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 I.
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.
PREFACE.
A few words are perhaps needed as an introduction to a work of far more
ambitious character, than any which I have before attempted. In venturing
to select a subject from the history of Rome, during its earlier ages,
undeterred by the failure or, at the best, partial success of writers far
more eminent than I can ever hope to become, I have been actuated by
reasons, which, in order to relieve myself from the possible charge of
presumption, I will state briefly.
It has long been my opinion, then, that there lay a vast field, rich with
a harvest of material almost virgin, for the romancer’s use, in the
history of classic ages. And this at a period when the annals of every
century and nation since the Christian era have been ransacked, and
reproduced, in endless variety, for the entertainment of the hourly
increasing reading world, is no small advantage.
Again, I have fancied that I could discover a cause for the imperfect
success of great writers when dealing with classic fiction, in the fact of
their endeavoring to be too learned, of their aiming too much at
portraying Greeks and Romans, and too little at depicting men, forgetful
that under all changes of custom, and costume, in all countries, ages, and
conditions, the human heart is still the human heart, convulsed by the
same passions, chilled by the same griefs, burning with the same joys,
and, in the main, actuated by the same hopes and fears.
With these views, I many years ago deliberately selected this subject, for
a novel, which has advanced by slow steps to such a degree of completeness
as it has now attained.
Having determined on trying my success in classical fiction, the
conspiracy of Cataline appeared to me, a theme particularly well adapted
for the purpose, as being an actual event of vast importance, and in many
respects unparalleled in history; as being partially familiar to every
one, thoroughly understood perhaps by no one, so slender are the authentic
documents concerning it which have come down to us, and so dark and
mysterious the motives of the actors.
It possessed, therefore, among other qualifications, as the ground-work of
a historical Romance, one almost indispensable—that of indistinctness,
which gives scope to the exercise of imagination, without the necessity of
falsifying either the truths or the probabilities of history.
Of the execution, I have, of course, nothing to say; but that I have
sedulously avoided being overlearned; that few Latin words will be found
in the work—none whatsoever in the conversational parts, and none but the
names of articles which have no direct English appellation; and that it is
sufficiently simple and direct for the most unclassical reader.
I hope that the costume, the manners of the people, and the antiquarian
details will be found sufficiently correct; if they be not, it is not for
want of pains or care; for I have diligently consulted all the authorities
to which I could command access.
To the history of the strange events related in this tale, I have adhered
most scrupulously; and I believe that the dates, facts, and characters of
the individuals introduced, will not be found in any material respect,
erroneous or untrue; and here I may perhaps venture to observe, that, on
reading the most recently published lectures of Niebuhr, which never fell
in my way until very lately, I had the great satisfaction of finding the
view I have always taken of the character and motives of Cataline and his
confederates, confirmed by the opinion of that profound and sagacious
critic and historian.
I will only add, that it is hardly probable that "the Roman Traitor" would
ever have been finished had it not been for the strenuous advice of a
friend, in whose opinion I have the utmost confidence, Mr. Benjamin, to
whom some of the early chapters were casually shown, two or three years
ago, and who almost insisted on my completing it.
It is most fitting, therefore, that it should be, as it is, introduced to
the world under his auspices; since but for his favourable judgment, and
for a feeling on my own part that to fail in such an attempt would be
scarce a failure, while success would be success indeed, it would probably
have never seen the light of day!
With these few remarks, I submit the Roman Traitor to the candid judgment
of my friends and the public, somewhat emboldened by the uniform kindness
and encouragement which I have hitherto met; and with some hope that I may
be allowed at some future day, to lay another romance of the most famous,
before the citizens of the youngest republic.
THE CEDARS
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 215
PISTORIA
XXI. THE BATTLE 223
XXII. A NIGHT OF HORROR 233
THE ROMAN TRAITOR;
OR, THE DAYS OF
CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.
A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.
CHAPTER I.
THE MEN.
But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs.
MARINO FALIERO.
Midnight was over Rome. The skies were dark and lowering, and ominous of
tempest; for it was a sirocco, and the welkin was overcast with sheets of
vapory cloud, not very dense, indeed, or solid, but still sufficient to
intercept the feeble twinkling of the stars, which alone held dominion in
the firmament; since the young crescent of the moon had sunk long ago
beneath the veiled horizon.
The air was thick and sultry, and so unspeakably oppressive, that for
above three hours the streets had been entirely deserted. In a few houses
of the higher class, lights might be seen dimly shining through the
casements of the small chambers, hard beside the doorway, appropriated to
the use of the Atriensis, or slave whose charge it was to guard the
entrance of the court. But, for the most part, not a single ray cheered
the dull murky streets, except that here and there, before the holy
shrine, or vaster and more elaborate temple, of some one of Rome’s hundred
gods, the votive lanthorns, though shorn of half their beams by the dense
fog-wreaths, burnt perennial.
The period was the latter time of the republic, a few years after the fell
democratic persecutions of the plebeian Marius had drowned the mighty city
oceans-deep in patrician gore; after the awful retribution of the avenger
Sylla had rioted in the destruction of that guilty faction.
He who was destined one day to support the laurelled diadem of universal
empire on his bald brows, stood even now among the noblest, the most
ambitious, and the most famous of the state; though not as yet had he
unfurled the eagle wings of conquest over the fierce barbarian hordes of
Gaul and Germany, or launched his galleys on the untried waters of the
great Western sea. A dissipated, spendthrift, and luxurious youth, devoted
solely as it would seem to the pleasures of the table, or to intrigues
with the most fair and noble of Rome’s ladies, he had yet, amid those
unworthy occupations, displayed such gleams of overmastering talent, such
wondrous energy, such deep sagacity, and above all such uncurbed though
ill-directed ambition, that the perpetual Dictator had already, years
before, exclaimed with prescient wisdom,—"In yon unzoned youth I perceive
the germ of many a Marius."
At the same time, the magnificent and princely leader, who was to be
thereafter his great rival, was reaping that rich crop of glory, the seeds
of which had been sown already by the wronged Lucullus, in the broad
kingdoms of the effeminate East.
Meanwhile, as Rome had gradually rendered herself, by the exertion of
indomitable valor, the supreme mistress of every foreign power that
bordered on the Mediterranean, wealth, avarice, and luxury, like some
contagious pestilence, had crept into the inmost vitals of the
commonwealth, until the very features, which had once made her famous, no
less for her virtues than her valor, were utterly obliterated and for
ever.
Instead of a paternal, poor, brave, patriotic aristocracy, she had now a
nobility, valiant indeed and capable, but dissolute beyond the reach of
man’s imagination, boundless in their expenditures, reckless as to the
mode of gaining wherewithal to support them, oppressive and despotical to
their inferiors, smooth-tongued and hypocritical toward each other,
destitute equally of justice and compassion toward men, and of respect and
piety toward the Gods! Wealth had become the idol, the god of the whole
people! Wealth—and no longer service, eloquence, daring, or integrity,—was
held the requisite for office. Wealth now conferred upon its owner, all
magistracies all guerdons—rank, power, command,—consulships, provinces,
and armies.
The senate—once the most grave and stern and just assembly that the world
had seen—was now, with but a few superb exceptions, a timid, faithless,
and licentious oligarchy; while—name whilome so majestical and mighty!—the
people, the great Roman people, was but a mob! a vile colluvion of the
offscourings of all climes and regions—Greeks, Syrians, Africans,
Barbarians from the chilly north, and eunuchs from the vanquished Orient,
enfranchised slaves, and liberated gladiators—a factious, turbulent,
fierce rabble!
Such was the state of Rome, when it would seem that the Gods, wearied with
the guilt of her aggrandisement, sick of the slaughter by which she had
won her way to empire almost universal, had judged her to destruction—had
given her up to perish, not by the hands of any foreign foe, but by her
own; not by the wisdom, conduct, bravery of others, but by her own
insanity and crime.
But at this darkest season of the state one hope was left to Rome—one
safeguard. The united worth of Cicero and Cato! The statesmanship, the
eloquence, the splendid and unequalled parts of the former; the stern
self-denying virtue, the unchanged constancy, the resolute and hard
integrity of the latter; these, singular and severally, might have availed
to prop a falling dynasty—united, might have preserved a world!
The night was such as has already been described: gloomy and lowering in
its character, as was the aspect of the political horizon, and most
congenial to the fearful plots, which were even now in progress against
the lives of Rome’s best citizens, against the sanctity of her most solemn
temples, the safety of her domestic hearths, the majesty of her inviolable
laws, the very existence of her institutions, of her empire, of herself as
one among the nations of the earth.
Most suitable, indeed, was that dim murky night, most favorable the
solitude of the deserted streets, to the measures of those parricides of
the Republic, who lurked within her bosom, thirsty for blood, and panting
to destroy. Nor had they overlooked the opportunity. But a few days
remained before that on which the Consular elections, fixed for the
eighteenth of October, were to take place in the Campus Martius—whereat,
it was already understood that Sergius Cataline, frustrated the preceding
year, by the election of the great orator of Arpinum to his discomfiture,
was about once more to try the fortunes of himself and of the popular
faction.
It was at this untimely hour, that a man might have been seen lurking
beneath the shadows of an antique archway, decorated with half-obliterated
sculptures of the old Etruscan school, in one of the narrow and winding
streets which, lying parallel to the Suburra, ran up the hollow between
the Viminal and Quirinal hills.
He was a tall and well-framed figure, though so lean as to seem almost
emaciated. His forehead was unusually high and narrow, and channelled with
deep horizontal lines of thought and passion, across which cut at right
angles the sharp furrows of a continual scowl, drawing the corners of his
heavy coal-black eyebrows into strange contiguity. Beneath these, situated
far back in their cavernous recesses, a pair of keen restless eyes glared
out with an expression fearful to behold—a jealous, and unquiet,
ever-wandering glance—so sinister, and ominous, and above all so
indicative of a perturbed and anguished spirit, that it could not be
looked upon without suggesting those wild tales, which speak of fiends
dwelling in the revivified and untombed carcasses of those who die in
unrepented sin. His nose was keenly Roman; with a deep wrinkle seared, as
it would seem, into the sallow flesh from either nostril downward. His
mouth, grimly compressed, and his jaws, for the most part, firmly clinched
together, spoke volumes of immutable and iron resolution; while all his
under lip was scarred, in many places, with the trace of wounds, inflicted
beyond doubt, in some dread paroxysm, by the very teeth it covered.
The dress which this remarkable looking individual at that time wore, was
the _penula_, as it was called; a short, loose straight-cut overcoat,
reaching a little way below the knees, not fitted to the shape, but looped
by woollen frogs all down the front, with broad flaps to protect the arms,
and a square cape or collar, which at the pleasure of the wearer could be
drawn up so as to conceal all the lower part of the countenance, or
suffered to fall down upon the shoulders.
This uncouth vestment, which was used only by men of the lowest order, or
by others solely when engaged in long and toilsome journeys, or in cold
wintry weather, was composed of a thick loose-napped frieze or serge, of a
dark purplish brown, with loops and _fibulæ_, or frogs, of a dull dingy
red.
The wearer’s legs were bare down to the very feet, which were protected by
coarse shoes of heavy leather, fastened about the ancles by a thong, with
a clasp of marvellously ill-cleaned brass. Upon his head he had a
_petasus_, or broad-brimmed hat of gray felt, fitting close to the skull,
with a long fall behind, not very unlike in form to the south-wester of a
modern seaman. This article of dress was, like the penula, although
peculiar to the inferior classes, oftentimes worn by men of superior rank,
when journeying abroad. From these, therefore, little or no aid was given
to conjecture, as to the station of the person, who now shrunk back into
the deepest gloom of the old archway, now peered out stealthily into the
night, grinding his teeth and muttering smothered imprecations against
some one, who had failed to meet him.
The shoes, however, of rude, ill-tanned leather, of a form and manufacture
which was peculiar to the lowest artizans or even slaves, were such as no
man of ordinary standing would under any circumstances have adopted. Yet
if these would have implied that the wearer was of low plebeian origin,
this surmise was contradicted by several rings decked with gems of great
price and splendor—one a large deeply-engraved signet—which were
distinctly visible by their lustre on the fingers of both his hands.
His air and carriage too were evidently in accordance with the nobility of
birth implied by these magnificent adornments, rather than with the humble
station betokened by the rest of his attire.
His motions were quick, irritable, and incessant! His pace, as he stalked
to and fro in the narrow area of the archway, was agitated, and uneven.
Now he would stride off ten or twelve steps with strange velocity, then
pause, and stand quite motionless for perhaps a minute’s space, and then
again resume his walk with slow and faltering gestures, to burst forth
once again, as at the instigation of some goading spirit, to the same
short-lived energy and speed.
Meantime, his color went and came; he bit his lip, till the blood trickled
down his clean shorn chin; he clinched his hands, and smote them heavily
together, and uttered in a harsh hissing whisper the most appalling
imprecations—on his own head—on him who had deceived him—on Rome, and all
her myriads of inhabitants—on earth, and sea, and heaven—on everything
divine or human!
"The black plague ’light on the fat sleepy glutton!—nay, rather all the
fiends and furies of deep Erebus pursue _me_!—me!—me, who was fool enough
to fancy that aught of bold design or manly daring could rouse up the
dull, adipose, luxurious loiterer from his wines—his concubines—his
slumbers!—And now—the dire ones hunt him to perdition! Now, the seventh
hour of night hath passed, and all await us at the house of Læca; and this
foul sluggard sottishly snores at home!"
While he was cursing yet, and smiting his broad chest, and gnashing his
teeth in impotent malignity, suddenly a quick step became audible at a
distance. The sound fell on his ear sharpened by the stimulus of fiery
passions and of conscious fear, long ere it could have been perceived by
any ordinary listener.
"’Tis he," he said, "’tis he at last—but no?" he continued, after a pause
of a second, during which he had stooped, and laid his ear close to the
ground, "no! ’tis too quick and light for the gross Cassius. By all the
gods! there are two! Can he, then, have betrayed me? No! no! By heavens!
he dare not!"
At the same time he started back into the darkest corner of the arch,
pulled up the cape of his cassock, and slouched the wide-brimmed hat over
his anxious lineaments; then pressing his body flat against the dusky
wall, to which the color of his garments was in some sort assimilated, he
awaited the arrival of the new-comers, perhaps hoping that if foreign to
his purpose they might pass by him in the gloom.
As the footsteps now sounded nearer, he thrust his right hand into the
bosom of his cassock, and drew out a long broad two-edged dagger, or
stiletto; and as he unsheathed it, "Ready!" he muttered to himself, "ready
for either fortune!"
Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, and the blent sounds of the two were
now distinctly audible—one a slow, listless tread, as of one loitering
along, as if irresolute whether to turn back or proceed; the other a firm,
rapid, and decided step.
"Ha! it is well!" resumed the listener; "Cassius it is; and with him comes
Cethegus, though where they have joined company I marvel."
And, as he spoke, he put his weapon back into his girdle, where it was
perfectly concealed by the folds of the penula.
"Ho!—stand!" he whispered, as the two men whose steps he had heard,
entered the archway, "Stand, Friends and Brethren."
"Hail, Sergius!" replied the foremost; a tall and splendidly formed man,
with a dark quick eye, and regular features, nobly chiselled and in all
respects such—had it not been for the bitter and ferocious sneer, which
curled his haughty lip, at every word—as might be termed eminently
handsome.
He wore his raven hair in long and flowing curls, which hung quite down
upon his shoulders—a fashion that was held in Rome to the last degree
effeminate, indeed almost infamous—while his trim whiskers and close curly
beard reeked with the richest perfumes, impregnating the atmosphere
through which he passed with odors so strong as to be almost overpowering.
His garb was that of a patrician of the highest order; though tinctured,
like the arrangement of his hair, with not a little of that soft luxurious
taste which had, of latter years, begun so generally to pervade Rome’s
young nobility. His under dress or tunic, was not of that succinct and
narrow cut, which had so well become the sturdy fathers of the new
republic! but—beside being wrought of the finest Spanish wool of snowy
whiteness, with the broad crimson facings indicative of his senatorial
rank, known as the laticlave—fell in loose folds half way between his knee
and ancle.
It had sleeves, too, a thing esteemed unworthy of a man—and was fringed at
the cuffs, and round the hem, with a deep passmenting of crimson to match
the laticlave. His toga of the thinnest and most gauzy texture, and whiter
even than his tunic, flowed in a series of classical and studied draperies
quite to his heels, where like the tunic it was bordered by a broad
crimson trimming. His feet were ornamented, rather than protected, by
delicate buskins of black leather, decked with the silver _sigma_, in its
old crescent shape, the proud initial of the high term senator. A golden
bracelet, fashioned like a large serpent, exquisitely carved with horrent
scales and forked tail, was twined about the wrist of his right arm, with
a huge carbuncle set in the head, and two rare diamonds for eyes. A dozen
rings gemmed with the clearest brilliants sparkled upon his white and
tapering fingers; in which, to complete the picture, he bore a
handkerchief of fine Egyptian cambric, or Byssus as the Romans styled it,
embroidered at the edges in arabesques of golden thread.
His comrade was if possible more slovenly in his attire than his friend
was luxurious and expensive. He wore no toga, and his tunic—which, without
the upper robe, was the accustomed dress of gladiators, slaves, and such
as were too poor to wear the full and characteristic attire of the Roman
citizen—was of dark brownish woollen, threadbare, and soiled with spots of
grease, and patched in many places. His shoes were of coarse clouted
leather, and his legs were covered up to the knees by thongs of ill-tanned
cowhide rolled round them and tied at the ancles with straps of the same
material.
"A plague on both of you!" replied the person, who had been so long
awaiting them, in answer to their salutation. "Two hours have ye detained
me here; and now that ye have come, in pretty guise ye do come! Oh! by the
gods! a well assorted pair. Cassius more filthy than the vilest and most
base tatterdemalion of the stews, and with him rare Cethegus, a senator in
all his bravery! Wise judgment! excellent disguises! I know not whether
most to marvel at the insane and furious temerity of this one, or at the
idiotic foolery of that! Well fitted are ye both for a great purpose. And
now—may the dark furies hunt you to perdition!—what hath delayed you?"
"Why, what a coil is here", replied the gay Cethegus, delighted evidently
at the unsuppressed anger of his confederate in crime, and bent on goading
to yet more fiery wrath his most ungovernable temper. "Methinks, O
pleasant Sergius, the moisture of this delectable night should have
quenched somewhat the quick flames of your most amiable and placid humor!
Keep thy hard words, I prithee, Cataline, for those who either heed or
dread them. I, thou well knowest, do neither."
"Peace, peace! Cethegus; plague him no farther," interrupted Cassius, just
as the fierce conspirator, exclaiming in a deep harsh whisper, the one
word "Boy!" strode forth as if to strike him. "And thou, good Cataline,
listen to reason—we have been dogged hitherward, and so came by circuitous
byeways!"
"Dogged, said ye—dogged? and by whom?—doth the slave live, who dared it?"
"By a slave, as we reckon," answered Cassius, "for he wore no toga; and
his tunic"—
"Was filthy—very filthy, by the gods!—most like thine own, good Cassius,"
interposed Cethegus. "But, in good sooth, he _was_ a slave, my Sergius. He
passed us twice, before I thought much of it. Once as we crossed the
sacred way after descending from the Palatine—and once again beside the
shrine of Venus in the Cyprian street. The second time he gazed into my
very eyes, until he caught my glance meeting his own, and then with a
quick bounding pace he hurried onward."
"Tush!" answered Cataline, "tush! was that all? the knave was a chance
night-walker, and frightened ye! Ha! ha! by Hercules! it makes me
laugh—frightened the rash and overbold Cethegus!"
"It was not all!" replied Cethegus very calmly, "it was not all, Cataline.
And, but that we are joined here in a purpose so mighty that it overwhelms
all private interests, all mere considerations of the individual, you, my
good sir, should learn what it is to taunt a man with fear, who fears not
anything—least of all thee! But it was not all. For as we turned from a
side lane into the Wicked(1) street that scales the summit of the
Esquiline, my eye caught something lurking in the dark shadow cast over an
angle of the wall by a large cypress. I seized the arm of Cassius, to
check his speech"—
"Ha! did the fat idiot speak?—what said he?" interrupted Cataline.
"Nothing," replied the other, "nothing, at least, of any moment. Well, I
caught Cassius by the arm, and was in the act of pointing, when from the
shadows of the tree out sprang this self-same varlet, whereon I——".
"Rushed on him! dragged him into the light! and smote him, thus, and thus,
and thus! didst thou not, excellent Cethegus?" Cataline exclaimed fiercely
in a hard stern whisper, making three lounges, while he spoke, as if with
a stiletto.
"I did not any of these things," answered the other.
"And why not, I say, why not? why not?" cried Cataline with rude
impetuosity.
"That shall I answer, when you give me time," said Cethegus, coolly.
"Because when I rushed forth, he fled with an exceeding rapid flight;
leaped the low wall into the graveyard of the base Plebeians, and there
among the cypresses and overthrown sepulchres escaped me for a while. I
beat about most warily, and at length started him up again from the jaws
of an obscene and broken catacomb. I gained on him at every step; heard
the quick panting of his breath; stretched out my left to grasp him, while
my right held unsheathed and ready the good stiletto that ne’er failed me.
And now—now—by the great Jove! his tunic’s hem was fluttering in my
clutch, when my feet tripped over a prostrate column, that I was hurled
five paces at the least in advance of the fugitive; and when I rose again,
sore stunned, and bruised, and breathless, the slave had vanished."
"And where, I prithee, during this well-concerted chase, was valiant
Cassius?" enquired Cataline, with a hoarse sneering laugh.
"During the chase, I knew not," answered Cethegus, "but when it was over,
and I did return, I found him leaning on the wall, even in the angle
whence the slave fled on our approach."
"Asleep! I warrant me—by the great gods! asleep!" exclaimed the other;
"but come!—come, let us onward,—I trow we have been waited for—and as we
go, tell me, I do beseech thee, what was’t that Cassius said, when the
slave lay beside ye?—"
"Nay, but I have forgotten—some trivial thing or other—oh! now I do
bethink me, he said it was a long walk to Marcus Læca’s."
"Fool! fool! Double and treble fool! and dost thou call this nothing?
Nothing to tell the loitering informer the very head and heart of our
design? By Erebus! but I am sick—sick of the fools, with whom I am thus
wretchedly assorted! Well! well! upon your own heads be it!" and instantly
recovering his temper he walked on with his two confederates, now in deep
silence, at a quick pace through the deserted streets towards their
perilous rendezvous.
Noiseless, with stealthy steps, they hurried onward, threading the narrow
pass between the dusky hills, until they reached a dark and filthy lane
which turning at right angles led to the broad thoroughfare of the more
showy, though by no means less ill-famed Suburra. Into this they struck
instantly, walking in single file, and keeping as nearly as possible in
the middle of the causeway. The lane, which was composed of dwellings of
the lowest order, tenanted by the most abject profligates, was dark as
midnight; for the tall dingy buildings absolutely intercepted every ray of
light that proceeded from the murky sky, and there was not a spark in any
of the sordid casements, nor any votive lamp in that foul alley. The only
glimpse of casual illumination, and that too barely serving to render the
darkness and the filth perceptible, was the faint streak of lustre where
the Suburra crossed the far extremity of the bye-path.
Scarce had they made three paces down the alley, ere the quick eye of
Cataline, for ever roving in search of aught suspicious, caught the dim
outline of a human figure, stealing across this pallid gleam.
"Hist! hist!" he whiskered in stern low tones, which though inaudible at
three yards’ distance completely filled the ears of him to whom they were
addressed—"hist! hist! Cethegus; seest thou not—seest thou not there? If
it be he, he ’scapes us not again!—out with thy weapon, man, and strike at
once, if that thou have a chance; but if not, do thou go on with Cassius
to the appointed place. Leave him to me! and say, I follow ye! See! he
hath slunk into the darkness. Separate ye, and occupy the whole width of
the street, while I dislodge him!"
And as he spoke, unsheathing his broad poignard, but holding it concealed
beneath his cassock, he strode on boldly, affecting the most perfect
indifference, and even insolence of bearing.
Meanwhile the half-seen figure had entirely disappeared amid the gloom;
yet had the wary eye of the conspirator, in the one momentary glance he
had obtained, been able to detect with something very near to certainty
the spot wherein the spy, if such he were, lay hidden. As he approached
the place—whereat a heap of rubbish, the relics of a building not long ago
as it would seem consumed by fire, projected far into the street—seeing no
sign whatever of the man who, he was well assured, was not far distant, he
paused a little so as to suffer his companions to draw near. Then as they
came up with him, skilled in all deep and desperate wiles, he instantly
commenced a whispered conversation, a tissue of mere nonsense, with here
and there a word of seeming import clearly and audibly pronounced. Nor was
his dark manœuvre unsuccessful; for as he uttered the word "Cicero,"
watching meanwhile the heap of ruins as jealously as ever tiger glared on
its destined prey, he caught a tremulous outline; and in a second’s space,
a small round object, like a man’s head, was protruded from the darkness,
and brought into relief against the brighter back ground.
Then—then—with all the fury—all the lythe agile vigor, all the unrivalled
speed, and concentrated fierceness of that tremendous beast of prey, he
dashed upon his victim! But at the first slight movement of his sinewy
form, the dimly seen shape vanished; impetuously he rushed on among the
piles of scattered brick and rubbish, and, ere he saw the nature of the
place, plunged down a deep descent into the cellar of the ruin.
Lucky was it for Cataline, and most unfortunate for Rome, that when the
building fell, its fragments had choked three parts of the depth of that
subterranean vault; so that it was but from a height of three or four feet
at the utmost, that the fierce desperado was precipitated!
Still, to a man less active, the accident might have been serious, but
with instinctive promptitude, backed by a wonderful exertion of muscular
agility, he writhed his body even in the act of falling so that he lighted
on his feet; and, ere a second had elapsed after his fall, was extricating
himself from the broken masses of cement and brickwork, and soon stood
unharmed, though somewhat stunned and shaken, on the very spot which had
been occupied scarcely a minute past by the suspected spy.
At the same point of time in which the conspirator fell, the person,
whosoever he was, in pursuit of whom he had plunged so heedlessly into the
ruins, darted forth from his concealment close to the body and within
arm’s length of the fierce Cethegus, whose attention was for the moment
distracted from his watch by the catastrophe which had befallen his
companion. Dodging by a quick movement—so quick that it seemed almost the
result of instinct—so to elude the swift attempt of his enemy to arrest
his progress, the spy was forced to rush almost into the arms of Cassius.
Yet this appeared not to cause him any apprehension; for he dashed boldly
on, till they were almost front to front; when, notwithstanding his
unwieldy frame and inactivity of habit, spurred into something near to
energy by the very imminence of peril, the worn-out debauchee bestirred
himself as if to seize him.
If such, however, were his intention, widely had he miscalculated his own
powers, and fatally underrated the agility and strength of the stranger—a
tall, thin, wiry man, well nigh six feet in height, broad shouldered, and
deep chested, and thin flanked, and limbed like a Greek Athlete.
On he dashed!—on—right on! till they stood face to face; and then with one
quick blow, into which, as it seemed, he put but little of his strength,
he hurled the burly Cassius to the earth, and fled with swift and
noiseless steps into the deepest gloom. Perceiving on the instant the
necessity of apprehending this now undoubted spy, the fiery Cethegus
paused not one instant to look after his discomfited companions; but
rushed away on the traces of the fugitive, who had perhaps gained, at the
very utmost, a dozen paces’ start of him, in that wild midnight race—that
race for life and death.
The slave, for such from his dark tunic he appeared to me, was evidently
both a swift and practised runner; and well aware how great a stake was on
his speed he now strained every muscle to escape, while scarce less fleet,
and straining likewise every sinew to the utmost, Cethegus panted at his
very heels.
Before, however, they had run sixty yards, one swifter than Cethegus took
up the race; and bruised although he was, and stunned, and almost
breathless when he started, ere he had overtaken his staunch friend, which
he did in a space wonderfully brief, he seemed to have shaken off every
ailment, and to be in the completest and most firm possession of all his
wonted energies. As he caught up Cethegus, he relaxed somewhat of his
speed, and ran on by his side for some few yards at a sort of springy
trot, speaking the while in a deep whisper,
"Hist!" he said, "hist!—I am more swift of foot than thou, and deeper
winded. Leave me to deal with this dog! Back thou, to him thou knowest of;
sore is he hurt, I warrant me. Comfort him as thou best mayest, and hurry
whither we were now going. ’Tis late even now—too late, I fear me much,
and doubtless we are waited for. I have the heels of this same
gallowsbird, that can I see already! Leave me to deal with him, and an he
tells tales on us, then call me liar!"
Already well nigh out of breath himself, while the endurance of the
fugitive seemed in nowise affected, and aware of the vast superiority of
his brother conspirator’s powers to his own, Cethegus readily enough
yielded to his positive and reiterated orders, and turning hastily
backward, gathered up the bruised and groaning Cassius, and led him with
all speed toward the well-known rendezvous in the house of Læca.
Meanwhile with desperate speed that headlong race continued; the gloomy
alley was passed through; the wider street into which it debouched,
vanished beneath their quick beating footsteps; the dark and shadowy arch,
wherein the chief conspirator had lurked, was threaded at full speed; and
still, although he toiled, till the sweat dripped from every pore like
gouts of summer rain, although he plied each limb, till every over-wrought
sinew seemed to crack, the hapless fugitive could gain no ground on his
inveterate pursuer; who, cool, collected and unwearied, without one drop
of perspiration on his dark sallow brow, without one panting sob in his
deep breath, followed on at an equable and steady pace, gaining not any
thing, nor seeming to desire to gain any thing, while yet within the
precincts of the populous and thickly-settled city.
But now they crossed the broad Virbian street. The slave, distinctly
visible for such, as he glanced by a brightly decorated shrine girt by so
many brilliant lamps as shewed its tenant idol to have no lack of
worshippers, darted up a small street leading directly towards the
Esquiline.
"Now! now!" lisped Cataline between his hard-set teeth, "now he is mine,
past rescue!"
Up the dark filthy avenue they sped, the fierce pursuer now gaining on the
fugitive at every bound; till, had he stretched his arm out, he might have
seized him; till his breath, hot and strong, waved the disordered
elf-locks that fell down upon the bare neck of his flying victim. And now
the low wall of the Plebeian burying ground arose before them, shaded by
mighty cypresses and overgrown with tangled ivy. At one wild bound the
hunted slave leaped over it, into the trackless gloom. At one wild bound
the fierce pursuer followed him. Scarcely a yard asunder they alighted on
the rank grass of that charnel grove; and not three paces did they take
more, ere Cataline had hurled his victim to the earth, and cast himself
upon him; choking his cries for help by the compression of his sinewy
fingers, which grasped with a tenacity little inferior to that of an iron
vice the miserable wretch’s gullet.
He snatched his poniard from his sheath, reared it on high with a well
skilled and steady hand! Down it came, noiseless and unseen. For there was
not a ray of light to flash along its polished blade. Down it came with
almost the speed and force of the electric fluid. A deep, dull, heavy
sound was heard, as it was plunged into the yielding flesh, and the hot
gushing blood spirted forth in a quick jet into the very face and mouth of
the fell murderer. A terrible convulsion, a fierce writhing spasm
followed—so strong, so muscularly powerful, that the stern gripe of
Cataline was shaken from the throat of his victim, and from his dagger’s
hilt!
In the last agony the murdered man cast off his slayer from his breast;
started erect upon his feet! tore out, from the deep wound, the fatal
weapon which had made it; hurled it far—far as his remaining strength
permitted—into the rayless night; burst forth into a wild and yelling cry,
half laughter and half imprecation; fell headlong to the earth—which was
no more insensible than he, what time he struck it, to any sense of mortal
pain or sorrow—and perished there alone, unpitied and unaided.
"HABET!—he hath it!" muttered Cataline, quoting the well-known expression
of the gladiatorial strife; "he hath it!—but all the plagues of Erebus,
light on it—my good stiletto lies near to him in the swart darkness, to
testify against me; nor by great Hecate! is there one chance to ten of
finding it. Well! be it so!" he added, turning upon his heel, "be it so,
for most like it hath fallen in the deep long grass, where none will ever
find it; and if they do, I care not!"
And with a reckless and unmoved demeanor, well pleased with his success,
and casting not one retrospective thought toward his murdered victim, not
one repentant sigh upon his awful crime, he too hurried away to join his
dread associates at their appointed meeting.