THE WARNINGS.
These late eclipses in the sun and moon
Portend no good to us.
KING LEAR.
The morning of the eighteenth of October, the day so eagerly looked
forward to by the conspirators, and so much dreaded by the good citizens
of the republic, had arrived. And now was seen, as it will oftentimes
happen, that when great events, however carefully concealed, are on the
point of coming to light, a sort of vague rumour, or indefinite
anticipation, is found running through the whole mass of society—a rumour,
traceable to no one source, possessing no authority, and deserving no
credibility from its origin, or even its distinctness; yet in the main
true and correct—an anticipation of I know not what terrible, unusual, and
exaggerated issue, yet, after all, not very different from what is really
about to happen.
Thus it was at this period; and—though it is quite certain, that on the
preceding evening, at the convocation of the senate, no person except
Cicero and Paullus, unconnected with the conspiracy, knew anything at all
of the intended massacre and conflagration; though no one of the plotters
had yet broken faith with his fellows; and though none of the leaders
dared avow their schemes openly, even to the discontented populace, with
whom they felt no sympathy, and from whom they expected no cordial or
general cooperation—it is equally certain that for many days, and even
months past, there had been a feverish and excited state of the public
mind; an agitation and restlessness of the operative classes; an
indistinct and vague alarm of the noble and wealthy orders; which had
increased gradually until it was now at its height.
Among all these parties, this restlessness had taken the shape of
anticipation, either dreadful or desirable, of some great change, of some
strange novelty—though no one, either of the wishers or fearers, could
explain what it was he wished or feared—to be developed at the consular
comitia.
And amid this confusion, most congenial to his bold and scornful spirit,
Catiline stalked, like the arch magician, to and fro, amid the wild and
fantastic shapes of terror which he has himself evoked, marking the hopes
of this one, as indications of an unknown, yet sure friend; and revelling
in the terrors of that, as certain evidences of an enemy too weak and
powerless to be formidable to his projects.
It is true, that a year before, previous to Cicero’s elevation to the
chief magistracy, and previous to the murder of Piso by his own adherents
on his way to Spain, the designs of Catiline had been suspected dangerous;
and, as such, had contributed to the election of his rival; his own
faction succeeding only in carrying in Antonius, the second and least
dreaded of their candidates.
Him Cicero, by rare management and much self-sacrifice, had contrived to
bring over to the cause of the commonwealth; although he had so far kept
his faith with Catiline, as to disclose none, if indeed he knew any of his
infamous designs.
In consequence of this defeat, and this subsequent secession of one on
whom they had, perhaps, prematurely reckoned, the conspirators, all but
their indomitable and unwearied leader, had been for some time paralyzed.
And this fact, joined to the extreme caution of their latter proceedings,
had tended to throw a shade of doubt over the previous accusation, and to
create a sense of carelessness and almost of disbelief in the minds of the
majority, as to the real existence of any schemes at all against the
commonwealth.
Under all these circumstances, it cannot be doubted, for a moment, that
had Catiline and his friends entertained any real desire of ameliorating
the condition of the masses, of extending the privileges, or improving the
condition, of the discontented and suffering plebeians, they could have
overturned the ancient fabric of Rome’s world-conquering oligarchy.
But the truth is, they dreamed of nothing less, than of meddling at all
with the condition of the people; on whom they looked merely as tools and
instruments for the present, and sources of plunder and profit in the
future.
They could not trust the plebeians, because they knew that the plebeians,
in their turn, could not trust them.
The dreadful struggles of Marius, Cinna, and Sylla, had convinced those of
all classes, who possessed any stake in the well being of the country; any
estate or property, however humble, down even to the tools of daily
labour, and the occupation of permanent stalls for daily traffic, that it
was neither change, nor revolution, nor even larger liberty—much less
proscription, civil strife, and fire-raising—but rest, but tranquillity,
but peace, that they required.
It was not to the people, therefore, properly so called, but to the
dissolute and ruined outcasts of the aristocracy, and to the lowest
rabble, the homeless, idle, vicious, drunken _poor_, who having nothing to
love, have necessarily all to gain, by havoc and rapine, that the
conspirators looked for support.
The first class of these was won, bound by oaths, only less binding than
their necessities and desperation, sure guaranties for their good faith.
The second—Catiline well knew that—needed no winning. The first clang of
arms in the streets, the first blaze of incendiary flames, no fear but
they would rise to rob, to ravish, and slay—ensuring that grand anarchy
which he proposed to substitute for the existing state of things, and on
which he hoped to build up his own tyrannous and blood-cemented empire.
So stood affairs on the evening of the seventeenth; and, although at times
a suspicion—not a fear, for of that he was incapable—flitted across the
mind of the traitor, that things were not going on as he could wish them;
that the alienation of Paullus Arvina, and the absence of his injured
daughter, must probably work together to the discomfiture of the
conspiracy; still, as hour after hour passed away, and no discovery was
made, he revelled in his anticipated triumph.
Of the interview between Paullus and Lucia, he was as yet unaware; and,
with that singular inconsistency which is to be found in almost every
mind, although he disbelieved, as a principle, in the existence of honor
at all, he yet never doubted that young Arvina would hold himself bound
strictly by the pledge of secrecy which he had reiterated, after the
frustration of the murderous attempt against his life, in the cave of
Egeria.
Nor did he err in his premises; for had not Arvina been convinced that new
and more perilous schemes were on the point of being executed against
himself, he would have remained silent as to the names of the traitors;
however he might have deemed it his duty to reveal the meditated treason.
With his plans therefore all matured, his chief subordinates drilled
thoroughly to the performance of their parts, his minions armed and ready,
he doubted not in the least, as he gazed on the setting sun, that the next
rising of the great luminary would look down on the conflagration of the
suburbs, on the slaughter of his enemies, and the triumphant elevation of
himself to the supreme command of the vast empire, for which he played so
foully.
The morning came, the long desired sun arose, and all his plots were
countermined, all his hopes of immediate action paralyzed, if not utterly
destroyed.
The Senate, assembled on the previous evening at a moment’s notice, had
been taken by surprise so completely by the strange revelations made to
them by their Consul, that not one of the advocates or friends of Catiline
arose to say one syllable in his defence; and he himself, quick-witted,
ready, daring as he was, and fearing neither man nor God, was for once
thunderstricken and astonished.
The address of the Consul was short, practical, and to the point; and the
danger he foretold to the order was so terrible, while the inconvenience
of deferring the elections was so small, and its occurrence so frequent—a
sudden tempest, the striking of the standard on the Janiculum, the
interruption of a tribune, or the slightest informality in the augural
rites sufficing to interrupt them—that little objection was made in any
quarter, to the motion of Cicero, that the comitia should be delayed,
until the matter could be thoroughly investigated. For he professed only
as yet to possess a clue, which he promised hereafter to unravel to the
end.
Catiline had, however, so far recovered from his consternation, that he
had risen to address the house, when the first words he uttered were
drowned by a strange and unearthly sound, like the rumbling of ten
thousand chariots over a stony way, beginning, as it seemed, underneath
their feet, and rising gradually until it died away over head in the murky
air. Before there was time for any comment on this extraordinary sound, a
tremulous motion crept through the marble pavements, increasing every
moment, until the doors flew violently open, and the vast columns and
thick walls of the stately temple reeled visibly in the dread earthquake.
Nor was this all, for as the portals opened, in the black skies, right
opposite the entrance, there stood, glaring with red and lurid light, a
bearded star or comet; which, to the terror-stricken eyes of the Fathers,
seemed a portentous sword, brandished above the city.
The groans and shrieks of the multitude, rushed in with an appalling sound
to increase their superstitious awe; and to complete the whole, a pale and
ghastly messenger was ushered into the house, announcing that a bright
lambent flame was sitting on the lance-heads of the Prætor’s guard, which
had been summoned to protect the Senate in its deliberations.
A fell sneer curled the lip of Catiline. He was not even superstitious.
Self-vanity and confidence in his own powers, and long impunity in crime,
had hardened him, had maddened him, almost to Atheism. Yet he dared not
attack the sacred prejudices of the men, whom, but for that occurrence, he
had yet hoped to win to their own undoing.
But, as he saw their blanched visages, and heard their mutterings of
terror, he saw likewise that an impression was made on their minds, which
no words of his could for the present counteract. And, with a sneering
smile at fears which he knew not, and a smothered curse at the accident,
as he termed it, which had foiled him, he sat down silent.
"The Gods have spoken!" exclaimed Cicero, flinging his arms abroad
majestically. "The guilty are struck dumb! The Gods have spoken aloud
their sympathy for Rome’s peril; and will ye, ye its chosen sons, whose
all of happiness and life lie in its sanctity and safety, will ye, I say,
love your own country, your own mother, less than the Gods love her?"
The moment was decisive, the appeal irresistible. By acclamation the vote
was carried; no need to debate or to divide the House—’that the elections
be deferred until the eleventh day before the Calends, and that the Senate
meet again to-morrow, shortly after sunrise, to deliberate what shall be
done to protect the Republic?’
Morning came, dark indeed, and lurid, and more like the close, than the
opening of day. Morning came, but it brought no change with it; for not a
head in Rome had lain that night upon a pillow, save those of the unburied
dead, or the bedridden. Young men and aged, sick and sound, masters and
slaves, had wooed no sleep during the hours of darkness, so terribly, so
constantly was it illuminated by the broad flashes of blue lightning, and
the strange meteors, which rushed almost incessantly athwart the sky. The
winds too had been all unchained in their fury, and went howling like
tormented spirits, over the terrified and trembling city.
It was said too, that the shades of the dead had arisen, and were seen
mingling in the streets with the living, scarcely more livid than the
half-dead spectators of portents so ominous. No rumour so absurd or
fanatical, but it found on that night, implicit credence. Some shouted in
the streets and open places, that the patricians and the knights were
arming their adherents for a promiscuous massacre of the people. Some,
that the gladiators had broken loose, and slain thousands of citizens
already! Some, that there was a Gallic tumult, and that the enemy would be
at the gates in the morning! Some that the Gods had judged Rome to
destruction!
And so they raved, and roared, and sometimes fought; and would have rioted
tremendously; for many of the commoner conspirators were abroad, ready to
take advantage of any casual incident to breed an affray; but that a
strong force of civil magistrates patrolled the streets with armed
attendants; and that, during the night several cohorts were brought in,
from the armies of Quintus Marcius Rex, and Quintus Metellus Creticus,
with all their armor and war weapons, in heavy marching order; and
occupied the Capitol, the Palatine, and the Janiculum, and all the other
prominent and commanding points of the city, with an array that set
opposition at defiance.
So great, however, were the apprehensions of many of the nobles, that Rome
was on the eve of a servile insurrection, that many of them armed their
freedmen, and imprisoned all their slaves; while others, the more generous
and milder, who thought they could rely on the attachment of their people,
weaponed their slaves themselves, and fortified their isolated dwellings
against the anticipated onslaught.
Thus passed that terrible and tempestuous night; the roar of the elements,
unchained as they were, and at their work of havoc, not sufficing to drown
the dissonant and angry cries of men, the clash of weapons, and the shrill
clamor of women; which made Rome more resemble the Pandemonium than the
metropolis of the world’s most civilized and mightiest nation.
But now morning had come at length; and gradually, as the storm ceased,
and the heavens resumed their natural appearance, the terrors and the fury
of the multitude subsided; and, partly satisfied by the constant and
well-timed proclamations of the magistrates, partly convinced that for the
moment there was no hope of successful outrage, and yet more wearied out
with their own turbulent vehemence, whether of fear or anger, the crowd
began to retire to their houses, and the streets were left empty and
silent.
As the day dawned, there was no banner hoisted on the Janiculum, although
its turrets might be seen bristling with the short massive javelins of the
legions, and gleaming with the tawny light that flashed from their brazen
casques and corslets.
There was no augural tent pitched on the hills without the city walls,
wherefrom to take the auspices.
And above all, there were no loud and stirring calls of the brazen
trumpets of the centuries, to summon forth the civic army of the Roman
people to the Campus, there to elect their rulers for the ensuing year.
It was apparent therefore to all men, that the elections would not be held
that day, though none knew clearly wherefore they had been deferred.
While the whole city was loud with turbulent confusion—for, as morning
broke, and it was known that the comitia were postponed, the agitation of
terror succeeded to that of insubordination—Hortensia and her daughter sat
together, pale, anxious, and heartsick, yet firm and free from all
unworthy evidences of dismay.
During the past night, which had been to both a sleepless one, they had
sate listening, lone and weak women, to the roar of tumultuous streets,
and expecting at every moment they knew not what of violence and outrage.
Paullus Arvina had come in once to reassure them: and informed them that
the vigilance of the Consul had been crowned with success, and that the
danger of a conflict in the streets was subsiding every moment.
Still, the care which he bestowed on examining the fastenings of the
doors, and such windows as looked into the streets, the earnestness with
which he inculcated watchful heed to the armed slaves of the household,
and the positive manner in which he insisted on leaving Thrasea and a
dozen of his own trustiest men to assist Hortensia’s people, did more to
obliterate the hopes his own words would otherwise have excited, than the
words themselves to excite them.
Nor was it, indeed, to be wondered that Hortensia should be liable, above
other women, not to base terror,—for of that from her high character she
was incapable—but to a settled apprehension and distrust of the Roman
Populace.
It was now four-and-twenty years since the city had been disturbed by
plebeian violence or aristocratic vengeance. Twenty-four years ago, the
avenging sword of Sylla had purged the state of its bloodthirsty
demagogues, and their brute followers; twenty-four years ago his powerful
hand had reestablished Rome’s ancient constitution, full of checks and
balances, which secured equal rights to every Roman citizen; which secured
all equality, in short to all men, save that which no human laws can give,
equality of social rank, and equality of wealth.
The years, however, which had gone before that restoration, the dreadful
massacres and yet more dreadful proscriptions of Cinna and Marius, had
left indelible and sanguinary traces on the ancestral tree of many a noble
house; and on none deeper than on that of Hortensia’s family.
Her brother, Caius Julius, an orator second to none in those days, had
been murdered by the followers of Marius, almost before his sister’s eyes,
with circumstances of appalling cruelty. Her house had been forced open by
the infuriate rabble, her husband hewn down with unnumbered wounds, on his
own hearth-stone, and her first born child tossed upon the revolutionary
pike heads.
Her husband indeed recovered, almost miraculously, from his wounds, and
lived to see retribution fall upon the guilty partizans of Marius; but he
was never well again, and after languishing for years, died at last of the
wounds he received on that bloody day.
Good cause, then, had Hortensia to tremble at the tender mercies of the
people.
Nor, though they struck the minds of these high-born ladies with less
perplexity and awe than the vulgar souls without, were the portents and
horrors of the heaven, without due effect. No mind in those days, however
clear and enlightened, but held some lingering belief that such things
were ominous of coming wrath, and sent by the Gods to inform their
faithful worshippers.
It was moreover fresh in her memory, how two years before, during the
consulship of Cotta and Torquatus, in a like terrible night-storm, the
fire from heaven had stricken down the highest turrets of the capitol,
melted the brazen tables of the law, and scathed the gilded effigy of
Romulus and Remus, sucking their shaggy foster-mother, which stood on the
Capitoline.
The augurs in those days, collected from Etruria and all parts of Italy,
after long consultation, had proclaimed that unless the Gods should be
appeased duly, the end of Rome and her empire was at hand.
And now—what though for ten whole days consecutive the sacred games went
on; what though nothing had been omitted whereby to avert the immortal
indignation—did not this heaven-born tempest prove that the wrath was not
soothed, that the decree yet stood firm?
In such deep thoughts, and in the strong excitement of such expectation,
Hortensia and her daughter had passed that awful night; not without high
instructions from the elder lady, grave and yet stirring narratives of the
great men of old—how they strove fiercely, energetically, while strife
could avail anything; and how, when the last hope was over, they folded
their hands in stern and awful resignation, and met their fate
unblenching, and with but one care—that the decorum of their deaths should
not prove unworthy the dignity of their past lives.
Not without generous and noble resolutions on the part of both, that they
too would not be found wanting.
But there was nothing humble, nothing soft, in their stern and proud
submission to the inevitable necessity. Nothing of love toward the hand
which dealt the blow—nothing of confidence in supernal justice, much less
in supernal mercy! Nothing of that sweet hope, that undying trust, that
consciousness of self-unworthiness, that full conviction of a glorious
future, which renders so beautiful and happy the submission of a dying
Christian.
No! there were none of these things; for to the wisest and best of the
ancients, the foreshadowings of the soul’s immortality were dim, faint,
and uncertain. The legends of their mythology held up such pictures of the
sensuality and vice of those whom they called Gods, that it was utterly
impossible for any sound understanding to accept them. And deep thinkers
were consequently driven into pure Deism, coupled too often with the
Epicurean creed, that the Great Spirit was too grand and too sublime to
trouble himself with the brief doings of mortality.
The whole scope of the Roman’s hope and ambition, then, was limited to
this world; or, if there was a longing for anything beyond the term of
mortality, it was for a name, a memory, an immortality of good report.
And pride, which the christian, better instructed, knows to be the germ
and root of all sin, was to the Roman, the sole spring of honourable
action, the sole source of virtue.
Now, with the morning, quiet was restored both to the angry skies, and to
the restless city.
Worn out with anxiety, and watching, sleep fell upon the eyes of Julia, as
she sat half recumbent in a large softly-cushioned chair of Etruscan
bronze. Her fair head fell back on the crimson pillow, with all its wealth
of auburn ringlets flowing dishevelled; and that soft still shadow, which
is yet, in its beautiful serenity, half terrible, so nearly is it allied
to the shadow of that sleep from which there comes no waking, fell over
her pale features.
The mother gazed on her for a moment, with more gentleness in her eye, and
a milder smile on her face, than her indomitable pride often permitted her
to manifest.
"She sleeps"—she said, looking at her wistfully—"she sleeps! Aye! the
young sleep easily, even in their affliction. They sleep, and forget their
sorrows, and awaken, either to fresh woes, as soon to be obliterated, or
to vain joys, yet briefer, and more fleeting. Thoughtlessness to the
young—anguish to the old—such is mortality! And what beyond?—aye,
what?—what that we should so toil, so suffer, to be virtuous? Is it a
dream, all a dream—this futurity? I fear so"—and, with the words, she
lapsed into a fit of solemn meditation, and stood for many minutes silent,
and absorbed. Then a keen light came into her dark eyes, a flash of
animation coloured her pale cheeks, she stretched her arms aloft, and in a
clear sonorous voice—"No! no!" she said, "Honour—honour—immortal honour;
thou, at least, art no dream—thou art worth dying, suffering, aye! worth
_living_ to obtain! For what is life but the deeper sorrow, to the more
virtuous and the nobler?"
A few minutes longer she stood gazing on her daughter’s beautiful face,
until the sound of voices louder than usual, and a slight bustle, in the
peristyle, attracted her attention. Then, after throwing a pallium, or
shawl, of richly embroidered woollen stuff over the fair form of the
sleeper, she opened the door leading to the garden colonnade, and left the
room silently.
Scarcely had Hortensia disappeared, before the opposite door, by which the
saloon communicated with the atrium, was opened, and a slave entered,
bearing a small folded note, secured by a waxen seal, on a silver plate.
He approached Julia’s chair, apparently in some hesitation, as if he felt
that it was his duty, and was yet half afraid to awaken her. At length,
however, he made up his mind, and addressed a word or two to her, which
were sufficiently distinct to arouse her—for she started up and gazed
wildly about her—but left no clear impression of their meaning on her
mind.
This, however, the man did not appear to notice; at all events, he did not
wait to observe the effect of his communication, but quitted the room
hastily, and in considerable trepidation, leaving the note on the table.
Julia was sleeping very heavily, at the moment when she was so startled
from her slumber; and, as is not unfrequently the case, a sort of
bewilderment and nervous agitation fell upon her, as she recovered her
senses. Perhaps she had been dreaming, and the imaginary events of her
dream had blended themselves with the real occurrence which awakened her.
But for a minute or two, though she saw the note, and the person who laid
it on the table, she could neither bring it to her mind who that person
was, nor divest herself of the impression that there was something both
dangerous and supernatural in what had passed.
In a little while this feeling passed away, and, though still nervous and
trembling, the young girl smiled at her own alarm, as she took up the
billet, which was directed to herself in a delicate feminine hand, with
the usual form of superscription—
"To Julia Serena, health"—
although the writer’s name was omitted.
She gazed at it for a moment, wondering from whom it could come; since she
had no habitual correspondent, and the hand-writing, though beautiful, was
strange to her. She opened it, and read, her wonder and agitation
increasing with every line—
"You love Paullus Arvina," thus it ran, "and are loved by him. He is
worthy all your affection. Are you worthy of him, I know not. I love him
also, but alas! less happy, am not loved again, nor hope to be, nor indeed
deserve it! They tell me you are beautiful; I have seen you, and yet I
know not—they told me once that I too was beautiful, and yet I know not! I
know this only, that I am desperate, and base, and miserable! Yet fear me
not, nor mistake me. I love Paullus, yet would not have him mine, now; no!
not to be happy—as to be his would render me. Yet had it not been for you,
I might have been virtuous, honourable, happy, _his_—for winning him from
me, you won from me hope; and with hope virtue; and with virtue honour!
Ought I not then to hate you, Julia? Perchance I ought—to do so were at
least Roman—and hating to avenge! Perchance, if I _hoped_, I should. But
hoping nothing, I hate nothing, dread nothing, and wish nothing.—Yea! by
the Gods! I wish to know Paullus happy—yea! more, I wish, even at cost of
my own misery, to make him happy. Shall I do so, by making him yours,
Julia? I think so, for be sure—be sure, he loves you. Else had he yielded
to my blandishments, to my passion, to my beauty! for I am—by the Gods! I
am, though he sees it not, as beautiful as thou. And I am proud
likewise—or was proud once—for misery has conquered pride in me; or what
is weaker yet, and baser—love!"
"I think you will make him happy. You can if you will. Do so, by all the
Gods! I adjure you do so; and if you do not, tremble!—tremble, I say—for
think, if I sacrifice myself to win bliss for him—think, girl, how gladly,
how triumphantly, I would destroy a rival, who should fail to do that, for
which alone I spare her.
"Spare her! nay, but much more; for I can save her—can and will.
"Strange things will come to pass ere long, and terrible; and to no one so
terrible as to you.
"There is a man in Rome, so powerful, that the Gods, only, if there be
Gods, can compare with him—so haughty in ambition, that stood he second in
Olympus, he would risk all things to be first—so cruel, that the dug-drawn
Hyrcanian tigress were pitiful compared to him—so reckless of all things
divine or human, that, did his own mother stand between him and his
vengeance, he would strike through her heart to gain it.
"This man hath Paullus made his foe—he hath crossed his path; he hath
_foiled_ him!
"He never spared man in his wrath, or woman in his passion.
"He hateth Paullus!
"He hath looked on Julia!
"Think, then, when lust and hate spur such a man together, what will
restrain him.
"Now mark me, and you shall yet be safe. All means will be essayed to win
you, for he would torture Paul by making him his slave, ere he make you
his victim.
"And Paul may waver. He hath wavered once. Chance only, and I, rescued
him! I can do no more, for Rome must know me no longer! See, then, that
thou hold him constant in the right—firm for his country! So may he defy
secret spite, as he hath defied open violence.
"Now for thyself—beware of women! Go not forth alone ever, or without
armed followers! Sleep not, but with a woman in thy chamber, and a watcher
at thy door! Eat not, nor drink, any thing abroad; nor at home, save that
which is prepared by known hands, and tasted by the slave who serves it!
"Be true to Paullus, and yourself, and you have a friend ever watchful. So
fear not, nor despond!
"Fail me—and, failing truth and honour, failing to make Paullus happy, you
_do_ fail me! Fail me, and nothing, in the world’s history or fable, shall
match the greatness of my vengeance—of your anguish!
"Fail me! and yours shall be, for ages, the name that men shall quote,
when they would tell of untold misery, of utter shame, and desolation, and
despair.
"Farewell."
The letter dropped from her hand; she sat aghast and speechless, terrified
beyond measure, and yet unable to determine, or divine, even, to what its
dark warnings and darker denunciations pointed.
Just at this instant, as between terror and amazement she was on the verge
of fainting, a clanging step was heard without; the crimson draperies that
covered the door, were put aside; and, clad in glittering armour, Paullus
Arvina stood before her.
She started up, with a strange haggard smile flashing across her pallid
face, staggered a step or two to meet him, and sank in an agony of tears
upon his bosom.