemn and
continuous tramp of their majestic march, shaking the earth like an
incessant roll of thunder—only the clang of their brazen harness, as
buckler clashed with buckler.

All the stern discipline, all the composed and orderly manœuvres, all the
cold steadiness of modern war was there, combined with all the
gorgeousness and glitter of the chivalric ages.

Contrary to all expectation, no opposition met them as they scaled that
abrupt hill side. Fearful of exposing his flanks, Catiline wisely held his
men back, collecting all their energies for the dread onset.

In superb order, regular and even, Petreius’ infantry advanced upon the
plateau, their solid front filling the whole space with a mass of brazen
bucklers, ten deep, and thrice ten hundred wide, without an interval, or
break, or bend in that vast line.

Behind these came the cavalry, about a thousand strong, and the Prætorian
cohort, with the general in person, forming a powerful reserve, whereby he
proposed to decide the day, so soon as the traitors should be shaken by
his first onset.

Once more the line was halted; once more Petreius gallopped to the van;
and passed from left to right across the front, reconnoitering the
dispositions of the enemy. Then taking post, at the right, he unsheathed
his broadsword, and waved it slowly in the air, pointing to the impassive
ranks of Catiline.

Then the shrill trumpets flourished once again, and the dense mass bore
onward, steady and slow, the enemy still motionless and silent, until
scarce sixty yards intervened between the steadfast ranks, and every man
might distinguish the features and expression of his personal antagonist.

There was a pause. No word was given. No halt ordered. But intuitively, as
if by instinct, every man stopped, and drew a deep breath, unconscious
that he did so, collecting himself for the dread struggle.

The point was reached, from which it was customary to hurl the tremendous
volley of ponderous steel-headed pila, which invariably preceded the sword
charge of the legions, and for the most part threw the first rank of the
enemy into confusion, and left them an easy conquest to the short stabbing
sword, and sturdy buckler.

But now not a javelin was raised on either side—the long stern swell of
the trumpets, ordering the charge, was drowned by a deep solemn shout,
which pealed wilder and higher yet into a terrible soul-stirring cheer;
and casting down their heavy missiles, both fronts rushed forward
simultaneously, with their stout shields advanced, and their short
broadswords levelled to the charge.

From flank to flank, they met simultaneous, with a roar louder than that
of the most deafening thunder, a shock that made the earth tremble, the
banners flap upon their staves, the streams stand still, as if an
earthquake had reeled under them.

Then rose the clang of blades on helm and buckler, clear, keen, incessant;
and charging shouts and dying cries, and patriotic acclamations, and mad
blasphemies; and ever and anon the piercing clangor of the screaming
brass, lending fresh frenzy to the frantic tumult.

From right to left, the plain was one vast arena full of single
combats—the whole first ranks on both sides had gone down at the first
shock; the second and the third had come successively to hand to hand
encounter; and still, as each man fell, stabbed to death by the pitiless
sword, another leaped into his place; and still the lines, though bent on
each side and waving like a bow, were steadfast and unbroken; and still
the clang of brazen bucklers and steel blades rang to the skies, rendering
all commands, all words, inaudible.

Officers fought like privates; skirmishers, hand to hand, like
legionaries. Blood flowed like water; and so fierce was the hatred of the
combatants, so deadly the nature of the tremendous stabbing broadswords of
the Romans, that few wounds were inflicted, and few men went down ’till
they were slain outright.

The dust stood in a solid mass over the reeling lines; nor could the wind,
though it blew freshly, disperse the dense wreaths, so constantly did they
surge upward from the trampling feet of those inveterate gladiators. At
times, the waving of a banner would be seen, at times a gleamy brazen
radiance, as some rank wheeled forward, or was forced back in some
desperate charge; but, for the most part, all was dim and dark, and the
battle still hung balanced.

Wherever the fight was the fiercest, there rang the warshout "Catiline!
Catiline!" to the darkened skies; and there ever would the Roman army
waver, so furiously did he set on with his best soldiers, still bringing
up reserves to the weakest points of his army, still stabbing down the
fiercest of the consular host, fearless, unwearied, and unwounded.

But his reserves were now all engaged, and not one point of the Roman line
was broken; Manlius had fallen in the front rank, playing a captain’s and
a soldier’s part. The Florentine had fallen in the front rank, battling
with gallantry worthy a better cause. All the most valiant officers, all
the best veterans had fallen, in the first rank, all with their faces to
the foe, all with their wounds in front, all lying on the spot which they
had held living, grim-visaged, and still terrible in death.

"Paullus Arvina!" exclaimed Petreius, at this juncture, after having
observed the equal strife long and intently, and having discerned with the
eagle eye of a general’s instinct what had escaped all those around him,
that Catiline’s last reserves were engaged. "The time is come; ride to the
tribune of the horse, and bid him dismount his men. Horse cannot charge
here! command the tribune of the Prætorian cohort to advance! We will
strike full at the centre!"

"I go, Petreius!" and bowing his head, till his crimson crest mingled with
his charger’s mane, he spurred furiously to the rear, and had delivered
his message and returned, while the shouts, with which the reserve had
greeted the command to charge, were yet ringing in the air.

When he returned, the general had dismounted, and one of his freedmen was
unbuckling the spurs from his steel greaves. His sword was out, and it was
evident that he was about to lead the last onset in person.

"A boon, noble Petreius!" cried the youth, leaping from his horse—"By all
the Gods! By all your hopes of glory! grant me one boon, Petreius."

"Ha! what?" returned the general quickly—"Speak out, be brief—what boon?"

"Be it mine to head the charge!"

"Art thou so greedy of fame, boy; or so athirst to die!"

"So greedy of Revenge, Petreius. I have a vow in Heaven, and in Hell, to
slay that parricide. If he should die by any hand but mine, I am forsworn
and infamous!"

"Thou, boy, and to slay Catiline!"

"Even I, Petreius."

"Thou art mad to say it."

"Not mad, not mad, indeed, Petreius—."

"He _will_ slay him, Petreius," cried an old veteran of Arvina’s troop.
"The Gods thundered when he swore it. We all heard it. Grant his prayer,
General; we will back him to the death. But be sure, he will slay him."

"Be it so," said Petreius, struck despite himself by the confidence of the
youth, and the conviction of the veterans. "Be it so, if ye will. But,
remember, when we have broken through the centre, wheel to the right with
the dismounted horse—the Prætorians must charge to the left. Ho! we are
all in line. Forward! Ho! Victory, and Rome!"—

And with the word, he rushed forward, himself a spear’s length in front of
his best men, who, with a long triumphant shout, dashed after him.

Passing right through the wearied troops, who had sustained the shock and
brunt of the whole day, and who now opened their ranks gladly to admit the
reinforcement, these fresh and splendid soldiers fell like a thunderbolt
upon the centre of Catiline’s army, weakened already by the loss of its
best men; and clove their way clean through it, solid and unbroken,
trampling the dead and dying under foot, and hurling a small body of the
rebels, still combating in desperation, into the trenches of their camp,
wherein they perished to a man refusing to surrender, and undaunted.

Then, wheeling to the left and right, they fell on the naked flanks of the
reeling and disordered mass, while the troops whom they had relieved,
re-forming themselves rapidly, pressed forward with tremendous shouts of
victory, eager to share the triumph which their invincible steadiness had
done so much to win.

It was a battle no longer; but a route; but a carnage. Yet still not one
of the rebels turned to fly; not one laid down his arms, or cried for
quarter.

Broken, pierced through, surrounded, overwhelmed by numbers, they fought
in single lines, in scattered groups, in twos or threes, back to back,
intrepid to the last, and giving mortal wounds in their extreme agony.

More of the consular troops fell, after the field was won, than during all
the previous combat. No lances, no long weapons, no missiles were at hand,
wherewith to overwhelm the desperadoes; no horse wherewith to tread them
under foot; hand to hand, man to man, it was fought out, with those short
stabbing blades, against which the stoutest corslet was but as parchment,
the hardest shield of brass-bound bull’s hide, but as a stripling’s wicker
target.

Still in the front, abreast still with the bravest veterans shouting
himself hoarse with cries of "To me! to me, Catiline, to me, Paul Arvina!"
The young man had gone through the whole of that dreadful melee; striking
down a man at every blow, and filling the soldiers’ mouths with wonder at
the boy’s exploits—he had gone through it all, without a scratch,
unwounded.

More than once had his mortal enemy been almost within arm’s length of
him; their eyes had glared mutual hatred on each other, their blades had
crossed once, but still the throng and rush of combatants and flyers had
forced them asunder; and now the strife was almost ended, the tide of
slaughter had receded toward the rebel camp, the ramparts of which the
legionaries were already storming.

Weary and out of breath and disappointed, Paullus Arvina halted alone,
among piles of the dying and the dead, with groans and imprecations in his
ears, and bitterness and vexation at his heart.

His comrades had rushed away on the track of the retreating rebels; and
their shouts, as they stormed the palisades, reached him, but failed to
awake any respondent note of triumph in his spirit.

He had no share in the vulgar victory, he cared not to strike down and
slaughter the commoners of the rebellion. Catiline was the quarry at which
he flew, and with no game less noble could he rest contented. Catiline, it
would seem, had escaped him for the moment; and he stood leaning on his
red sword, doubtful.

Instinctively he felt assured that his enemy had not retreated. Almost he
feared that his death had crowned some other hand with glory.

When suddenly, a mighty clatter arose in the rear, toward the Roman camp,
and turning swiftly toward the sound, he perceived a desperate knot of
rebels still charging frantically onward, although surrounded by thrice
their numbers of inveterate and ruthless victors.

"By the Gods! he is there!" and with the speed of the hunted deer, he
rushed toward the spot, bounding in desperate haste over the dying and the
dead, blaspheming or unconscious.

He reached the meleè. He dashed headlong into the thick of it. The Romans
were giving way before the fury of a gory madman, as he seemed, who bore
down all that met him at the sword’s point.

"Catiline! Catiline!" and at the cry, the boldest of the consular army
recoiled. "Ho!—Romans! Ho! who will slay Sergius Catiline? Ho! Romans! Ho!
His head is worth the winning! Who will slay Sergius Catiline?"

And, still at every shout, he struck down, and stabbed, and maimed, and
trampled, even amid defeat and ruin victorious, unsubdued, a terror to his
victors.

"Who will slay Sergius Catiline?"

And, as Arvina rushed upon the scene, the veteran who had so confidently
announced his coming triumph, crossed swords with the traitor, and went
down in a moment, stabbed a full span deep in his thigh.

"Ho! Romans! Ho! who will slay Sergius Catiline?"—

"Paullus Arvina!"—cried the youth, springing forward, and dealing him with
the word a downright blow upon the head, which cleft his massive casque
asunder.

"I will! I, even I, Paullus Arvina!"—

But he shouted too soon; and soon rued the imprudence of raising his arm
to strike, when at sword’s point with such a soldier.

As his own blow fell on the casque of the traitor, _his_ shortened blade,
aimed with a deadly thrust tore through the sturdy shield, tore through
the strong cuirass, and pierced his side with a ghastly wound.

Arvina staggered—he thought he had received his death blow; and had not
the blade of Catiline, bent by the violence of his own effort, stuck in
the cloven shield, resisting every attempt to withdraw it, the next blow
must have found him unprepared, must have destroyed him.

But ere the desperado could recover his weapon, Arvina rallied and closed
with him, grasping him by the throat, and shouting "Lucia! Vengeance!"—

Brave as he was and strong, not for a single moment could Arvina have
maintained that death-grapple, had his foe been unwounded.

But the arch traitor was bleeding at every pore; gashed in every limb of
his body; he had received three mortal wounds already; he was fast failing
when Arvina grappled him, and at the name of his injured child, his
conscience conquered. His sword at length came away, extricated when too
late from the tough bull-hide; but, ere he could nerve his arm to strike
again, Arvina’s point had torn his thigh, had gored his breast, had
pierced his naked throat, with three wounds, the least of them mortal.

But even in that agony he struck home! He could not even curse, but he
struck home, and a fierce joyous smile illuminated his wan face, as he saw
his slayer stumble forward, and fall beside him on the bloody greensward.

In a moment, however, Paullus rallied, recovered his feet, drew from his
bosom the long black ringlet of poor Lucia, and bathed it in the life
blood of her slayer.

"Lucia! Ho! Lucia! Rejoice! my vow, my vow is kept! Thou art avenged,
avenged! Ah! Lucia!—Julia!"—

And he fell sick and swooning upon the yet living bleeding body of his
mortal foeman.





CHAPTER XXII.


A NIGHT OF HORROR.


      Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.
                  CHILDE HAROLD.

The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and silvery moon was
sailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure light
shone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the
commonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, not
triumph.

Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from the
Prætorian gate, scarce two-thirds had returned at sun-set.

And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most noble of the host;
for all the most gallant had fallen dead in that desperate struggle, or
had sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their
conquered foemen.

Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from that
dread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day was
utterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while it
lasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen
taken—a living captive.

For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in the
annals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful,
when the nature of the ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to
the vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost every
wound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the men
of either party pitiless and desperate, are all taken into consideration.

In long ranks, like grass in the mower’s swathes, the rebel warriors lay,
with their grim faces, and glazed eyes, set in that terrible expression of
ferocity which is always observed on the lineaments of those who have died
from wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them,
in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of their
slaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value which
the men had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.

Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution. They who
had taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but in
the literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen
stabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.

With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out their
dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitor
slain save by the steel blade’s edge.

The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge and
executioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrocious
crimes.

No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survived
on whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so complete
or final.

But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no glory to the victors.

So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously contested the
series of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final and
decisive charge of the Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the early
winter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak and
shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by the
wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.

The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shouts
of the exulting soldiers were to be heard hailing their general
"Imperator;" no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the great
deeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed;
no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped for by the victorious
leader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for the
liberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in no
legitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the
republic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against
Romans, citizens, and brothers.

The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks of
women, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear that
grievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences of
defeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.

No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp was
crowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed the
known faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps
to die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had so
boldly striven.

Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save in
so much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could be
expected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of
morning.

Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives,
the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rent
garments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the
sorrowful ranks, shrieking, "Where are they," and were answered only by
the short echo, "Where."

Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught of her Arvina;
until at a late hour of the night, remembering her solitary situation and
high birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself
visited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible her
wounded spirit by praises of her lost lover’s conduct.

"He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadly
struggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloody
onset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia,
you must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he was
a hero."

"_Was_!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streaming
eyes—"then he _is_ no longer?"

"I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowed
himself to slay Catiline with his own hands. Such vows are not easy,
Julia, nor safe of performance."

"And Catiline?" asked Julia,—"the parricide—the monster?"

"Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have survived it,"
replied Petreius. "But how he fell, or where, as yet we know not."

"Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus."

"I think so, Julia," answered the general.

"I know it," she said slowly—"but what availeth that to me—to me who had
rather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his glorious
eye—alas! alas! my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive him!"

"Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false hopes, but he may yet
be living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—"

"To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, like
the dayspring. "Why not to-night?—Petreius, I say, why not to-night?"

"It is impossible. The men are all worn out with wounds and weariness, and
must have daylight to the task. Dear girl, it is impossible."

"I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him."

"You must not, Julia."

"Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed maiden from her true
lover,—true, alas! in death! in death!"

"I will," replied Petreius firmly. "You know not the perils of such a
night as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrion
vultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who
roam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordid
than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with the
earliest dawn to-morrow I will myself go with you. Fare you well, try to
sleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia."

And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Roman
left the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had been
pressed into her service, and to Arvina’s freedmen who were devoted to
her, on no account to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even,
if need were, to use force to prevent her.

Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting over the field of
blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning the
brow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of
life, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing
shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides,
where, before the wind rose, there had been but feeble wailings and
half-unconscious lamentations.

Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side, another, and another,
and then the snarling fiendish cry of the fell wolf-pack.

Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each helpless sufferer,
unanimous, as that accursed sound fell on their palsied ears, and tortured
them back into life.

But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even the
shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp,
who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of
friend and foe, real comrade and false traitor.

It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls of
the hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added the
flapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking to
the carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and
faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beak
and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild beast and the carrion fowl.

Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!

That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to new life, and new
horrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his wounds
were mortal, and yet he felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt,
even if spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.

As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was feeling about
for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard his
name called feebly by some one near him.

"Who calls Arvina?" he replied faintly. "I am here."

"I, Caius Pansa," answered the voice; it was that of the old legionary
horseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by the
hand of Paullus. "I feared thou wert dead."

"We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa," replied the young man. "Hark!
to those wolves! It makes my very flesh creep on my bones! They are
sweeping this way, too."

"No! no! cheer up, brave heart," replied the veteran. "We will not die
this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I
cannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather
bottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me to
beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We will
share the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—I
knew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward."

Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and with
sore anguish to the old trooper’s side, and shared his generously
proffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh courage
from his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the day
breaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to their
obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.

Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fierce
wolf-howls had come within ten feet of where they sat, half recumbent,
propped on a pile of dead, but still their united voices and the defensive
show which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and new
hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.

Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of the
soldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of the
rebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on
the fresh morning air.

At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly acute and bitter, from
a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that after
calling several times in vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,

"It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè as this, and
such a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawl
to him with the flask, and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus."

"I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my hurts shoot
terribly, but I will try."

And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawled
painfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but ere
he reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed a
corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in the
death pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.

It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfully
was his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by his
own teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beak
and talons of some half-gorged vulture.

But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared upon
him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, and
started back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, and
murmuring, "Ah! Catiline!"

The dying traitor’s lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and he
strove hard to speak, but the words rattled in his throat inarticulate,
and a sharp ruckling groan was the only sound that he uttered.

But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the ground, and drove
his sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a last
desperate exertion through Paullus’ massive corslet, and deep into his
bosom.

With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles to
arise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.

Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strange
mixed expression of agony and triumph; while old Pansa, after crying,
twice or thrice, "Paullus, ho! noble Paullus!" exclaimed mournfully,
"Alas! He is dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him."

Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several mounted
officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward the
fatal spot, pausing from time to time to examine every pile of carcasses,
and after causing his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the
hope of finding him they sought.

Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by the
discovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place in
which the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallen
here but to die almost on the instant.

But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general.

"Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!"

"The immortal Gods be praised!" cried Julia, interpreting the casual words
at once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped
to the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was
not so deceived.

"Who? who is here?" exclaimed the general. "Ha! my stout Pansa, right glad
am I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But
whom do you mean? Who is here?"

"Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!"—

"By all the Gods!" exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse and
gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, and
retaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished it
while living!

But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedless
and unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on human
corpses, in her wild haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor,
the casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate hands,
which could alone be distinguished of her lover’s prostrate form.

"Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!"

"Alas! alas!"—cried Petreius, "Raise her up; raise them both, this is most
lamentable!"—

"Never heed me!" said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who were
busy raising him from the ground. "Help the poor girl! Help the brave
youth! He may be living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas!
that he is not living now!"

"Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend?—who slew him?"

Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a horrid smile, the
glaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his hand
aloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half words
articulate, sneered fiendishly—"I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha! ha!"—

But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the officers who had
lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia.

"He is not dead!"

"His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood,"

"He lives! he lives!"—

"Curses! cur—cur—ha! ha!—this—this is—Hades!"

The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror glared from the
savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strong
frame, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the
dark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting
home.

It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenched
in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide,
and the great orator had long since sworn THAT HE HAD SAVED HIS COUNTRY,
among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long since
retired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, when
Paullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanks
of his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and
great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It was
balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, most
suitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,(16)
clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes,
her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, the
lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noble
husband’s mansion, amid the merry blaze of waxen torches, and the soft
swell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train of
consuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen
collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft and
gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula—

"Where thou art Caius, I am Caia."

Thenceforth their trials ceased; their happiness began; and thenceforth,
they two were one for ever. And, for years afterward, when Roman maidens
called blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to
wish her than to be happy as Arvina’s Julia.

And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by the
love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, the
fame of such a deed, as the death of THE ROMAN TRAITOR.

                                 THE END






NOTES TO THE ROMAN TRAITOR.


It is perhaps hardly necessary to state, that the oration of Cicero in the
37th page of the second volume, those of Cæsar and Cato in the 137th and
142d pages, and that of Catiline in the 217th page of the same, are all
literal translations from the actual speeches delivered on those
occasions, and recorded by Cicero and Sallust.

It was absolutely necessary for the truth and spirit of the romance, that
these speeches should be inserted; and the author considered that it would
be equally vain and absurd to attempt fictitious orations, when these
master-pieces of ancient eloquence were extant.

This brief explanation made, no farther notes will, I believe, be found
necessary; as the few Latin words which occur in the body of the work are
explained therein; and the costumes and customs are described so much in
detail, that they will be readily comprehended even by the unclassical
reader.

A table is appended, containing the Roman and English Calendars of the
three months during which all the events of the conspiracy occurred,
illustrating the complicated and awkward mode of Roman computation; and
this, I believe, is all that is needful in the way of simplifying or
elucidating the narrative.





TABLE OF THE
ROMAN CALENDAR
FOR THE MONTHS OF
OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, AND DECEMBER,
B. C. 63.


                            OCTOBER, B. C. 63.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Modern     |                            |
Reckoning. |   Roman Reckoning.         |           Events.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
 1         |CALENDS OF OCTOBER.         |
 2         |VI  )                       |
 3         |V   ) Days before the       |
 4         |IV  )   Nones.              |
 5         |III )                       |
 6         |_Day before the Nones._     |
 7         |NONES OF OCTOBER.           |
 8         |VIII )                      |
 9         |VII  )                      |
10         |VI   ) Days before          |
11         |V    )  the Ides            |
12         |IV   ) of October.          |
13         |III  )                      |
14         |_Day before the Ides._      |
15         |IDES OF OCTOBER.            |
16         |XVII )                      |(A) On this day the Consular
17         |XVI  )                      |elections should have been
18(A)      |XV   )                      |held, but were postponed by
19         |XIV  ) Days before          |the Senate at the request of
20         |XIII )                      |the consul, Cicero.
21(B)      |XII  )     the              |(B) Cicero delivered a speech,
22(C)      |XI   )                      |(not one of the orations) against
23         |X    )   Calends            |Catiline, disclosing the plan of
24         |IX   )                      |the conspiracy.
25         |VIII )      of              |(C) The Consular Elections were
26         |VII  )                      |held, and Decius Junius Silanus
27         |VI   )   November.          |and Lucius Licinius Muræna
28(D)      |V    )                      |elected Consuls for the year
29         |IV   )                      |ensuing.
30         |III  )                      |(D) Day originally appointed
31         |_Day before the Calends     |by Catiline for the murder of
           |    of November._           |Cicero.


                           NOVEMBER, B. C. 63.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Modern     |                            |
Reckoning. |   Roman Reckoning.         |           Events.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
 1(A)      |CALENDS OF NOVEMBER.        |(A) Day appointed by Catiline
 2         |IV  ) Days before the       |for the seizure of the citadel
 3         |III )   Nones.              |of Præneste--now Palestrina.
 4         |_Day before the Nones._     |
 5         |NONES OF NOVEMBER.          |
 6(B)      |VIII )                      |(B) Second  meeting of the
 7(C)      |VII  ) Days before          |Conspirators at the house of
 8(D)      |VI   )  the Ides            |Marcus Portius Læca.
 9         |V    ) of November.         |(C) Cicero’s murder attempted.
10         |IV   )                      |
11         |III  )                      |(D) Cicero delivered his first
12         |_Day before the Ides._      |Oration in the Senate against
13         |IDES OF NOVEMBER.           |Catiline; and on the same
14         |XVIII )                     |night Catiline fled to the camp
15         |XVII  )                     |of Caius Manlius, at Fæsulæ,
16         |XVI   )                     |now Fiesole, near Florence.
17         |XV    )  Days before        |On the following day Cicero
18         |XIV   )                     |delivered the second oration,
19         |XIII  )      the            |justifying his conduct to the
20         |XII   )                     |whole people in the Forum.
21         |XI    )    Calends          |
22         |X     )                     |
23         |IX    )       of            |
24         |VIII  )                     |
25         |VII   )    December.        |
26         |VI    )                     |
27         |V     )                     |
28         |IV    )                     |
29         |III   )                     |
30         |_Day before the Calends     |
           |    of December._           |


                           DECEMBER, B. C. 63.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Modern     |                            |
Reckoning. |   Roman Reckoning.         |           Events.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
 1         |CALENDS OF DECEMBER.        |
 2         |IV  ) Days before the       |
 3(A)      |III )   Nones.              |(A) The conspirators arrested.
 4         |_Day before the Nones._     |
 5(B)      |NONES OF DECEMBER.          |(B) Cicero delivers his third
 6(C)      |VIII )                      |oration before the Senate, and
 7         |VII  )  Days before         |his fourth before the people.
 8         |VI   )   the Ides           |(C) Execution of Lentulus,
 9         |V    )  of December.        |Cethegus, Gabinius, Statilius,
10         |IV   )                      |and Cæparius.
11         |III  )                      |
12         |_Day before the Ides._      |
13         |IDES OF DECEMBER.           |
14         |XVIII )                     |
15         |XVII  )                     |
16         |XVI   )                     |
17         |XV    ) Days before         |
18         |XIV   )                     |(D) It is a matter of some
19         |XIII  )     the             |question, whether the battle
20         |XII   )                     |of Pistoria was fought, and
21         |XI    )   Calends           |Catiline slain, during the
22         |X     )                     |remainder of this month, or early
23         |IX    )      of             |in  the  following January.--The
24         |VIII  )                     |question being doubtful,
25         |VII   )   January.          |for the sake of unity, I have
26(D)      |VI    )                     |assumed that it was fought on
27         |V     )                     |or about the 26th day of the
28         |IV    )                     |month.
29         |III   )                     |(E) Cicero abdicated the
30(E)      |_Day before the Calends     |Consulship, and swore that he
           |  of January._              |had saved his country.






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FOOTNOTES


    1 The 21st of October.

    2 The 27th of October.

    3 The 28th of October.

    4 The first of November.

    5 The 6th of November. This oration was delivered on the 8th.

    6 The 13th of November.

    7 The 31st of December.

    8 Let those who doubt this, think of Couthon and Carrier. Fouchè and
      Marat, and Barere!

    9 The latin _Sextarius_ contained about 99-100 parts of an English
      Pint.

               10 Quid illo cive tulisset
         Natura in terris quid Roma beatius unquam,
         Si circumducto captivoum agmine, et omni
         Belloram pompâ, animam exhalasset opimam,
         Quum de Teutonico vellet descendere Curru.

   11 The fifth day of November.

   12 Sallust.

   13 The second of December.

   14 The eighth of December.

   15 Sallust.

   16 Friday.





TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


The author’s footnotes have been moved to the end of the volume.

The table of contents is duplicated from volume I.

The spelling "Cataline" in the title of the book was retained, as were
several other peculiarities in spelling and punctuation.

The following typographical errors were corrected:

      page 6, quote removed (before _But the transient gleam_)
      page 16, "trnmpet" changed to "trumpet" (_There goes the second
      trumpet_)
      page 33, "refain" changed to "refrain" (_to refrain from taunting
      him_)
      page 46, "meditaing" changed to "meditating" (_as meditating nothing
      but her parricide_)
      page 57, "pubicly" changed to "publicly" (_I publicly have
      undertaken_)
      page 87, "to" changed "too" (_nature being too weak_)
      page 97, "Volturcuis" changed to "Volturcius" (_Caius Volturcius
      boasted as they rode along_)
      page 108, quote added (_if thou wouldst speak him."_)
      page 125, "be" changed to "he" (_he enjoyed_)
      page 127, quote added (_He shall die by my hand!"_)
      page 133, "o" changed to "to" (_bow thee to the block!_)
      page 151, "lighly" changed to "lightly" (_and jested lightly_)
      page 179, "atttempt" changed to "attempt" (_in her to attempt it_)
      page 187, "y" changed to "by" (_by side with Sergius Catiline_)
      page 190, "o" changed to "on" (_on the breast of her own corrupter_)
      page 200, quote added (_"There writhe, and howl_)
      page 201, quote added (_"Be your past errors_)
      page 238, "leal" changed to "real" (_real comrade and false
      traitor_)
      page 251, comma changed to period (_Price One Dollar._)





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