The Roman Traitor, Vol. 2 by Henry William Herbert
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 185XVIII. 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, therewas a large house, occupying the whole of one _insula_, as the spacecontained between four intersecting streets was called by the ancients.
But, although by its great size and a certain rude magnificence, arisingfrom the massy stone-work of its walls, and the solemn antiquity of theold Oscan columns which adorned its entrance, it might be recognised atonce as the abode of some Patrician family; it was as different in manyrespects from the abodes of the aristocracy of that day, as if it had beenerected in a different age and country.
It had no stately colonnades of foreign marbles, no tesselated pavement tothe vestibule, no glowing frescoes on the walls, no long lines of exteriorwindows, glittering with the new luxury of glass. All was decorous, it istrue; but all, at the same time, was stern, and grave, and singular forits antique simplicity.
On either hand of the entrance, there was, in accordance with the customof 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 theowner’s farm. And, strange to say, although the custom had been longdisused in these degenerate times, it seemed that the owner of thistime-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, waspresiding over piles of cheese, stone-jars of honey, baskets of autumnfruits, 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 bepronounced his son, was keeping an account of the sales by a somewhatcomplicated system of tallies.
In the other apartment, two youths, slaves likewise from the suburban orrustic farm, were giving samples, to such as wished to buy, of differentqualities of wine from several amphora or earthen pitchers, which stood ona stone counter forming the sill of the low-browed window.
It was late in the evening already, and the streets were rapidly growingdark; yet there were many passengers abroad, more perhaps than was usualat that hour; and now and then, a little group would form about one or theother of the windows, cheapening and purchasing provisions, and chattingfor a few minutes, after their business was finished, with their gossips.
These groups were composed altogether of the lowest order of the freecitizens of Rome, artizans, and small shop keepers, and here and there awoman of low origin, or perhaps a slave, the house steward of some noblefamily, mingling half reluctantly with his superiors. For the time had notarrived, when the soft eunuchs of the East, and the bold bravoes of theheroic North, favorites and tools of some licentious lord, dared to insultthe freeborn men of Rome, or gloried in the badges of their servitude.
The conversation ran, as it was natural to expect, on the probable resultsof the next day’s election; and it was a little remarkable, that amongthese, who should have been the supporters of the democratic faction,there appeared to be far more of alarm and of suspicion, concerning theobjects of Catiline, than of enthusiasm for the popular cause.
"He a man of the people, or the people’s friend!" said an oldgrave-looking mechanic; "No, by the Gods! no more than the wolf is thefriend 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 canget 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 areyoung and handsome. It is but eight days since, that some of his gangcarried off Marcus’, the butcher’s, bride, Icilia, on the night of herbridal. They kept her three days; and on the fourth sent her homedishonored, 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 didthis 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 voiceof Fulvius Flaccus, as he passed casually through the crowd.
"But what befel the poor Icilia?" asked an old matron, who had beenlistening with greedy sympathy to the dark tale.
"Why, Marcus would yet have taken her to his bosom, seeing she had noshare in the guilt; but she bore a heart too Roman to bring disgrace uponone she loved, or to survive her honor. Icilia _is_ no longer."
"She died like Lucretia!" said an old man, who stood near, with a cloudedbrow, which flashed into stormy light, as
"Shall she be so avenged?"
But the transient gleam faded instantly away, and the sad face was againblank and rayless, as he replied—
"No—for who should avenge her?"
"The people! the people!" shouted several voices, for the mob wasgathering, 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 daretell 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 firstaddressed, and who had been scrutinizing him narrowly.
"And _by_ the people," answered the other. "For the people’s cause; and bythe people’s treason!—as is the case," he added, half scornfully, halfsadly, "with all who love the people."
"Hear him, my countrymen," said the old man. "Hear him. If there be anyone can save you, it is he. It is Fulvius, the son of Caius, the son ofMarcus—Flaccus. Hear him, I say, if he will only lead you."
"Lead us! speak to us! lead us!" shouted the fickle crowd. "Love us, goodFulvius, as your fathers did of old."
"And die, for you, as they died!" replied the other, in a tone ofmelancholy sarcasm. "Hark you, my masters," he added, "there are none nowagainst whom to lead you; and if there were, I think there would be noneto follow. Keep your palms unsoiled by the base bribes of the nobles! Keepyour ears closed to the base lies of the demagogues! Keep your hearts trueand honest! Keep your eyes open and watchful! Brawl not, one with theother; 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 ledgloriously; and, when the time shall come, there will be no lack ofglorious leaders!"
"But to-morrow? what shall we do to-morrow?" cried several voices; butthis time it was the elder men, who asked the question, "for whom shall wevote 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 dailysustenance! Not he, by all the Gods! who sports with the honor of theirwives, 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 itwas tremendously excited.
Breaking off suddenly in his speech, the democrat leaped on a large blockof stone, standing at the corner of the large house in front of which themultitude was gathered, and looked out anxiously, if he might descry thecause of the tumult.
Nor was it long ere he succeeded.
A young man, tall and of a slender frame, with features singularlyhandsome, was making his way, as best he could, with unsteady steps, and aface haggard and pale with debauchery, through the tumultuous and angryconcourse.
His head, which had no other covering than its long curled and perfumedlocks, was crowned with a myrtle wreath; he wore a long loosesaffron-colored tunic richly embroidered, but ungirt, and flowing nearlyto his ankles; and from the dress, and the torch-bearers, who precededhim, as well as from his wild eye and reeling gait, it was evident that hewas returning from some riotous banquet.
Fulvius instantly recognised him. It was a kinsman of his own, Aulus, theson of Aulus Fulvius, the noblest of the survivors of his house, a senatorof the old school, a man of stern and rigid virtue, the owner of thatgrand simple mansion, beside the door of which he stood.
But, though he recognised his cousin, he was at a loss for a while todiscover 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 youngnoble, who advanced fearlessly, with a sort of calm and scornfulinsolence, contemning the rage which his own vile deed had awakened.
At length one of the mob, bolder than the rest, thrust himself in betweenthe 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 theapplause 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 undisguisedscorn of the plebeian’s speech. Insolence he could have borne, butcontempt!—and contempt from a plebeian!
He raised his hand; and slight and unmuscular as he appeared, indignationlent such vigor to that effeminate arm, that the blow which he dealt himon the face, cast the burly mechanic headlong, with the blood spoutingfrom 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 toughoaken staves; and the young man showed his patrician blood by hispatrician courage in the fray. Flaccus, too, wished and endeavored tointerpose, not so much that he cared to shield his unworthy kinsman, asthat he sought to preserve the energies of the people for a more nobletrial. The multitude, moreover, impeded one another by their own violentimpetuosity; and to this it was owing, more than to the defence of hisfollowers, or the intercession of the popular Flaccus, that the younglibertine was not torn to pieces, on the threshold of his own father’shouse.
The matter, however, was growing very serious—stones, staves, and torchesflew fast through the air—the crash of windows in the neighboring houseswas answered by the roar of the increasing mob, and every thing seemed toportend a very dangerous tumult; when, at the same moment, the door of theFulvian House was thrown open, and the high-crested helmets of a cohortwere seen approaching, in a serried line, above the bare heads of themultitude.
Order was restored very rapidly; for a pacific party had been rallyingaround Fulvius Flaccus, and their efforts, added to the advance of thelevelled pila of the cohort, were almost instantly successful.
Nor did the sight, which was presented by the opening door of the Fulvianmansion, 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 longvenerable beard falling in waves of silver far down upon his chest. Yethis eyebrows were black as night, and these, with the proud arch of hisRoman 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, wasnow lean and emaciated; yet he held himself erect as a centennial pine onMount Algidus, and stood as firmly on his threshold, looking down on thetumultuous concourse, which waved and fluctuated, like the smaller treesof the mountain side, beneath him.
His dress was of the plain and narrow cut, peculiar to the good oldentime; yet it had the distinctive marks of the senatorial rank.
It was the virtuous, severe, old senator—the noblest, alas! soon to be thelast, 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 friendlydoor! For shame! for shame! What is it that ye lack? Bread? Ye have had itever at my hands, without seeking it thus rudely."
"It is not bread, most noble Aulus, t
"Vengeance, on whom, and for what?" exclaimed the noble Roman.
But ere his question could be answered, the crowd opened before him, andhis 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 hiswounded slaves.
"Ah!" cried the old man, starting back aghast, "What is this? What freshcrime? What recent infamy? What new pollution of our name?"
"Icilia! Icilia! vengeance for poor Icilia!" cried the mob once again; butthey now made no effort to inflict the punishment, for which theyclamored; so perfect was their confidence in the old man’s justice, evenagainst 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 theopening concourse, glittering in the full panoply of a decurion of thehorse, thirty dismounted troopers arranging themselves in a glitteringline 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 lightlaugh toward Arvina,
"Here is a precious coil," he said, "my Paullus, about a poor plebeianharlot!"
"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, AulusFulvius, for countenance in deeds like these, although it be my duty toprotect you from violence! Come my friends," he continued, turning to themultitude, "You must disperse, at once, to your several homes; if any havebeen wronged by this man, he can have justice at the tribunal of thePrætor! But there must be no violence!"
"Is this thing true, Aulus?" asked the old man, in tones so stern andsolemn, 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 manytimes before; and who had lingered with Fulvius Flaccus, and a few othersof the crowd. "It is true."
"Who art thou?" asked the old Patrician, a terrible suspicion crossing hismind.
"The father of that daughter, whom thy son forcibly dishonored!"
"Enter!" replied the senator, throwing the door, in front of which hestood, wide open, "thou shalt have justice!"
Then, casting a glance full of sad but resolute determination upon theculprit, 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! andfrom whom?"
"Punishment from thy father! wilt thou question it? Punishment, even untodeath, if thou shalt be found worthy to die!—the law is not dead, if ithave slept awhile! Enter!"
He dared not to reply—he dared not to refuse. Slow, sullen, andcrest-fallen, he crossed his father’s threshhold; but, as he did so, heglared terribly on Paullus, and shook his hand at him, and cried in tonesof 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 closedheavily behind them; the crowd dispersed; the soldiery marched onward; andthe 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 agedplebeian, Icilia’s father, issued into the dark street.
"Scourged!" he cried, with a wild triumphant laugh, "Scourged, like aslave, at his own father’s bidding! Rejoice, exult, Icilia! thy shame ishalf avenged!"