CHAPTER XXV

ASSASSINATIONS OF ALEXANDER I. AND DRAGA,

KING AND QUEEN OF SERVIA (June 10-11, 1903) 399

Illustrations

Julius Cæsar _Frontispiece_

_To face page_

Philip of Macedon 3

Tiberius Gracchus 11

Caligula 35

Claudius 37

Thomas à Becket 53

Gessler 67

Iñez de Castro 77

David Rizzio 89

Lord Darnley 94

William of Orange 111

Ivan the Terrible 131

Henry IV. 147

Wallenstein 165

John de Witt 191

Cornelius de Witt 205

Alexis 211

Peter III. 221

Gustavus III. 249

Jean Paul Marat 283

Paul I. 301

August von Kotzebue 315

Duc de Berry 327

Abraham Lincoln 343

Alexander II. of Russia 359

William McKinley 381

Alexander I. of Servia 399

Queen Draga 409

CHAPTER I

PHILIP OF MACEDON

[Illustration: PHILIP OF MACEDON]

Famous Assassinations

CHAPTER I

ASSASSINATION OF PHILIP OF MACEDON

(336 B. C.)

The assassination of Philip of Macedon, which occurred in the year 336

B.C., was one of the most important in ancient history, not only because

it terminated the glorious career of one of the most remarkable men of

his times, but also because it led immediately to the accession of

Alexander, one of the supremely great men of history,--an event which

would very likely not have taken place at all if Philip had continued to

live for a number of years and had himself selected the successor to his

throne. Philip of Macedon was then at the height of his power. The

battle of Chæronea, in 338 B.C., had made him the master of Greece; and

by his tactful and generous treatment of the vanquished he had even been

appointed by the Amphictyon League commander-in-chief of all the Greek

forces, which he intended to lead, at the head of his Macedonian army,

against the Persians, and to conquer their mighty empire. This

stupendous plan, by whose accomplishment Philip would have anticipated

the glorious achievements of Alexander, his son, was frustrated by his

assassination.

While Philip had arranged everything for his descent upon Persia, and

had been frequently absent from home, his domestic affairs in his own

capital, which had never been of a very satisfactory character, took

such an unfavorable turn as to require his personal attention. As a

husband, Philip had often given just cause of complaint to Olympias, his

royal spouse. Wherever he went he formed liaisons, and several

illegitimate children were openly recognized by him as his own. But when

Olympias, the Queen, laid herself open to a suspicion of having violated

her marriage vows in his absence, he repudiated her, charging her with

gross infidelity, and intimating that he had very strong doubts of being

the father of Alexander. Olympias thereupon went back to her native

state, Epirus, accompanied by Alexander, who was highly incensed at the

treatment shown to his mother and himself.

Philip contracted a second marriage with Cleopatra, a niece of Attalus,

one of his generals; and it is said that at the wedding feast Attalus,

half intoxicated, expressed the wish and hope that Cleopatra might give

the Macedonians a lawful heir to the kingdom. This remark, overheard by

Alexander, so enraged him that, throwing a full cup at Attalus’s head,

he shouted to him: “What, you scoundrel! am I then a bastard?” Whereupon

Philip, taking Attalus’s part, rose from his seat, and rushing with his

drawn sword upon Alexander would have run his son through, if he had

not, being himself more than half drunk with wine, slipped and fallen on

the floor; at which sight Alexander scornfully said: “See there the man

who is making great preparations to invade Asia at the head of a

powerful army, and who falls to the ground like a helpless child in

going from one seat to another.”

It is said that after this debauch both Olympias and Alexander retired

from Philip’s capital, the one going to Epirus, and the other to

Illyria. By the counsels and efforts of Demaratus, the Corinthian, an

old friend of the royal family, Philip was, however, induced to send for

Alexander, and the son returned to his father’s court. Soon afterwards,

Cleopatra gave birth to a son; and the fears of Alexander, who remained

in communication with his mother and was filled with jealous rage by

her, revived.

It is more than likely--although absolute proof of it has never been

furnished--that Olympias, in her revengeful jealousy, planned the

assassination of the King who had so cruelly offended her pride as a

woman, and who, she supposed, was also plotting to exclude her own son

from the throne and place upon it the son of her young rival. An

opportunity for this act of revenge soon presented itself. A young

Macedonian, named Pausanias, had been mortally offended by Attalus and

Queen Cleopatra. He appealed to the King for reparation of the wrong

done to him; but this being refused, he resolved to revenge himself by

taking the King’s life. All historians seem to agree that Pausanias was

encouraged and incited to this act of revenge by Olympias; but whether

or not Alexander was cognizant of the murderous plot, and approved it,

has never been satisfactorily explained, and remains one of the unsolved

problems of history.

The occasion for the murderous act of Pausanias was the wedding of

Alexander’s sister with her uncle Alexander, King of Epirus. Philip

considered this marriage between his daughter and the brother of his

first wife, Olympias, an act of consummate statesmanship, inasmuch as it

transferred an enemy and an ally of Olympias to his own side and made a

friend of him. He therefore resolved to make the nuptials of this

ill-matched couple as brilliant as possible. Grand Olympian games and

spectacular festivities were arranged, and an incredible display of

luxury and pomp, unheard of in those days, was planned to show to the

wondering eyes of Greece the court of the new master of the civilized

world in matchless splendor and grandeur. All the cities of Greece had

sent delegations to these brilliant festivities; most of them came with

costly wedding presents, among which golden crowns were conspicuous.

Poets sent nuptial hymns and poems celebrating the beauty of the bride

and the genius of the father in the most extravagant terms; and a noted

dramatist of that age, Neoptolemus, composed a tragedy for the occasion,

in which Philip, under a fictitious name, was represented as the

conqueror of Asia and the triumphant vanquisher of the great Darius.

It was at the theatre, in which this tragedy was to be performed, that

Philip met his doom. Accompanied by a brilliant cortège of all that were

renowned at his court for birth, talent, and wealth, he proceeded to the

theatre. On approaching the entrance, he bade the noblemen surrounding

him to advance, and his body-guard to fall back, so that he might be

personally more conspicuous before the enraptured eyes of his subjects.

The procession was led by priests in white robes, each carrying a statue

of one of the twelve principal gods; and a thirteenth statue, even more

richly draped and ornamented than the others, with the insignia of

divinity upon it, was that of Philip himself.

It was the supreme moment of his pride and happiness; but it was also

his last. The noblemen and courtiers had already disappeared in the

building. The body-guard, obedient to the King’s orders, remained

behind. Just at the moment when the King stepped forward, alone, under

the gateway of the theatre, a man sprang from a side corridor, thrust a

sharp short sword into his side, and hurried off as the royal victim

reeled and fell. In the tremendous confusion which arose, the assassin

came very near making his escape. He ran toward a swift horse which was

kept in readiness for him by friends who evidently knew of the murder

and were in the plot; and, dazed as the people were who witnessed the

assassination, he would probably have escaped, had not his sandal caught

in a vine-stock and caused him to fall, which gave some of his pursuers

time to lay their hands on him before he could get up. In their rage,

they killed him with their spears and tore him to pieces.

The surroundings and execution of this plot bear a strong resemblance to

the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. In both cases there was an

individual murderer, the scene was a theatre, the act was done with

incredible audacity in the presence of a large concourse of people, and

the murderer was crippled by a misstep after the fatal blow.

The assassination of Philip of Macedon was not only one of the boldest

and most dramatic in history, but it was also one of the earliest in

point of time.

CHAPTER II

TIBERIUS GRACCHUS

[Illustration: TIBERIUS GRACCHUS]

CHAPTER II

ASSASSINATION OF TIBERIUS GRACCHUS

(133 B. C.)

In the history of ancient Rome there occurs one political assassination

which stands out as an event of special significance, not only on

account of the great celebrity of the victim, but also owing to the fact

that it is the first occasion on record in which the conflicting

economical interests of different classes in a republic were settled by

a resort to arms, instead of being adjudicated on principles of equity

and justice, or simply by public authority.

This great historical event was the murder of Tiberius Gracchus, which

was soon followed by the forced suicide of his brother, Caius

Gracchus,--the immediate result of their attempt to enforce an agrarian

law passed as an act of justice to the poorer classes of Roman citizens.

The law was violently opposed by the rich, who organized an armed

revolution against its originators and were powerful enough to do away

with them.

There is in the whole conflict about that agrarian law (the so-called

Sempronian law) a modern feature which makes it especially interesting

to Americans at a time when party issues turn largely on economical

questions, and when the antagonism between capital and labor (or the

rich and the poor) threatens to enter the acute stage. It will be

noticed that at that early age (more than two thousand years ago)

capital already had a power and commanded a political influence against

which right and justice, allied to poverty, battled in vain. History,

both ancient and modern, has been written largely in conformity with the

ideas and prejudices of the ruling classes, and in praise of them, while

their enemies and opponents have generally been unjustly criticised and

denounced as disturbers of public order and peace, or even as anarchists

and rebels against public authority. The two illustrious brothers, the

Gracchi, have shared this unjust treatment of historians, and in the

estimation of many, pass to-day as dangerous and seditious characters

whose death alone could have saved Rome from greater calamities. An

impartial investigation of their case will, in our opinion, furnish

sufficient proof to reverse this historical judgment.

The two Gracchi were the sons of Sempronius Gracchus, the famous Roman

tribune, who won distinction by his great independence and ability in

the administration of his office, and of the equally famous Cornelia,

daughter of Cornelius Scipio Africanus, the renowned vanquisher of

Hannibal. The brothers, so closely united and so much alike in political

sentiments, designs, and efforts, were of different character,

temperament, and appearance. Tiberius, who was nine years older than his

brother, was gentle and mild in conduct; and his countenance, his eyes,

and his gestures were of peculiar and winning gentleness. His brother

Caius was animated, vehement, and high-tempered. His eloquence was

distinguished by the same characteristics, while that of Tiberius was

tactful, persuasive, and conciliatory. Tiberius would have made an

ideal preacher; Caius seemed to be predestined for the part of a popular

advocate and orator.

Tiberius had seen military service and won distinction both by his

bravery and prudence in Spain as aid to his brother-in-law, Scipio

Æmilianus, who was the commander-in-chief. It was, therefore, not his

illustrious birth alone, but individual merit also, which caused him to

be elected tribune of the people in the year 133 B.C. As such he

introduced a bill for the re-apportionment of the public lands and their

distribution among the poorer citizens of Rome. Various explanations

have been given for this action of Tiberius Gracchus. It has been said

that he was instigated by others to introduce a measure which could not

fail to arouse against him the strongest hostility of the rich

proprietors of some of these lands. But from a statement in writing left

by his brother Caius, it appears that the idea of the bill originated

with Tiberius himself, and that its introduction sprang much more from a

noble and generous impulse than from political ambition.

Even to-day the traveller who traverses the silent and depopulated

desert of the Roman Campagna, which is owned by a limited number of

large proprietors and is left in an almost uncultivated state, is struck

forcibly with the thought that the unwise and unjust distribution of the

land has had much to do with the desolate and unproductive aspect of

this district, which under judicious and scientific cultivation might

yield rich harvests and contribute materially to the welfare of the

inhabitants of Tuscany. The same thought struck Tiberius Gracchus as, on

his departure for Spain, he travelled through Tuscany and found it

almost a desert, or, at best, only rudely cultivated in some parts by

barbarian and imported slaves. It was at that time that he first

conceived the idea of bringing about a change--an idea which continued

to haunt his mind until he was in a position to realize it. And in doing

so he found a precedent for legislative action.

There already existed a law at Rome--the so-called Licinian law--which

limited the number of acres to be possessed by any one citizen to five

hundred. But this Licinian law had been a dead letter for many years,

and there were many rich citizens in Rome who counted the number of

their acres by the thousand or even ten thousand. It was this violation

of the Licinian law, and the open injustice done to the poor by this

violation, which Tiberius Gracchus wanted to correct. He therefore

introduced a new agrarian law which aimed to revive the Licinian law,

but at the same time greatly modified and attenuated its provisions. The

change in the law which Tiberius Gracchus proposed was in one respect an

act of injustice, because it put a premium on the violation of the law

as it had existed, instead of punishing that violation by imposing an

adequate fine. Under the new law a citizen might hold 500 acres of the

public lands in his own name, and in addition, 250 acres for each son

still under the paternal roof and authority. Moreover, the new law

provided that, whenever a citizen should be compelled to give up land

which he held in excess of the share which the law allowed him, he

should be reimbursed for this loss, at the appraised value, from the

public treasury. Tiberius Gracchus also favored the immediate

distribution of the confiscated lands among the poor as their absolute

property, and proposed that, whenever a Roman colony was founded on

conquered territory, a similar distribution of the newly acquired land

should be made.

The new law was enthusiastically applauded by the Roman people, even

before it had been legally adopted; but the Senate most violently

opposed it, because many Senators would have been deprived by its

passage of most valuable lands. In order to defeat it they prevailed

upon one of the ten tribunes to object to the third reading of the law.

The unanimous support of the tribunes was necessary for its passage.

When the day for the public vote on the law had come, an immense

multitude of people was assembled at the Forum. The ten tribunes entered

and took their seats on the platform. Tiberius Gracchus arose and

ordered the clerk to read his law, but was immediately interrupted by

Octavius, who ordered him to stop. The interruption caused an immense

sensation and commotion among the spectators. Tiberius, after having

vainly tried to persuade Octavius to withdraw his objection, adjourned

the meeting to a later day. During this interval he used all his power

of persuasion to overcome the resistance of Octavius, but in vain. It

was then that Tiberius Gracchus, in his intense desire to pass a public

measure which he considered highly beneficial to the people and almost

indispensable to the public welfare, resolved to resort to an expedient

which was really unconstitutional and which is the only public act of

his that gives the least foundation to the charge of sedition so

generally preferred against him. He came to the conclusion that the only

way to overcome the veto of Octavius was to depose him from his office

by a popular vote. This was a clear violation of the Constitution, and

he carried out his intention in spite of the loud protests of the

Senate.

The scene on the Forum in which Octavius was deposed must have been very

pathetic and impressive; and while it signified an immediate victory for

Tiberius Gracchus, it nevertheless incensed a great many Roman citizens

and turned them against him. It is safe to say that this scene sealed

his doom and furnished the principal reason for his assassination.

Plutarch, a reliable and impartial authority, describes the scene as

follows:

“When the people were met together again, Tiberius placed himself

in the rostra and endeavored a second time to persuade Octavius.

But all being to no purpose, he referred the whole matter to the

people, calling on them to vote at once whether Octavius should be

deposed or not; and when seventeen of the thirty-five tribes had

already voted against him, and there wanted only the vote of one

tribe more for his final deprivation, Tiberius put a short stop to

the proceedings, and once more renewed his importunities; he

embraced and kissed him before all the assembly, begging with all

the earnestness imaginable that he would neither suffer himself to

incur the dishonor, nor him to be reputed the author and promoter

of so odious a measure. Octavius did seem a little softened and

moved with these entreaties; his eyes filled with tears and he

continued silent for a considerable time. But presently looking

toward the rich men and proprietors of estates, who stood gathered

in a body together, partly for shame, and partly for fear of

disgracing himself with them, he boldly bade Tiberius use any

severity he pleased. The law for his deposition being thus voted,

Tiberius ordered one of his servants, whom he had made a freeman,

to remove Octavius from the rostra, employing his own domestic

freed servants instead of the public officers. And it made the

action seem all the sadder that Octavius was dragged out in such an

ignominious manner. The people immediately assaulted him, while the

rich men ran in to his assistance. Octavius, with some difficulty,

was snatched away, and safely conveyed out of the crowd; though a

trusty servant of his, who had placed himself in front of his

master that he might assist his escape, in keeping off the

multitude, had his eyes struck out, much to the displeasure of

Tiberius, who ran with all haste, when he perceived the

disturbance, to appease the rioters.”

The law was then passed, and commissioners were immediately appointed to

make a survey of the lands and see that they were equally divided.

The forcible ejection of Octavius and the subsequent passage of the new

agrarian law opened a chasm between Tiberius Gracchus and the

patricians, which nothing but his death could close up. He had made

himself immensely popular with the poor, and other laws which he

introduced increased that popularity. But the more the poor idolized

him, the more the rich hated and abhorred him; and a large number of the

better and more thoughtful class of plebeians resented his bold

violation of the Constitution in removing Octavius from office.

Such were the conditions when the time for the expiration of his

official term as tribune approached, and he as well as his friends saw

the necessity for his reëlection as a measure for protecting his life.

He therefore appeared as a candidate for reëlection; and when on the

first day of the election no choice had resulted from the vote, the next

day was appointed for the final decision. Tiberius knew that not only

his political career, but his very life depended on the result, and he

therefore left no stone unturned to rally his friends to the rescue. But

unfortunately, it being harvest time, many of his adherents were absent

from the city, and could not be reached in time for the struggle.

On the day following, the Senate convened at an early hour, while the

people assembled at the Capitol to proceed with the vote. However,

great confusion prevailed, and a large number of outsiders tried to

force their way in and establish themselves among the voters. And even

the appearance of Tiberius Gracchus, although he was received with loud

acclamations, failed to restore order in the assemblage. Moreover, he

showed by the depression in his countenance and conduct that he had lost

confidence in the success of his cause. Several evil omens which he had

encountered on his way to the Capitol disturbed his mind. At daybreak a

soothsayer, who prognosticated good or bad success by the pecking of

fowls, informed him that all his efforts to induce the fowls to eat had

failed. Tiberius then remembered that, a short time before, two serpents

had been found in his helmet. On stepping out of the house he stumbled

on the threshold and hurt his great toe so badly that it bled profusely.

As he walked through the streets he saw on his left hand two ravens

fighting on the roof of a house, and suddenly a stone, detached from the

roof, fell at his feet. The friends of Gracchus, who surrounded him, all

stopped, and he himself hesitated as to whether he should proceed or

return to his house. However, a philosopher from Cuma, one of his

intimates, who was credited with inspiring Gracchus with his democratic

ideas and who was free from the superstition of the Romans, persuaded

him to continue on his way to the Capitol.

There the voting of the tribes was proceeding with great noise and

confusion. All at once Gracchus noticed that one of his friends, Lucius

Flaccus, a Senator, had mounted an elevation from which he could be

easily seen, but where he was too far off to be heard, and was

indicating by motions of his hand that he wished to communicate some

important news. Tiberius told the crowd to let Flaccus pass. With great

difficulty the Senator reached Tiberius and informed him that at the

session of the Senate, after the Consul had refused to have him

arrested, a resolution had been passed to kill him, and that the

Senators had armed a large number of their clients and slaves to carry

out this purpose. Tiberius immediately informed the friends who

surrounded him of the action of the Senate, and signified to those at a

greater distance the danger in which he was placed, by raising his hands

to his head,--and it was this motion, entirely innocent in itself, which

hastened his ruin. His enemies construed it as a desire on his part to

wear a crown, and carried this ridiculous news to the Senate chamber. It

caused a perfect explosion of maledictions and threats among the

Senators; and Scipio Nasica, the most violent of all, immediately made a

motion that the Consul be instructed to save the Republic and to

exterminate the would-be tyrant. The Consul replied that he would resist

any factious and criminal attempt against the Republic, but that he

would not put to death a Roman citizen without trial. On this Scipio

Nasica turned to the Senators, exclaiming: “Since the Consul betrays the

city, let those who want to defend the laws follow me!” and followed by

a large number of Senators and their clients, he rushed toward the place

where Tiberius Gracchus, surrounded by his friends, was observing the

progress of the election. Immediately a riot and fight ensued. The

Senators, who were armed with clubs, canes, stones, or whatever weapon

they could lay their hands on, rushed upon the crowd of voters,

overthrew, beat, and killed them, stamping them under their feet and

quickly and irresistibly advancing toward the spot where they beheld

the man who was the object of their rage and bloodthirstiness. Tiberius,

unarmed and forsaken by his friends, turned round to seek safety in

flight, but, stumbling over those who had been knocked down, fell to the

ground. It was at that moment, while Tiberius was trying to get on his

feet again, that one of his own colleagues, a tribune of the people,

dealt him a powerful and fatal blow, striking him on the head with the

leg of a stool. Others rushed up and struck him again and again, but it

was only a lifeless corpse which suffered from their abuse. Three

hundred of his friends had fallen with him. It was the first Roman blood

which had been shed in civil war, and this first conflict deprived Rome

of one of its most illustrious citizens.

It is unnecessary to go into any details regarding the death of Caius

Gracchus, who took up and continued the work of his brother. To the

measures in favor of the poor which had been advocated by Tiberius, he

added others,--for instance, regular distributions of corn among the

poor at half price, the imposition of new taxes upon articles of luxury

imported from foreign countries, and employment on public works for

mechanics and laborers who could not find employment on private

contract. It will be seen that these measures, as well as some other

projects of minor importance which Caius Gracchus advocated and caused

to be enacted as laws, form part of the platform of modern labor

parties, and that the Gracchi can fitly be designated as the founders of

these parties. They both fell victims to the attempt to carry out their

theories. At first, it would seem, Caius Gracchus at the request of his

mother, was inclined to abandon the projects of Tiberius; but one night,

says Cicero in his book _De Divinatione_, he heard Tiberius saying to

him: “Why hesitate, Caius? Thy destiny shall be the same as mine--to

fight for the people, and to die for them.” It is said that this

prophecy determined him in his course, and that his death was the

consequence. In 121 B.C., during a public riot and conflict organized by

his enemies for his destruction, he committed suicide, dying not by his

own hand, but by commanding his slave to stab him,--an order which was

promptly obeyed. The assassination of the one and the forced suicide of

the other immortalized the two brothers.

CHAPTER III

JULIUS CÆSAR

CHAPTER III

ASSASSINATION OF JULIUS CÆSAR

(44 B. C.)

Americans are not great students of history, especially ancient history.

Very likely the assassination of Julius Cæsar, one of the most important

events in the history of ancient Rome, would also be among the “things

not generally known” among Americans, had not Shakespeare’s great

tragedy made them familiar with it. It is true, the aims of the

dramatist and of the historian are wide-apart. The dramatist places the

hero in the centre of the plot, and causes every part of it to

contribute to the catastrophe which overwhelms him under the decree of

fate. He is the victim of his own guilt. The historian makes the great

man but one of the principal factors in the evolution of events, and if

a Cæsar or a Napoleon succumbs in the struggle, it is by force of

external circumstances against which his genius is powerless to contend,

although his ambition or his passion may have been the dominant cause of

arraying those circumstances against him. By his matchless genius and

incomparable art, Shakespeare has, to a certain degree, in his “Julius

Cæsar,” solved the difficult problem of combining the task of the

dramatic poet with that of the historian, and has placed before the

spectator not only Cæsar himself with his world-wide and imperialistic

ambition as the central figure of the play, but also Rome with its

republican recollections and aspirations in antagonism to Cæsar’s

ambition. The delineation of the character of the foremost man of the

ancient world by the greatest dramatist of modern times, and his skilful

grouping of the great republicans struggling for the maintenance of

republican institutions, have been so indelibly engraved upon the minds

of modern readers that the assassination of Julius Cæsar, which took

place at Rome 44 B.C., is nearly as familiar to them as the

assassination of Abraham Lincoln. And if we, in this series of Famous

Assassinations in History, devote a chapter to it, it is simply for the

reason that the series would be incomplete without it. Moreover, it may

be both interesting and useful to call to the mind of the reader the

circumstances and surroundings which led to the downfall of Cæsar. The

conspiracy and assassination removed from the scene of action the

master-mind of the age, without saving the republican institutions; and

it is only by explaining the causes that we can do justice to the noble

intentions of the conspirators, while lamenting the assassination of

Cæsar as a public misfortune for Rome, inasmuch as it removed the strong

hand that could have prevented the anarchy and civil war which broke out

among his successors, immediately after his disappearance from the

public stage.

Cæsar was at the height of his power. His achievements had eclipsed the

military glory of Pompey, and by his wonderful career he might truly be

looked upon as the “man of destiny.” On his return from Gaul, when the

Senate had rejected his request for a prolongation of his command, and

had ordered him to disband his army and to give up the administration of

his province, his popularity was so great that his homeward journey,

escorted as he was by his victorious army, was but a continuous

triumphal march. Not only Rome, but all Italy welcomed him home as its

greatest man, and was ready to heap its greatest, nay even divine honors

upon him.

The Senate and its chosen commander-in-chief, Pompey, had fled on the

approach of Cæsar. In the decisive battle of Pharsalus Cæsar defeated

Pompey, and by this victory became the sole ruler of the Roman Republic.

Pompey was assassinated on landing in Egypt, as a fugitive, and Cæsar

returned to Rome, where he was received with the tumultuous acclamations

of the people, and conducted to the Capitol as the savior of the

country. The Senate, which had just made war upon him and outlawed him

as an enemy of the fatherland, appointed him dictator for ten years with

absolute and supreme power, gave him a body-guard of seventy-two lictors

to proclaim his majesty and inviolability, and ordered his statue to be

placed beside that of Jupiter on the Capitol. A public thanksgiving

festival, continuing for forty days, was proclaimed, and four brilliant

triumphs for his victories in Gaul, Egypt, Pontus, and Africa, were

accorded to him.

Never before in the history of Rome had such honors, which seemed to

pass the human limit, been conferred on any Roman citizen. It was

evident that of the Republic nothing but the name remained, and that

Cæsar, the dictator, was in fact the absolute monarch of the immense

Empire. Once more the friends of liberty made an effort to shake off

the yoke which Cæsar had imposed on the Republic. They flocked to the

standards of the sons of Pompey, but the bloody and hard-fought battle

of Munda sealed their fate; and Cæsar, again victorious, remained the

absolute master of the civilized world,--not without an enemy, but

certainly without a rival.

On his return to Rome new honors and new ovations awaited him. The

dignity and pride of Roman citizenship seemed to have been lost entirely

in the crouching servility with which the most distinguished and most

highly stationed citizens prostrated themselves at the feet of the

all-powerful ruler. Resistance to Cæsar had apparently disappeared. All

bowed to his surpassing genius and ability, and to these qualities he

added acts of clemency, kindness, and gentleness, which won him the

hearts even of those who, from political principle, had opposed him. But

while thus openly the more than imperial power of Cæsar was generally

recognized, and while the Senate and the tribunes had been degraded to

the position of mere tools to his autocratic will, there still remained

in the hearts of a number of high-minded patriots the hope and anxious

desire to save the republican form of government from the grasping

ambition of the conqueror, who was evidently not satisfied with being

Imperator in fact, but wanted to be also Imperator in name. At least the

repeated attempts of the most intimate friends and most trusted

lieutenants of Cæsar to induce him to accept the crown at the hands of a

subservient people, and his rather hesitating conduct in refusing these

proposals, seemed to confirm this suspicion.

These enthusiastic Republicans cautiously disguised their hostility to

the Imperator under the mask of devoted friendship. Their hope was,

perhaps, that Cæsar’s imperial régime would be but temporary and that,

like Sulla, he would sooner or later get tired of his dictatorship, and

resign his imperial honors. But Cæsar did not think of abdicating the

honors he had won; on the contrary, every act and every public utterance

of his indicated that he wished to prolong and augment them rather than

to abandon them. In public he was anxious to show his preëminence. He

appeared dressed in the costume of the kings of Alba, and with royal

insignia. One day, when the entire Senate waited upon him in front of

the temple of Venus, he remained seated while he was addressed, during

the entire ceremony. His statue at the Capitol was placed beside those

of the ancient kings of Rome, as though he were to continue their line.

New titles of honor, not to say worship, were added to those which had

been conferred upon him at the first moment of his brilliant victories,

and his lieutenants and followers welcomed and adopted them as something

that was due to his superhuman wisdom and greatness. He was called not

only “Father of the Country,” but “Demi-God,” the “Invincible God,”

“Jupiter Julius,”--as though Jupiter himself had taken mortal form and

shape in him.

This public adoration irritated the Republicans we have mentioned, to

the highest degree. They secretly charged Cæsar with encouraging or

instigating this worship of himself, because they knew that his friends

would not have proposed it unless confident that he would be pleased by

it. Brutus and Cassius were at the head of these Republicans. Brutus, a

stern Republican, a Roman in the noblest acceptation of the word, was

reputed to be Cæsar’s son, the offspring of an adulterous love-affair,

and was openly favored and distinguished by him. Cassius, a

distinguished general, was much more prompted by jealousy and envy than

by civic virtue and republican principle. When these two men and their

friends became thoroughly convinced that Cæsar’s ambition would stop at

nothing, and that the new imperialistic régime was to be permanent, they

came to the conclusion that nothing but Cæsar’s death could prevent

these calamities. They therefore resolved to assassinate him.

The ides of March (the fifteenth day of the month) in the year 44 B.C.,

was selected as the day of the assassination. The conspiracy had been

formed with the greatest secrecy, but it came near failing at the

eleventh hour. Cæsar’s wife had had dreams and presentiments of bad

omen, and she persuaded him not to go to the Senate on that day. Very

reluctantly he consented to remain at home. But Decimus Brutus, one of

the conspirators, who was afraid that the postponement of the

assassination might lead to its discovery, went to Cæsar’s residence,

ridiculed the dreams of a timid woman, and said he could not believe

that they would influence the mind of the great Cæsar. Then Cæsar, half

ashamed at having yielded to his wife’s entreaties, accompanied him. On

his way to the Senate a paper was handed to Cæsar, which gave all the

particulars of the conspiracy, and warned him not to go to the Senate

session on the fifteenth of March, because it was the day set for his

assassination. But Cæsar kept the paper in his hand without reading it.

Under various pretexts, all the particular friends of Cæsar had been

kept from attending the session of the Senate, so that when he arrived,

he was surrounded only by enemies or by those who were not considered

his friends. The conspirators acted promptly. Cæsar was defenceless,

and in a few minutes he lay prostrate,--a lifeless corpse, showing

thirty-five wounds, many of which were absolutely fatal. The most

celebrated of all political assassinations had been successful; and by a

peculiar irony of fate, the dying Cæsar fell at the feet of the statue

of Pompey, his great rival, whom he had vanquished at Pharsalus. His

death did not, as the conspirators had hoped, prevent the establishment

of the Empire; it but delayed it for a few years.

Cæsar has had many worshippers and admirers, and comparatively few

calumniators and belittlers. Unquestionably he was one of the most

extraordinary geniuses that ever lived, equally great as a general and

as a statesman, as an orator and as a historian. In the whole range of

history there is but one man--Napoleon--who, in the vastness of his

conceptions and the masterly perfection of their execution, can be

justly compared with him. All other men whom national vanity has

occasionally placed by Cæsar’s side only suffer from the comparison;

their immense inferiority appears on even superficial investigation. He

was in fact the foremost man the world had seen to his day, and, but for

his equally great rival in modern times, would still occupy the pinnacle

of human greatness alone. Very likely, if he had lived, Rome would have

been the happier.

CHAPTER IV

TIBERIUS, CALIGULA, CLAUDIUS, NERO

[Illustration: CALIGULA]

CHAPTER IV

ASSASSINATIONS OF TIBERIUS, CALIGULA, CLAUDIUS, NERO

(A. D. 37-68.)

At the time of the assassination of Julius Cæsar, the Roman people, and

especially the higher classes, had reached a degree of perversity and

degeneracy which appears to the modern reader almost incredible. They

had become utterly unfit for self-government. The most atrocious public

and private vices in both sexes had taken the place of the civic virtues

and the private honor for which the ancient Roman had been famous the

world over. In public life, corruption, venality, and bribery were

general; a public office-holder was synonymous with a robber of the

public treasury. Nepotism prevailed to an alarming degree, and the

ablest men were unceremoniously pushed aside for the incapable

descendants of the nobility. In times like those, only the very

strongest hand and the sternest character and mind can restrain the

masses from falling into anarchy and civil war, and impose on society

moderation and the rule of law.

The assassination of Cæsar had a most demoralizing effect on the Roman

people. The hand of the master who might have controlled the unruly

masses and restrained the degenerate nobility lay palsied in death; the

giant intellect, which had embraced the civilized world in its dream of

establishing a universal monarchy, thought no more; and the results were

chaos, anarchy, and civil war. The absence of the master mind was

lamentably felt; his heirs were unable to control the wild elements

which the assassins had set free; and for many years, rapine, bloodshed,

murder, and spoliation ruled supreme throughout the vast extent of the

Roman Republic, until finally, in the year 30 B.C., Octavianus Augustus,

Cæsar’s nephew, succeeded in establishing that imperium of which Cæsar

had dreamed, and for which his genius and his victories had paved the

way.

The imperial era, beginning with a display of magnificence and splendor,

both in military achievements and literary production, soon degenerated

into an era of crime, which, at least in the highest classes of society,

has never been equalled in history. Its worst feature was, perhaps, the

utter degradation and depravity of the women even of the highest

classes, and their readiness to sacrifice everything--chastity, shame,

name, and reputation--to the gratification of their passions. Soon the

women excelled the men in assassinating, by poison or dagger, their

victims or rivals. Augustus, the first Emperor, showed on the throne

much less cruelty than he had manifested as a triumvir; but Livia

Drusilla, his third wife, was the first of those female monsters on the

throne of the Cæsars--Livia, Agrippina, Messalina, Domitia--who never

shrank from murder, if by blood or poison they could rid themselves of a

rival or of an obstacle to their criminal ambition. Livia, who wished

Tiberius, her son by a former marriage, to be the successor of Augustus

on the imperial throne, caused Marcellus (the

[Illustration: CLAUDIUS]

husband of Julia, daughter of Augustus), and also Julia’s two sons, to

be poisoned; and by these crimes secured the succession for Tiberius.

She is also suspected of having poisoned Augustus himself.

Tiberius, the second of the Roman Emperors, lives immortal in history

rather by his crimes than by his valorous deeds. So does Caligula, the

third, and Claudius, the fourth, and Nero, the fifth Emperor,--who were

all assassinated after comparatively short reigns, but who had exhausted

all forms of cruelty and crime; while their wives, Messalina, Agrippina,

and Poppæa will live in history forever as the unrivalled types of

female depravity. Above all, Messalina, the wife of Claudius, who ruled

from the year 41 to the year 54 of the Christian era, became notorious

for every species of vice. In her libidinous and voluptuous excesses, as

well as in the demoniacal conception of her murderous plots against her

enemies, she was easily first and foremost,--the real empress of the

vicious and fallen women of Rome: she became their open rival in the

houses of ill-fame in her capital, she contended with them for the palm

of obscenity and prostitution, and vanquished them all.

Unless the great historians of Rome had recorded these excesses as facts

abundantly substantiated by irrefutable testimony, the reports would

have been relegated to the domain of fable, because they are too

revolting to be believed without sufficient authority. Can the human

mind conceive, for instance, an act of greater criminal insolence than

that which the Empress Messalina committed by marrying, publicly and

under the very eyes of the capital, a young Roman aristocrat, Caius

Silius, for whom she was inflamed with an adulterous passion, while her

husband, the Emperor, was but a few miles away at Ostia? And yet

Tacitus, a stern and truthful historian, records this as an undeniable

fact, adding that future generations will be loath to believe it.

When, in the year 68 A.D., Nero expired by the dagger of a freedman,

courage having failed him to commit suicide, the family of Cæsar the

Great became extinct, even in its adopted members. Only one hundred and

twelve years had elapsed since the greatest of the Romans had fallen by

the daggers of the Republican conspirators; but that short period had

sufficed to subvert the Republic and to erect a despotic Empire on its

ruins, to flood the vast territory of Rome, which embraced the entire

civilized world, with streams of blood, to place imbeciles and assassins

on the throne of the Cæsars, and to adorn the brows of courtesans and

prostitutes, their partners in crime and depravity, with the imperial

diadem. Never before in human history had human depravity and human lust

displayed themselves more shamelessly; never before had the beast in man

shown its innate cruelty so boldly and so openly as during the reigns of

these five Roman Emperors. It is almost a consolation for the sorrowing

mind to read that Tiberius was choked to death; that Caligula was beaten

down and stabbed; that Claudius was killed by a dish of poisonous

mushrooms; and that Nero, the last of Cæsar’s dynasty, was helped to his

untimely death by the poniard of a freedman. Quick assassination was all

too light a punishment for these monsters of iniquity who had so often

feasted their eyes on the tortures of their innocent victims.

CHAPTER V

HYPATIA

CHAPTER V

ASSASSINATION OF HYPATIA

(A. D. 415.)

Never, perhaps, did the wonderful genius of Alexander the Great appear

to better advantage than when he selected Alexandria as a commercial

centre and distributing point for the products of three continents, and

as an intellectual focus from which Hellenic culture should be

transmitted to those countries of Asia and Africa which his victories

had opened to Greek civilization. The rapidity with which the city--to

which Alexander had given his own name--grew to the dimensions of a

great capital and a world-emporium, proved the sagacity and ingenious

foresight of its founder, and was unrivalled among all the cities of the

ancient world. It became the greatest seaport of the world, surpassing

in the grandeur and magnificence of its buildings every other city

except Rome itself; and when, through the genius of the Ptolemies, the

successors of Alexander as rulers of Egypt, the great library was added

to its monuments and treasures of art, it became also the intellectual

capital of the world, rivalling and in some respects eclipsing the city

of the Cæsars. It is true, long before Alexandria had reached its

greatest prosperity, the creative power of Hellenic genius in the higher

spheres of poetry and philosophy had passed its zenith. In the

so-called Alexandrian age of literature the most beautiful and most

poetical inspirations were the idyls of Theocritus. But Alexandria was

the first city in the ancient world which became the seat of a

many-sided, methodical scholarship, and of systematic, zealous studies

of the exact sciences,--a university in the modern sense. It also became

the great library city of the world.

It is true, the great library of inestimable value collected by Ptolemy

Philadelphus (who also purchased the large library of Aristoteles) had

been ruthlessly destroyed in the Alexandrian war of Julius Cæsar. But

Ptolemy Physcon collected a second valuable library, which was augmented

by the splendid library of King Eumenes of Pergamus, and formed by far

the grandest collection of books to be found in the world. Mark Antony

gave this splendid library to Queen Cleopatra. It comprised the

intellectual treasures of the ancient world, and was placed in a wing of

the Serapeum,--in that gigantic and magnificent building which was the

grandest temple of ancient Egypt and the pride of Alexandria. The great

city of the Ptolemies, with a population of nearly a million souls, had

also become a sort of neutral territory upon which all religions could

meet on equal terms. The cosmopolitan character of this great commercial

centre, in which Christians, Jews, and pagans of all countries competed

for the acquisition of wealth, made it natural for all these different

citizens to live in harmony and mutual toleration. The time came,

however, when Christianity was proclaimed the official state religion

under Theodosius the Great, upon whose instigation or order the Roman

Senate (not by a unanimous, but by a simple majority vote) passed a

resolution declaring that the Christian religion should be the only true

religion for the Roman Empire. This official declaration became the

signal for a brutal persecution of the old religion throughout the

Empire, and especially in its eastern provinces. Very prominent in this

work of persecution and destruction was Theophilus, Archbishop of

Alexandria, who was famous far and wide as one of the great lights of

the Church and as a man of exceptional piety, although many of his

actions are utterly inexcusable from a moral point of view. Theophilus

was in constant warfare with the pagans and Jews of Alexandria, who

quite often joined hands in fighting him. But, as a rule, they were

defeated by the pugnacious prelate, who, on such occasions, always found

at his command a formidable army composed of the mob of the city and of

the monks of the desert of Nitria, which was near the city. The main

object of Theophilus’s attacks was the great Serapeum, in which immense

treasures of gold, silver, and sacred vessels were stored away, and

which contained also the great collection of books,--a perfect armory of

pagan philosophy, religion, and poetry,--which was especially obnoxious

to him. By shrewdly misrepresenting the spirit of revolt among the Jews

and pagans of the city, he succeeded in getting an edict from the

Emperor authorizing him to destroy this temple of ancient wisdom and

culture,--and, for the second time, the magnificent library of

Alexandria was partly destroyed, partly scattered to the winds.

The audacity of Theophilus had inflicted terrible defeats on the

non-Christian population of Alexandria, and had utterly disheartened it.

On the other hand, the Christian inhabitants showed by their increasing

arrogance that they were conscious of the supremacy of their church and

of the exclusive protection to which their religion entitled them.

However, in spite of this cruel discrimination there still remained at

Alexandria a large and intelligent element true to the old religion, or

rather to the old philosophy.

Theophilus died in the year 412 A.D., and was succeeded by his nephew

Kyrillos, better known as St. Cyril, who continued the vindictive policy

against the Jews and pagans which his uncle had inaugurated. It was not

long before Cyril had fanaticized the mob against the Jews to such an

extent that the latter, driven to despair, took up arms against their

aggressors, who had undertaken a regular crusade against their lives and

property. Pitched battles and massacres took place in the streets of

Alexandria. Hundreds of the unfortunate Jews were slain, and very likely

the Jewish population would have been entirely exterminated or expelled

from the city, had not Orestes, the imperial governor, interfered in

their behalf, and defeated the infuriated mob and the monks of Nitria,

who as usual had taken a hand in the fight. But it was a long and

stubbornly contested battle. Although Cyril personally did not show

himself, it was nevertheless well known that he directed the attacks

against the Jews from his hiding-place. Moreover all his most intimate

friends actively participated in the riot and strenuously resisted the

efforts of the governor to restore peace.

One of these friends personally assaulted and seriously wounded the

governor. After the revolt had been quelled, this man was put on trial

and sentenced to death. In vain Cyril appealed for mercy and tried to

save the life of the accused man. Orestes was implacable, and the

condemned man was executed. The disdain with which he had been treated

by the governor, enraged the prelate and stimulated him to revenge. A

large procession of priests and citizens took the body of the criminal

from the gibbet and carried it to the principal church of Alexandria,

where the Archbishop read high mass and delivered a sermon full of

admiration and eulogy for the victim, filling the hearts of the

congregation with hatred and contempt for the authorities, and invoking

the punishment of Heaven upon their heads. But even this public

demonstration did not satisfy the Archbishop; and with consummate

cruelty he hit upon a plan for deeply wounding the governor without

attacking him personally.

At that time there lived at Alexandria a young lady of great talent and

renown. Her name was Hypatia. She was the daughter of Theon, a

celebrated mathematician who lived at Alexandria, and whose genius for

mathematics she seemed to have inherited. She first became his pupil,

but soon surpassed him in ability and reputation. She also applied

herself with great zeal and rare penetration to the study of the

philosophy of Plato, whom she greatly admired and much preferred to

Aristotle. Since Alexandria had no professors superior to herself in

attainments and learning, Hypatia went to Greece and for several years

attended the lectures of the most famous professors of Athens. She then

returned to Alexandria, and was immediately invited by the authorities

to the chair of philosophy in the University. Hypatia accepted this

honor and filled the position with brilliant success. It was not only

her profound and extensive learning, embracing the entire compass of

the exact sciences, but also the charm of her persuasive and mellifluous

eloquence which filled her hearers with admiration.

Her reputation as a public lecturer soon equalled her renown as a

mathematician and philosopher, and a number of the most distinguished

men of Alexandria and other cities were among her regular disciples,

listening with delight to her dissertations. One of her most

enthusiastic students was Synesius, afterwards Bishop of Ptolemais, who

always held her in affectionate reverence, although she had steadily

refused to profess the Christian religion. Orestes, the governor, was

also among the number of her admirers and was frequently seen at her

lectures, which were attended by Christians as well as by pagans. To the

great qualities of her mind were added rare physical beauty and a

suavity of manners which won the hearts of all those who became

acquainted with her. Several of Alexandria’s most prominent citizens

desired to marry her, but she refused all proposals because she wanted

to live only for the sciences to which she had devoted her life. In

spite of her great popularity and the steadily increasing number of

admirers, Hypatia’s reputation was spotless; she had many friends, but

never had a lover. While this eminent woman’s celebrity as a

thinker--which entirely eclipsed his own--would have been sufficient to

fill the heart of Cyril with envy and jealousy, there was an additional

reason for his hatred and hostility. Orestes, the governor, was a

frequent visitor at her house and was known to consult her frequently on

important public questions. The Archbishop, perhaps justly, attributed

to Hypatia’s influence the governor’s evident leaning toward paganism

and his open admiration for the philosophical doctrines of the Greek

philosophers. Seeking for a victim on whom to vent his spite against

Orestes, he therefore selected Hypatia as the one whose destruction

would hurt him most deeply, while at the same time it would deliver

himself and the church from their most dangerous opponent. It was

comparatively easy for him to inflame the minds of the ignorant masses

with rage against the woman who was represented to them as the

implacable enemy of their religion, and whose pernicious teachings had

led so many others from the path of virtue and salvation.

Everything was carefully but secretly prepared for the fatal blow, which

was struck in the month of March, 415. It was a beautiful sunny day, and

Hypatia got ready to proceed to the University, where she was to lecture

that forenoon. A carriage was waiting for her at the door of her

residence. When she entered the carriage she was surprised at the

unusual number of people filling the street, and at the great number of

monks passing through their ranks and apparently haranguing them. She

could not account for this strange gathering, for it was not a Christian

holiday, nor was any civil procession to come off that morning.

All at once she noticed that this great assemblage of people began to

move in the direction of her own house. As it came nearer she heard wild

exclamations and threats, without comprehending, however, that she was

the object of this hostile demonstration. At the head of the procession

marched Peter, the reader, one of the most fanatical of the priests of

the city; he had played a very prominent part in the previous riots, and

was evidently the leader in this new movement. With growing

astonishment Hypatia saw them coming, but in the consciousness of her

innocence she had no fear. She was soon to be cruelly disabused.

As soon as the rioters were within a few hundred feet of her residence

and saw her seated in her carriage ready to start, the leaders and those

in the front rank rushed toward her. Peter, the reader, was the first to

reach her and to lay hands on her. As she recoiled from his touch in

terror, others climbed upon the wheels of the carriage and dragged her

down into the street. She resisted and called for help, but her cries

died away unheard in the tumult of the roaring and jeering multitude who

surrounded the carriage and with ever-increasing violence uttered

threats against her.

Popular excitement is a flame which feeds itself by the electric current

emanating from thousands of impassioned and excited minds. It is ready

on slight provocation to burst forth in all-devouring violence. But a

few minutes had passed from the moment the procession reached Hypatia’s

carriage until the infuriated mob, holding the victim firmly in their

grasp, had torn the garments from her body and hurried her with wild

cheers and laughter to the Cæsarium, the great Christian church.

Paralyzed with fear, unable to utter anything but screams and cries for

help, she was dragged, in a state of perfect nudity, through the

streets, and neither her helplessness nor her beauty softened the hearts

of her tormentors and murderers. She was doomed to die, to be sacrificed

at a Christian altar, atoning for her unbelief and her pernicious

teachings with her life. One of her own friends, like herself adhering

to the ancient cult and to Platonic philosophy, fitly compared Hypatia’s

murder to the sacrifice of a Greek goddess by drunken and infuriated

barbarians. But the crowning infamy of this assassination, as brutal as

any that history has recorded, was that the victim was dragged to the

church of Christ,--Christ, the incarnation of love and mercy,--and

slaughtered there amidst the yells and curses of the so-called

believers.

Hundreds of women had swelled the mob, and like the men they were

brandishing flints, shells, and broken pottery, with which to cut and

lacerate their victim that they might feast their eyes on her agony.

Charles Kingsley has given in his famous novel, “Hypatia,” a

heart-rending description of the last moments of the illustrious

woman-philosopher. The description may not be accurate in every little

detail, but Mr. Kingsley sees the scene with the eye and with the

imagination of a poet, and his description is poetically true. Our

readers will thank us for quoting his words in rendering this final

scene:--

“Whither were they dragging her?... On into the church itself! Into

the cool dim shadow, with its fretted pillars, and lowering domes,

and candles, and incense, and blazing altar, and great pictures

looking from the walls athwart the gorgeous gloom; and right in

front, above the altar, the colossal Christ watching unmoved from

off the wall, his right hand raised to give a blessing--or a curse?

“On, up the nave, fresh shreds of her dress strewing the holy

pavement--up the chancel steps themselves--right underneath the

great, still Christ: and there even those hell-hounds paused....

She shook herself free from her tormentors, and springing back,

rose for one moment to her full height, naked, snow-white against

the dusky mass around--shame and indignation in those wide, clear

eyes, but not a stain of fear. With one hand she clasped her golden

locks around her; the other long white arm was stretched upward

toward the great still Christ, appealing--and who dare say in

vain?--from man to God. Her lips were open to speak; but the words

that should have come from them reached God’s ear alone; for in an

instant Peter struck her down, the dark mass closed over her again

... and then wail on wail, long, wild, ear-piercing, ran along the

vaulted roofs.... What in the name of the God of mercy were they

doing? Tearing her piece-meal? Yes, and worse than that!... It was

over. The shrieks had died away into moans, the moans to

silence.... A new cry rose through the dome: ‘To the Cinaron! Burn

the bones to ashes! Scatter them into the sea!’”

In the whole annals of crime not a more heart-rending and more brutal

scene can be found than the murder of Hypatia. The assassination of the

beautiful young Princess de Lamballe, the friend of Marie Antoinette,

during the worst days of the French Revolution, bears some resemblance

to it; but, after all, political fanaticism is never equal in its

intensity and cruelty to religious fanaticism. Moreover, the fate of

Hypatia shows that not all the martyrs were on the side of Christianity

in the early ages of the Christian church. It should be stated, however,

that a general cry of horror resounded through the world when the

terrible news of Hypatia’s death crossed the seas and was echoed from

land to land, and that the Christian Church, by its most illustrious

representatives, was loud in its denunciation of the murder.

Upon the fame and name of St. Cyril the murder of Hypatia has left a

lasting stain; for the plan and execution were generally attributed to

him. Even Catholic Church historians, both ancient and modern, criticise

him severely for his imprudent and ill-advised instigations against

Hypatia and her followers, although they try to protect his memory

against the reproach of having intentionally caused her death.

CHAPTER VI

THOMAS À BECKET

[Illustration: THOMAS À BECKET]

CHAPTER VI

ASSASSINATION OF THOMAS À BECKET

(December 29, 1170)

One of the most remarkable careers and one of the most famous

assassinations in the middle ages were the career and the assassination

of Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. His life (at least after

he had been elevated to the Primacy of England) and his death show him

as the great representative of the Church of Rome, standing up for the

defence of its rights and dying in their defence; and they show also how

necessary, in those dark ages, was a superhuman power, to hold the

arrogance and brute force of warriors and princes in check, and bring

into subjection their unbridled passions and their insolent usurpations.

Even if Thomas à Becket miserably perished in his bold resistance to

kingly assumption, his death was a wholesome lesson to the tyrants on

European thrones, and raised him higher in the estimation of the world

than a victory over King Henry the Second would have done.

Thomas Becket, or, as he is oftener called, Thomas à Becket, rose to his

eminent station in State and Church from comparatively low birth. He was

born in 1119, the son of a London merchant and an Oriental mother. This

lady had followed the merchant to England after his return from the

Holy Land, where he had been a crusader. The merchant rapidly acquired

wealth, and was able to give his son, who was distinguished by brilliant

talents, a splendid education. After having studied for some time at

Oxford, the young man was permitted to complete his studies at the

University of Paris, which at that time attracted students from all

parts of Europe by the reputation of its professors and the superiority

of its methods of instruction. From Paris Thomas went to Bologna, in

order to study theology; by his travels and the application and zeal

with which he pursued his studies, he acquired an exceptional reputation

for the extent, variety, and depth of his knowledge. On his return from

Italy Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury was charmed with the attainments

and learning of the young man, and recommended him to the King for the

appointment of Chancellor. The King appointed him and made him also the

tutor of his son. In the position of Chancellor he ingratiated himself

with the King, and his counsels in matters of State and of importance to

the crown proved so valuable that the King soon distinguished him above

all other courtiers and officials, and treated him more as a friend than

as a subject.

Having inherited immense wealth from his father, and having, moreover,

been endowed by the munificence of the King with a number of offices and

benefices from which he derived large revenues, the Chancellor made a

great display of splendor and wealth. His household eclipsed almost that

of the King himself, and looked more like the court of a prince than the

household of a citizen. However, he neglected no opportunity to show his

loyalty and devotion to the King. In 1159 he accompanied the King to

Toulouse, with a retinue of seven hundred knights and twelve hundred

mounted men, all of whom he had equipped at his own expense. The King

also intrusted him with a confidential mission to Paris, where he was to

negotiate the marriage of the King’s eldest son with the eldest daughter

of the King of France. The Chancellor succeeded in concluding a family

alliance between the two courts, and conducted the young princess

personally to England.

In 1162 Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, died, and King Henry the

Second immediately declared that Thomas à Becket should be his

successor. When the King’s plan to make him Archbishop was mentioned to

Becket, he protested against it, and it would seem, sincerely. He even

went so far as to tell the King, when the latter urged him to work for

his election, that he was making a mistake in advocating his elevation

to the See of Canterbury, using these words: “If I should be raised to

that office, you would soon hate me as much as you now love me; for you

will meddle in the affairs of the Church more than I can consent to, and

people will not be wanting to embroil us.” But the King laughed at these

warnings. He supposed that Becket, as Archbishop, would be as

complaisant and willing a tool to assist him in curtailing the

prerogatives of the Church and transferring them to the crown, as he had

been on a former occasion. He therefore continued to use his influence

in favor of Becket’s election, and succeeded in placing him in the

Archbishop’s See. At first the Pope objected to his election, but he

finally ratified it in order to please the kings of England and France,

who had both appealed to him in Becket’s behalf.

No sooner had Becket been installed as Archbishop of Canterbury--which

dignity carried with it that of Primate of England--than he entirely

changed his mode of living. No more luxury, no more display of wealth,

no more horses or magnificent costumes for him! On the contrary, the new

Archbishop ostentatiously chose the coarsest and plainest garments.

Instead of the fine lace shirt of former days he wore a coarse

haircloth, dirty in the extreme, and his outer garments were frequently

ragged. His food was of the plainest quality, consisting of bread,

water, and skimmed milk. He affected austerity in every way, frequently

flogged himself for impure thoughts or nominal sins which he might have

committed, and every day he knelt and washed the feet of thirteen

beggars. He resigned his office as Chancellor in order to devote all his

time and zeal to his new office and the affairs of the Church.

The King did not like the change in the Archbishop’s ways, and protested

against his resignation, but Becket would not reconsider it. The King

rightly guessed that there might be a hidden meaning and a secret

ambition in the Archbishop’s sudden conversion to Christian humility,

which so strangely contrasted with his past conduct. The storm between

the two mighty men, each self-willed and irascible, was brewing, and

when it finally broke out, it was fierce and relentless. It never ended

until the prelate lay prostrate as a victim of assassins before the

altar of the church which he tried to protect from the King’s

usurpation.

It was not long before the conflict broke out. It then appeared that the

change which had taken place in Becket was not confined to the outer man

only, but had also affected his relation to the Church and the State.

From a King’s counsellor and servant he had suddenly turned to be the

counsellor and servant of the Church, and he carried over into his new

station the impulsiveness and stubbornness which had always

distinguished him in the service of the King. It is difficult to say

which of the two, in this struggle for ascendency, was right, or rather

which of the two was the more to blame. For while the King was

aggressive, arrogant, domineering, in the consciousness of his power,

the Archbishop was imperious, insolent, and inconsistent, inasmuch as he

now boldly condemned what he had formerly counselled. But it seemed to

be a trait of Becket’s character, that he always devoted himself

unconditionally to the master he served at the time, and that from the

moment he abandoned the service of the King for that of the Church it

was quite natural for him to defend the interests and rights of the

latter against the usurpations of the former.

At that time a priest who had committed any crime could be tried by an

ecclesiastical court only; consequently very few criminals of this class

were convicted and adequately punished; in most cases the accused, even

if found guilty, were only reprimanded and degraded. This abuse was

carried to such excess that during the first years of the reign of Henry

the Second no less than one hundred murders committed by priests had not

been punished. A priest had seduced the daughter of a gentleman living

in Worcestershire, and, confronted by the angry father of the girl,

assassinated him. Public indignation was aroused by this atrocity to

such an extent that the King ordered the arrest of the guilty priest and

his trial before a civil tribunal. Becket protested against this order,

claiming that it was an infringement of the prerogatives of the Church.

He ordered an ecclesiastical court to investigate the charges, and the

result was as usual, that the punishment awarded was only degradation.

The King was furious. He made up his mind to beat the Archbishop at his

own game and to punish him for his presumption. He therefore submitted

the question of ecclesiastical immunities and of church prerogatives to

a council of jurists and ordered them to investigate whether these

prerogatives were founded on a solid historical basis. The jurists knew

what sort of decision the King wanted, and they gave it. Thereupon the

King convened a general council of the high nobility and also of the

Church at Clarendon, and there, among other restrictions placed upon the

Church, it was enacted that members of the clergy indicted for a crime

should be tried by civil tribunals, exactly like other subjects.

Becket, seeing that all the barons and many prelates had submitted to

the decree of the council, was compelled to yield, and swore to obey it;

but his submission was caused only by his powerlessness. But when this

so-called Constitution of Clarendon was sent to the Pope for

ratification, he rejected it haughtily and condemned it in the most

energetic manner. Thereupon Becket, basing his action on the

condemnation of the Pope, openly retracted the consent which he had

given to the Clarendon decree, and subjected himself to great

austerities and macerations proportionate to the greatness of the sin he

had committed in yielding to the royal demands. He even refused to

perform any functions connected with his episcopal rank until the Pope

had acquitted him of his great wrong against the Church. This action

made the rupture between the King and the Archbishop irreparable. Henry

swore to have his revenge on a priest who was not only an ingrate but a

perjurer. He arraigned him before a parliament convened at Northampton

in 1165 as a rebel, as having violated his oath of allegiance. Becket

was convicted, his personal estate was confiscated, the revenues of his

archbishopric were seized, and Becket himself, abandoned even by his

clergy, fled to France, whose King, in spite of the protests of Henry,

offered him a refuge.

Becket’s spirit was far from being broken. From his retreat in France he

wrote to the bishops of England that the Pope had annulled the

Constitution of Clarendon, and at the same time he excommunicated a

number of those, bishops as well as other high officials, who had

assisted in violating the sacred rights of the Church. The King answered

by exiling all his relatives from England, and forbidding his subjects

to correspond with him, or to send him money; he even forbade prayers in

behalf of the Archbishop to be offered in church.

But the conditions between the Church and the court created by this

conflict were such that the King found it expedient to make overtures of

reconciliation to Becket, first through the bishops and church officials

of England, and afterwards personally. In a conference which he held for

that purpose with the King of France, he said to the latter: “There have

been several kings of England, some more and others less powerful than

myself; there have been also several Archbishops of Canterbury, in my

opinion as respectable and as sainted as Thomas à Becket; let him show

to me the same deference which the greatest of his predecessors have

shown to the least powerful of my predecessors, and there will be no

controversy between us.” King Henry also offered to take the clergy of

France as umpires in the questions at issue; but when Becket stubbornly

refused to be reconciled to the King of England, the King of France lost

his patience and withdrew the protection which up to that day he had

accorded to him.

These and other changes unfavorable to him finally induced Becket to

lend to the King’s proposals of reconciliation a more willing ear, and

at last an interview took place between them which resulted in their

reconciliation--apparently at least. The interview was much more cordial

than might have been supposed from the exceedingly strained relations

that had existed between them for years. The Archbishop approached the

King as became a subject, and the King met him with the humility shown

at that time to princes of the Church; when they parted, Becket bent his

knee to the King, who held the stirrup of his horse as the Archbishop

mounted. The interview had resulted in settling their differences. Both

had made concessions, but the larger part of these had been made by the

King. All the Archbishop’s personal property had also been restored to

him; he thereupon agreed to return to England and resume the functions

of his office. He had been absent seven years.

The people at large, and especially the poor, greeted him with

enthusiasm; but the barons kept away, and some of them showed open

hostility to the Archbishop, or mysteriously hinted at a speedy ending

of his newly regained honors. His arrival in England had been preceded

by a messenger from the Pope carrying writs of excommunication for three

English bishops who had been especially hostile to Becket. These

bishops immediately went to Normandy, where Henry the Second had

remained, and laid their complaints before him, laying all the blame on

Becket, whom they charged with inflaming the people of England against

their King and sowing discord in their hearts. When these matters were

laid before him, and also a statement that Becket had excommunicated two

barons whom he considered his special enemies, the King got into a rage

and exclaimed: “What? Is there among the cowards whom I feed at my table

not one brave enough to deliver me from this firebrand of a priest?”

These words could have but one meaning. Four of the barons took it upon

themselves to deliver the King from the obnoxious priest. The King

afterwards declared that he had never intended to suggest the

assassination of Becket; but what other construction could be given to

his words? The assassination itself was one of the most dramatic in

history. The would-be murderers travelled in such haste that a messenger

whom the King sent after them to warn them not to kill Becket could not

overtake them. Arriving at Canterbury on December 29, 1170, they, with

twelve other noblemen, went to the Archbishop’s residence, and

expostulated with him concerning the excommunication of certain priests

and barons, and when he refused to revoke the excommunications, the

barons left him with threats. They returned toward evening. The bell of

the church was ringing for vespers, and the Archbishop had gone there.

The priests wanted to close and barricade the doors, but he objected.

“The doors of the house of God should not be barricaded like a

fortress!” said he. Just then the assassins came in, brandishing their

swords and calling for the traitor. The priests surrounding the

Archbishop fled in terror; only his cross-bearer stayed with him. It was

so dark that neither the intruders nor the priest could be seen

distinctly. Another voice called: “Where is the Archbishop?” “I am

here,” answered Becket. “I am no traitor, but only a priest of the

Lord!” They were afraid to kill him in the holy precincts. Once more

they asked him to absolve those he had excommunicated. He refused,

because they had not repented. “Then you shall die!” they cried. “I am

ready, in the name of the Saviour,” he answered; “but I forbid you, by

the Lord Almighty, to touch any of these present, priests or laymen.”

They heeded him not, but rushed upon him, and with three or four thrusts

from their swords, one of them splitting his skull, laid him prostrate

at the foot of the altar.

The murderers hurried back to Normandy to get their reward. The news of

the murder, when it reached the ears of the King, struck terror into his

heart. He knew he was, and would be held, responsible for Becket’s

death. Fear seized him, that he would feel the Pope’s wrath, that he

would be excommunicated, that England and his possessions in France

would be placed under an interdict, that the Saxon population of

England, which already revered Becket as a saint, might rise in open

rebellion against him. He therefore made haste to disclaim publicly any

complicity in the murder, and sent an ambassador to the Pope to assure

him of his entire innocence and of his profound grief at the bloody

deed. The Pope at first refused to receive the ambassador, and it was

only by means of many prayers, promises, and humble supplications that

he finally absolved the King of intentional complicity in the heinous

crime. The King actually purchased this absolution by pledging himself

to support, during three years, two hundred well-equipped horsemen for

the protection of the Holy Sepulchre.

But even this act of papal absolution was not deemed sufficient by the

King to protect him from the evil consequences of the assassination. To

remove this danger the King two years afterwards undertook a pilgrimage

to the tomb of Becket, who had in the meantime been buried in the

Cathedral with royal honors. As soon as the steeple of the Cathedral

appeared on the horizon, the King dismounted, and proceeded on his way

barefooted, his bleeding feet leaving a spot of blood at every step. On

his arrival at the tomb he prostrated himself, and subjected himself to

the humiliation of a severe flagellation at the hands of the monks, each

of whom applied to his bare back three strokes from a knotted rope.

Having undergone this public chastisement, the King remained praying and

fasting the following night, prostrated on the tombstone. Next morning

he returned to London, where, immediately after his arrival, he fell

seriously ill from the effects of his pilgrimage.

The Pope canonized the martyr who had so heroically died in the defence

of the prerogatives of the Church.

CHAPTER VII

GESSLER

[Illustration: GESSLER]

CHAPTER VII

ASSASSINATION OF GESSLER

(A.D. 1307.)

The assassination of Julius Cæsar and of the first Roman Emperors led to

greater demoralization of the people, and thereafter to anarchy,

bloodshed, civil war, and ultimately to an atrocious despotism; but at

an interval of twelve hundred and forty years after the death of Nero

there occurred a political assassination, growing out of personal

revenge, which freed a whole people from oppression and placed the

murderer among the heroes of mankind and the liberators of nations. We

speak of William Tell, the national hero of Switzerland, who in 1307

deliberately murdered Gessler, the Austrian governor.

This governor, who resided at the castle of Kuessnacht, had committed

the greatest outrages and acts of despotism against the inhabitants of

his gubernatorial district, embracing the so-called three Waldstädte

(Forest Cantons),--Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden. Until then these Forest

Cantons had enjoyed a republican government, and had given to the German

Empire a merely nominal recognition, by acknowledging the German Emperor

as their suzerain. There is a great resemblance in the relations between

these Swiss Cantons and the German Empire to the relations which

existed, before the South African war, between the two Boer Republics

and the crown of England. Rudolph of Hapsburg, himself a Swiss by birth,

who had been elected German Emperor, had pursued a liberal policy toward

the Cantons and in special charters had guaranteed to them their

inherited rights and liberties. But his son Albrecht the First, who

succeeded Rudolph on the imperial throne, resolved to do away with these

prerogatives, deprive the Swiss Cantons of their independence, and make

them subject to the crown of Austria. Theretofore the German Emperors

had been represented in a few cities of Switzerland by bailiffs, who

exerted the same authority in the Cantons as our federal judges in

United States Territories; but Albrecht changed their duties and

authority entirely, investing them with many additional powers, so that

they became practically governors of their districts, appointed by the

Emperor and administering their office as imperial officials.

Against this change the inhabitants of the Cantons entered their solemn

protests; they sent delegations to Albrecht to remonstrate with him; but

he gave evasive answers, increased the soldiery protecting the

governors, shut his ears to all complaints about their arrogance and

growing usurpation, and secretly encouraged them “to do all in their

power to break the stubborn resistance of these uncouth mountaineers and

boors, and make them obedient subjects of the Austrian crown.” To the

strong men of the Cantons, who had never bowed their necks under the

yoke of a foreign despot, the tyranny of these Austrian governors became

intolerable; their leading men made up their minds to throw it off by

all means, and to maintain their independence at any cost. Even the

members of the nobility scattered through the Cantons were indignant at

the arbitrary and haughty ways of the imperial bailiffs, who treated

them with the same arrogance as they treated the common people; they

therefore made common cause with the latter, so that practically the

imperial officials were isolated in a hostile country, without friends

or party.

The public discontent culminated in a secret conspiracy, of which Walter

Fuerst of Uri, Werner Stauffacher of Schwyz, and Arnold Melchthal of

Unterwalden, were the originators. These three men, each a

representative and influential citizen of his own Canton, met at the

house of Walter Fuerst and agreed to meet for further consultation on

the Ruetli, an elevated plateau, hidden in the woods, near the lake of

Uri, on certain nights, each undertaking to bring along ten men tried

and true, who had promised to act with them, for life and death, for the

deliverance of their country. They also pledged themselves by oath to

keep this league a secret from all but the initiated, who like

themselves had sworn to coöperate for the deliverance of the country,

until the time had come for united action on one and the same day. This

was done in the fall of 1307. A later consultation of the conspirators

on the Ruetli took place some weeks afterwards, and was attended by the

three leaders and thirty others. They were all full of enthusiasm and

hope of victory. They all pledged the almost unanimous support of the

inhabitants of the three Cantons, and finally agreed that the people

should rise in rebellion on New Year’s Day, 1308. The humane feature of

this proposed revolution appears from their joint agreement, affirmed

under oath, that, in expelling the Austrian governors and their

followers from their castles and their country, they would not kill them

except in self-defence, but would treat them with leniency and charity.

Is it not as if we heard Oom Krueger and his friends of the Transvaal

and Orange Free State counsel on measures for their independence? They

placed their full confidence in the justice of their cause, the

assistance of God, and their own bravery.

The day for the execution of their plot was anticipated by an unforeseen

event. Gessler, the Governor of Uri and Schwyz, had made himself

especially odious by all sorts of petty acts of tyranny. Among these was

an order that the ducal hat of Austria was to be placed on the top of a

long pole to be erected on the market space of Altorf and that nobody

should pass by it without uncovering his head and showing it respect as

if the Duke of Austria (Albrecht, Emperor of Germany) himself were

there. The citizens generally complied with the order. But one day

William Tell and his little son passed by the hat without minding

Gessler’s order. William Tell was the son-in-law of Walter Fuerst, one

of the three leaders of the Ruetli conspiracy, and, like Walter Fuerst

himself, he was looked upon with suspicion by the Austrian authorities.

The openness with which he ignored Gessler’s order was immediately

construed as an act of defiance and rebellion. He was taken before

Gessler, and the cruel bailiff imposed upon him a punishment which, he

thought, would wound him to the heart.

“Tell,” said he to him, “by your act of disobedience you have forfeited

your life. But I will be merciful to you,” and pointing to Tell’s

crossbow, he continued: “You have the reputation of being the best

archer of our Canton, if not of all Switzerland. I have never seen a

test of your skill yet; very well, let your skill be tried now, and if

it is as great as your reputation it will save your life. There is an

apple. Place it upon your boy’s head, and at a distance of thirty steps

shoot it with an arrow. But take good aim! For, if you hit the boy, your

life will pay for it!”

William Tell complied with the cruel order, and with his usual masterly

skill brought down the apple from the boy’s head. Gessler was enraged at

the result, and, before dismissing Tell, he asked him with an insidious

smile: “Now tell me, William Tell, why did you take two arrows from your

quiver before you took aim at the apple on your boy’s head? Tell me

sincerely, and whatever your answer may be, your life shall not be

imperilled.”

Carried away by his wrath, Tell contemptuously replied: “If I had missed

my aim and hit my boy, the second arrow was for you, and, by God

Almighty, it would not have gone astray!”

“That’s what I thought,” cried Gessler, and turning to his escort he

ordered them to put Tell in chains and take him to the boat on the lake.

“Your life,” said he to Tell, “is not in peril; but I will take you to

my castle in Kuessnacht; there in one of the darkest dungeons

underground you shall be imprisoned, and may find time to repent the

rebellious words which you have uttered!”

In the immediate neighborhood of Kuessnacht, on a mountain top

overlooking the town, was the fortified castle where Gessler resided. It

was on the way to that residence that Tell did the act by which he

satisfied his personal revenge and also freed his country from the

bloody tyranny of the despot. While Gessler and his prisoner were

crossing the lake, a storm arose, which endangered the boat. The fury of

the tempest filled the hearts of the boatmen with dismay and terror, and

tremblingly they turned to Gessler, saying: “The boldest and most

skilful boatman in the Canton is Tell. He may be able to save the boat,

but we cannot! Set him free and he may bring us safe to port.”

Gessler ordered the chains to be removed from Tell’s limbs and ordered

him to take the helm, promising him life, liberty, and a full pardon if

he should bring them safe into port. Tell took the helm, and the boat,

obedient to its master’s hand, sped through the storm-tossed waves like

a seabird dancing on the surface. But turning round a rock-bound bluff

close to the shore, Tell suddenly took up his cross-bow lying on the

bench near by, and with a mighty leap jumped on the rock, hurling the

boat far back into the hissing and tempestuous flood.

Gessler also escaped from the watery grave, but only to meet his doom on

land even before he had reached his home. Tell was lying in ambush on

the road from the lake to Kuessnacht. It was the road which Gessler and

his party had to take on their return to the castle, if they should

succeed in effecting a landing on the shore. After some time Gessler,

accompanied by a few friends, came in sight. No sooner had the party

entered the defile than Gessler, shot through the heart by Tell’s

unerring arrow, fell from his horse.

Tell’s shot was the signal for the general uprising of the people of

Switzerland. Years of struggle and warfare against Austria’s nobility

and armed forces followed Tell’s heroic act, but the entire

independence of Switzerland was finally secured. Switzerland is to this

day a free and independent republic, and Tell’s name shines with

imperishable lustre not only as its great national hero, but also among

the immortal patriots and liberators of mankind.

We are well aware that recent historical criticism has expressed doubt

as to Tell’s great act of deliverance, and even as to his existence, and

that in some histories the tale is simply relegated to the domain of

legend and tradition. But there is no real justification for this

decision. It is founded only on a statement in the chronicle of Saxo

Grammaticus recording a feat of archery in Scandinavia similar to that

of William Tell, and performed hundreds of years before Tell’s day.

As Johannes von Mueller, the great historian, judiciously says: “It

shows but scanty knowledge of history to deny the truth of a historical

event simply because another similar event occurred in another century

and country.” But truth or fiction, history or legend, the heroic act

and name of Tell will live on, immortal and inspiring, as they have

lived during the last six hundred years. Poets and novelists have

immortalized the great national hero of Switzerland in song and story.

Frederick Schiller, Germany’s greatest dramatist, has made him the

central hero of his greatest drama, and has given his name to that great

hymn of liberty and patriotism, which stirred up the German nation to

its glorious struggle against Napoleon the First. It is one of the few

truly patriotic assassinations recorded in history.

CHAPTER VIII

IÑEZ DE CASTRO

[Illustration: IÑEZ DE CASTRO]

CHAPTER VIII

ASSASSINATION OF IÑEZ DE CASTRO

(A.D. 1355.)

As one of the most cruel and heart-rending tragedies of the middle ages,

the love-story and the assassination of Iñez de Castro has lived in song

and story for five hundred and fifty years, and still awakens echoes of

pity and sorrow whenever read or heard.

Constancia, the wife of Pedro, son of Alfonso the Fourth of Portugal,

and heir-presumptive to the crown of that kingdom, died in 1344, and

left to her husband a son of tender age, named Ferdinand. Pedro

thereupon desired to marry the countess Iñez de Castro, a young lady of

great beauty and loveliness, and, like himself, sprung in direct

lineage, but on her mother’s side, from the royal house of Castile. Iñez

de Castro was of an illustrious family, it is true, but her rank was not

deemed sufficient to entitle her to become the wife of the Crown Prince;

therefore when Dom Pedro mentioned to his father his intention to marry

her, the King positively refused his consent. Dom Pedro, however,

instead of obeying his father, secured permission from the Pope, and

secretly married her, bestowing upon her the full rank and all the

rights of a legitimate wife.

In the meantime the King and his advisers urged Dom Pedro to get

married again, and proposed a number of young princesses of renowned

beauty and ancestry for his choice. But Pedro, without disclosing the

secret of his marriage with Iñez de Castro (rumors of which were

nevertheless whispered and busily circulated at the court of the King),

persistently rejected all these proposals, giving no other reason for

his refusal than his personal disinclination to marry. While Pedro’s

father reluctantly accepted his son’s emphatic declaration, the most

trusted advisers and counsellors of the King, Diego Lopez Pacheco, Pedro

Coello, and Alvaro Calvarez, did not, because they were afraid lest the

influence of the beautiful and accomplished Iñez de Castro--no matter

whether she was legally married to Pedro or not--would be dangerous and

possibly fatal to their own preëminence at the court, as soon as Pedro

should succeed his father on the throne. They shrewdly worked upon the

King’s mind by insinuating that if the rumor of Pedro’s secret marriage

should prove to be true, the ultimate succession of Ferdinand, Pedro’s

son by his first wife, to whom the King was very much attached, might be

endangered, and that possibly the son of Iñez de Castro would become

Pedro’s successor on the throne.

The King summoned Pedro to a private interview, and asked him concerning

his relations with Iñez de Castro, informing him at the same time of the

rumor of his secret marriage. Pedro denied the truth of this rumor,

admitting, however, that Iñez de Castro, while not his wedded wife, was

so dear to his heart that on her account he would not consent to form a

new matrimonial alliance, no matter how illustrious by birth or beauty

the princess proposed to him might be. The emphasis with which Pedro

made this assertion satisfied his father that the rumor of a secret

marriage was true; and when the King, at the next cabinet council,

repeated to his confidants the result of his interview with the Crown

Prince, they predicted that the greatest calamities would arise, after

the King’s death, from the Crown Prince’s infatuation for Iñez, which

they ascribed rather to unnatural evil influences than to the surpassing

beauty and loveliness of the young woman. The King, a man of very

irascible temperament, became excited and indignant; he declared again

and again that, if there were no other means of separating Pedro and

Iñez, the young woman would have to die. The council then broke up.

It was but a short time afterwards that Dom Pedro left the court for a

few days to go out hunting with some friends. But warned by his mother,

who had heard of the King’s evil designs upon Iñez de Castro, he had

taken her and her two children to Coimbra, where he left them in a

convent to await his return. On the day after his departure, King

Alfonso suddenly appeared at the convent and demanded to see Iñez de

Castro. Pedro’s wife immediately made her appearance, accompanied by her

two children. As she looked upon the King, whose mien was grim and

menacing, and who was surrounded by a number of his knights in full

armor, a presentiment of some terrible calamity which was to befall her

and her two children entered her breast, and from an impulse of both

fear, and of hope to save her children, she threw herself at the King’s

feet, imploring him to forgive her and to take pity on her innocent

children. Alfonso’s heart melted with pity at the sight of so much

beauty and innocence. He raised her from her kneeling position and told

her to be of good cheer, and that no harm would befall her. And then

turning round, he left the convent, followed by his attendants, who were

not a little surprised at this peaceful ending of a visit which had

promised to be a tragedy.

But while Iñez already congratulated herself on her lucky escape from a

terrible death, and even on her good fortune in having softened the

King’s heart toward herself and her two children, she was nevertheless

doomed to ruin. The three counsellors so hostile to her had not

accompanied the King on his visit to the convent; they were waiting for

the return of their sovereign at some distance from Coimbra, and were

greatly disappointed when they learned from his own lips that, instead

of having slain with his own hands, as he had promised to do, the woman

who had seduced his son and enthralled him either by her beauty or by

the employment of supernatural means, he had changed his mind concerning

her, and now spoke feelingly and affectionately of her and her sweet

children. The counsellors concealed with great difficulty the irritation

and disgust with which the King’s weakness filled them; they immediately

proceeded to counteract the favorable impression which Iñez had made,

uttering the foulest insinuations and aspersions upon her character. The

very change which she had succeeded in effecting in the King’s

sentiments toward her was made the means of renewing and corroborating

the charge that evil spirits were assisting her in bewitching the royal

family for her own selfish purposes. “Since she has so easily captured

your majesty,” said one of them cunningly, “who can hope to resist her

and her ambitious designs? Poor Ferdinand!”

The artful mention of the name of the young prince, whose right of

succession was endangered by the recognition of Iñez de Castro, was

sufficient to elicit from the King the promise that his son’s mistress

should never be received at the court. Having obtained this concession,

the three counsellors found it comparatively easy to persuade him that

the original purpose for which they had come to Coimbra--the death of

Iñez--was the only salvation for the throne and the dynasty, and that it

was his duty as a monarch to remove her as soon as possible in order to

avert greater calamities. They told him that it was perhaps right that

he had not soiled his royal hands with the blood of one who was unworthy

of the high distinction of dying by his sword, but that it was a duty he

owed to the state and to the legitimate heir to the throne to order her

death at the earliest moment. Alfonso was weak and foolish enough to

believe them and to sanction the murder of the fair and innocent wife of

his son. That very night Iñez de Castro fell a victim to the daggers of

two assassins.

The assassination provoked terror throughout Portugal and Spain, and

general were the denunciations of the King and the counsellors who had

advised him to commit the crime. But in this case what followed the

murder has, even more than the atrocity of the crime itself, made it

famous in song and story. The murder of Iñez de Castro occurred in 1355.

A rumor of the tragedy reached Dom Pedro while he was taking dinner at

the small tavern of a village, some thirty leagues from Coimbra. The

Crown Prince was travelling incognito, and neither the host nor the

guests of the tavern, except his own companions, knew him and how

deeply he was interested in the terrible news which a cattle dealer had

just reported as the latest sensation in the city. Dom Pedro hurried

back to Coimbra and to the convent. The rumor was only too true. His

idolized wife was dead. Three horrible wounds, each of which would have

been sufficient to cause death, disfigured her beautiful corpse; but her

countenance shone with angelic radiance and sweetness, and the agony of

death seemed to have left no trace on it. When Dom Pedro learned from

the nuns how the assassins had demanded entrance in the name of the King

and had burst open the bedroom of Iñez and butchered her without mercy,

he knelt down by the coffin and swore bloody vengeance against all those

who had taken a hand in this inhuman and atrocious crime. He called upon

Heaven to assist him in bringing the assassins and their instigators to

justice, and laying his hands upon the breast of his murdered wife, he

swore that he would not desist from the pursuit of the guilty persons,

even if he had to seek them on the throne. The meaning of these words

could not be misconstrued, for it was generally understood that, while

the three counsellors had proposed the murder, the King had given his

consent to it. When Dom Pedro’s threat was repeated to him, the King,

highly incensed, loudly proclaimed that Iñez de Castro’s death was a

just punishment for her criminal liaison with the Crown Prince, in open

violation of the King’s order, and assumed the full responsibility for

the murder. The Crown Prince, so rudely repelled by his father and

deeply wounded by the disgrace heaped upon his virtuous wife, refused to

return to the court; on the contrary, he called his friends, and the

friends of Iñez de Castro, her brothers and cousins, to arms. The cruel

and unjustifiable homicide he justly ascribed to the calumnies and

intrigues of a set of rapacious cut-throats who were ready to sacrifice

everything to their own personal interests, and who had deceived the

King. In a very short time Dom Pedro found himself at the head of an

army, with which he invaded those provinces in which the castles and

mansions of the counsellors were situated. With merciless severity their

lands were laid waste, their castles razed to the ground, their families

and friends killed, and everything was done to make their very names and

memories odious to their fellow-men.

By that time the King had also been informed by high dignitaries of the

Church that the union between his son and Iñez de Castro had been

consecrated, that the Pope himself had granted them permission to get

married, and that strict secrecy had been observed simply out of high

regard for the King, in the hope that he would never hear of it and

would consequently not feel irritated by it. This information had a

powerful effect on the King’s mind. He began to see what a great crime

he had committed in sanctioning the murder of a virtuous and innocent

young wife, whose only fault had possibly been her yielding, against the

King’s outspoken wishes, to the Prince’s ardent wooing. And when the

Queen, Dom Pedro’s mother, added her supplications and tears in behalf

of her son, whom the murder of his wife had made nearly insane from

grief, the King became more and more willing to be reconciled to him. He

not only forgave his acts of rebellion, but even made amends, as much as

he could, for the cruel wrong he had done him.

Under such circumstances it was comparatively easy for the Archbishop

of Braga, whom the Pope had authorized to impart to the King the

information concerning Dom Pedro’s marriage, to effect a reconciliation

between father and son. Thereupon the son returned to the court, where

he was received with the highest honors, after he had solemnly promised

not to take revenge on the counsellors who had been instrumental in

causing the death of his wife, and who had already been so severely

punished by the devastation of their lands and the destruction of their

castles. To consent to this condition was the cruelest sacrifice on the

part of Dom Pedro, but he finally yielded to the tears and prayers of

his mother--very likely, however, as we shall see, with a mental

reservation.

Two years later, King Alfonso the Fourth died, and Dom Pedro ascended

the throne of Portugal. The old King’s death was also the signal for the

flight of his three counsellors, Pacheco, Coello, and Gonsalvez, whose

absence was first noticed at the King’s obsequies. They had sought

refuge in Castile, because they felt instinctively that it would not be

safe for them to remain in Portugal, and that the ill-concealed hatred

of Dom Pedro might break forth at any moment and punish them terribly

for the part they had taken in Iñez de Castro’s death. In fact Pedro had

never forgiven the assassins of his wife. On the contrary, his heart had

never ceased to yearn for the day when he could not only take full and

bloody revenge on her persecutors and murderers, but also restore the

honor of her name and memory, which had been sullied by the calumnies of

those scoundrels.

Castile was at that time ruled by Pedro the Cruel, one of the worst and

most bloodthirsty tyrants that ever sat upon a Spanish throne. Some of

his victims had made their escape into Portugal and had found

protection at the court of Alfonso, Dom Pedro’s father. But when the

counsellors of Alfonso arrived at his court, Pedro the Cruel formed the

diabolical plan of delivering them up to Pedro of Portugal, provided the

latter would deliver, in exchange for them, the Castilians who had found

an asylum in his kingdom. No more agreeable proposition could have been

made to the King of Portugal, and the exchange was readily made. Two of

the counsellors, Coello and Gonsalvez, were transported in chains to

Portugal, and executed with inhuman cruelty. They were put to the

torture in the hope of extorting from them the names of other

accessories to the crime; thereupon they were burned at the stake, and

their hearts were torn out; and thereafter their ashes were scattered to

the winds. Pacheco, however, escaped this terrible fate. Being absent

from the court of Castile when his two colleagues were arrested, he fled

to Aragon.

After having in this manner satisfied his vengeance on the assassins,

King Pedro assembled the high nobility and the great dignitaries of his

kingdom at Cataneda, and in their presence swore that, after the death

of his first wife, Constancia, he had legally married Iñez de Castro;

that the Pope of Rome had given him special permission to do so, and

that the marriage ceremony had been performed by the Archbishop La

Guarda, in the presence of two witnesses, whom he mentioned by name. He

ordered these facts to be entered upon the archives of the state and to

be proclaimed publicly in every city, town, and village of the kingdom.

The children of Iñez de Castro were declared legitimate and entitled to

all the rights and prerogatives of princes of the blood, including

succession to the throne of Portugal. Proceeding thence to Coimbra, the

King ordered the vault in which the remains of Iñez had been deposited

to be opened, her corpse, which had been embalmed, to be dressed in a

royal robe and placed upon a throne, and her head to be adorned with a

royal crown. He compelled his attendants, composed of the highest men of

the monarchy, to pass by the throne and bow their knees and kiss the

edge of the Queen’s robe,--in fact, to show the same reverence and

respect to the dead Queen as they might have shown to the living Queen

on the day of her coronation. As soon as this ghastly ceremony was over,

the corpse was placed in a magnificent metal coffin and escorted by the

King and a most brilliant cortège of knights and noblemen to Alcobaza, a

royal residence about seventeen miles from Coimbra, and placed in a

royal vault. A magnificent monument, which represented Iñez de Castro in

her incomparable beauty and loveliness, was shortly after erected near

the vault. It was the last tribute which the love and admiration of her

husband could render to her memory.

CHAPTER IX

RIZZIO AND DARNLEY

[Illustration: DAVID RIZZIO]

CHAPTER IX

ASSASSINATIONS OF RIZZIO AND DARNLEY

(March 9, 1566; February 9, 1567)