THE ROMAN TRAITOR:
OR
THE DAYS OF CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.
A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT
AUTHOR OF "CROMWELL," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," "BROTHERS," ETC.
Why not a Borgia or a Catiline?—POPE.
VOLUME II.
This is one of the most powerful Roman stories in the English
language, and is of itself sufficient to stamp the writer as a
powerful man. The dark intrigues of the days which Cæsar,
Sallust and Cicero made illustrious; when Cataline defied and
almost defeated the Senate; when the plots which ultimately
overthrew the Roman Republic were being formed, are described in
a masterly manner. The book deserves a permanent position by the
side of the great _Bellum Catalinarium_ of Sallust, and if we
mistake not will not fail to occupy a prominent place among
those produced in America.
Philadelphia:
T. B. Peterson, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
T. B. PETERSON,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
PHILADELPHIA:
STEREOTYPED BY GEORGE CHARLES,
No. 9 Sansom Street.
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MEN 9
II. THE MEASURES 25
III. THE LOVERS 37
IV. THE CONSUL 51
V. THE CAMPUS 69
VI. THE FALSE LOVE 89
VII. THE OATH 108
VIII. THE TRUE LOVE 121
IX. THE AMBUSH 137
X. THE WANTON 146
XI. THE RELEASE 166
XII. THE FORGE 183
XIII. THE DISCLOSURE 197
XIV. THE WARNINGS 209
XV. THE CONFESSION 223
XVI. THE SENATE 235
VOLUME II.
I. THE OLD PATRICIAN 3
II. THE CONSULAR 12
COMITIA
III. THE PERIL 21
IV. THE CRISIS 29
V. THE ORATION 38
VI. THE FLIGHT 54
VII. THE AMBASSADORS 65
VIII. THE LATIN VILLA 75
IX. THE MULVIAN BRIDGE 88
X. THE ARREST 101
XI. THE YOUNG 113
PATRICIAN
XII. THE ROMAN FATHER 123
XIII. THE DOOM 136
XIV. THE TULLIANUM 150
XV. THE CAMP IN THE 158
APPENINES
XVI. THE WATCHTOWER OF 168
USELLA
XVII. TIDINGS FROM ROME 185
XVIII. THE RESCUE 192
XIX. THE EVE OF BATTLE 205
XX. THE FIELD OF 216
PISTORIA
XXI. THE BATTLE 223
XXII. A NIGHT OF HORROR 234
THE ROMAN TRAITOR;
OR, THE DAYS OF
CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.
A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.
CHAPTER I.
THE OLD PATRICIAN.
A Roman father of the olden time.
MS. PLAY.
In a small street, not far from the Sacred Way and the Roman Forum, there
was a large house, occupying the whole of one _insula_, as the space
contained between four intersecting streets was called by the ancients.
But, although by its great size and a certain rude magnificence, arising
from the massy stone-work of its walls, and the solemn antiquity of the
old Oscan columns which adorned its entrance, it might be recognised at
once as the abode of some Patrician family; it was as different in many
respects from the abodes of the aristocracy of that day, as if it had been
erected in a different age and country.
It had no stately colonnades of foreign marbles, no tesselated pavement to
the vestibule, no glowing frescoes on the walls, no long lines of exterior
windows, glittering with the new luxury of glass. All was decorous, it is
true; but all, at the same time, was stern, and grave, and singular for
its antique simplicity.
On either hand of the entrance, there was, in accordance with the custom
of centuries long past, when Rome’s Consulars were tillers of the ground,
a large shop with an open front, devoted to the sale of the produce of the
owner’s farm. And, strange to say, although the custom had been long
disused in these degenerate times, it seemed that the owner of this
time-honored mansion adhered sturdily to the ancient usage of his race.
For, in one of these large cold unadorned vaults, a tall grayheaded slave,
a rural laborer, as it required no second glance to perceive, was
presiding over piles of cheese, stone-jars of honey, baskets of autumn
fruits, and sacks of grain, by the red light of a large smoky flambeau;
while a younger man, who from his resemblance to the other might safely be
pronounced his son, was keeping an account of the sales by a somewhat
complicated system of tallies.
In the other apartment, two youths, slaves likewise from the suburban or
rustic farm, were giving samples, to such as wished to buy, of different
qualities of wine from several amphora or earthen pitchers, which stood on
a stone counter forming the sill of the low-browed window.
It was late in the evening already, and the streets were rapidly growing
dark; yet there were many passengers abroad, more perhaps than was usual
at that hour; and now and then, a little group would form about one or the
other of the windows, cheapening and purchasing provisions, and chatting
for a few minutes, after their business was finished, with their gossips.
These groups were composed altogether of the lowest order of the free
citizens of Rome, artizans, and small shop keepers, and here and there a
woman of low origin, or perhaps a slave, the house steward of some noble
family, mingling half reluctantly with his superiors. For the time had not
arrived, when the soft eunuchs of the East, and the bold bravoes of the
heroic North, favorites and tools of some licentious lord, dared to insult
the freeborn men of Rome, or gloried in the badges of their servitude.
The conversation ran, as it was natural to expect, on the probable results
of the next day’s election; and it was a little remarkable, that among
these, who should have been the supporters of the democratic faction,
there appeared to be far more of alarm and of suspicion, concerning the
objects of Catiline, than of enthusiasm for the popular cause.
"He a man of the people, or the people’s friend!" said an old
grave-looking mechanic; "No, by the Gods! no more than the wolf is the
friend of the sheepfold!"
"He may hate the nobles," said another, "or envy the great rich houses;
but he loves nothing of the people, unless it be their purses, if he can
get a chance to squeeze them"—
"Or their daughters," interrupted a third, "if they be fair and willing"—
"Little cares he for their good-will," cried yet a fourth, "so they are
young and handsome. It is but eight days since, that some of his gang
carried off Marcus’, the butcher’s, bride, Icilia, on the night of her
bridal. They kept her three days; and on the fourth sent her home
dishonored, with a scroll, ’that she was _now_ a fit wife for a butcher’!"
"By the Gods!" exclaimed one or two of the younger men, "who was it did
this thing?"
"One of the people’s friends!" answered the other, with a sneer.
"The people have no friends, since Caius Marius died," said the deep voice
of Fulvius Flaccus, as he passed casually through the crowd.
"But what befel the poor Icilia?" asked an old matron, who had been
listening with greedy sympathy to the dark tale.
"Why, Marcus would yet have taken her to his bosom, seeing she had no
share in the guilt; but she bore a heart too Roman to bring disgrace upon
one she loved, or to survive her honor. Icilia _is_ no longer."
"She died like Lucretia!" said an old man, who stood near, with a clouded
brow, which flashed into stormy light, as the same deep voice asked aloud,
"Shall she be so avenged?"
But the transient gleam faded instantly away, and the sad face was again
blank and rayless, as he replied—
"No—for who should avenge her?"
"The people! the people!" shouted several voices, for the mob was
gathering, and growing angry—
"The Roman People should avenge her!"
"Tush!" answered Fulvius Flaccus. "There is no Roman people!"
"And who are you," exclaimed two or three of the younger men, "that dare
tell us so?"
"The grandson," answered the republican, "of one, who, while there yet
_was_ a people, loved it"—
"His name? his name?" shouted many voices.
"He hath no name"—replied Fulvius. "He lost that, and his life together."
"Lost them for the people?" inquired the old man, whom he had first
addressed, and who had been scrutinizing him narrowly.
"And _by_ the people," answered the other. "For the people’s cause; and by
the people’s treason!—as is the case," he added, half scornfully, half
sadly, "with all who love the people."
"Hear him, my countrymen," said the old man. "Hear him. If there be any
one can save you, it is he. It is Fulvius, the son of Caius, the son of
Marcus—Flaccus. Hear him, I say, if he will only lead you."
"Lead us! speak to us! lead us!" shouted the fickle crowd. "Love us, good
Fulvius, as your fathers did of old."
"And die, for you, as they died!" replied the other, in a tone of
melancholy sarcasm. "Hark you, my masters," he added, "there are none now
against whom to lead you; and if there were, I think there would be none
to follow. Keep your palms unsoiled by the base bribes of the nobles! Keep
your ears closed to the base lies of the demagogues! Keep your hearts true
and honest! Keep your eyes open and watchful! Brawl not, one with the
other; but be faithful, as brethren should. Be grave, laborious, sober,
and above all things humble, as men who once were free and great, and now,
by their own fault, are fallen and degraded. Make yourselves fit to be led
gloriously; and, when the time shall come, there will be no lack of
glorious leaders!"
"But to-morrow? what shall we do to-morrow?" cried several voices; but
this time it was the elder men, who asked the question, "for whom shall we
vote to-morrow?"
"For the friend of the people!" answered Flaccus.
"Where shall we find him?" was the cry; "who is the friend of the people?"
"Not he who would arm them, one against the other," he replied. "Not he,
who would burn their workshops, and destroy their means of daily
sustenance! Not he, by all the Gods! who sports with the honor of their
wives, the virtue"—
But he was interrupted here, by a stern sullen hum among his audience,
increasing gradually to a fierce savage outcry. The mob swayed to and fro;
and it was evident that something was occurring in the midst, by which it
was tremendously excited.
Breaking off suddenly in his speech, the democrat leaped on a large block
of stone, standing at the corner of the large house in front of which the
multitude was gathered, and looked out anxiously, if he might descry the
cause of the tumult.
Nor was it long ere he succeeded.
A young man, tall and of a slender frame, with features singularly
handsome, was making his way, as best he could, with unsteady steps, and a
face haggard and pale with debauchery, through the tumultuous and angry
concourse.
His head, which had no other covering than its long curled and perfumed
locks, was crowned with a myrtle wreath; he wore a long loose
saffron-colored tunic richly embroidered, but ungirt, and flowing nearly
to his ankles; and from the dress, and the torch-bearers, who preceded
him, as well as from his wild eye and reeling gait, it was evident that he
was returning from some riotous banquet.
Fulvius instantly recognised him. It was a kinsman of his own, Aulus, the
son of Aulus Fulvius, the noblest of the survivors of his house, a senator
of the old school, a man of stern and rigid virtue, the owner of that
grand simple mansion, beside the door of which he stood.
But, though he recognised his cousin, he was at a loss for a while to
discover the cause of the tumult; ’till, suddenly, a word, a female name,
angrily murmured through the crowd, gave a clue to its meaning.
"Icilia! Icilia!"
Still, though the crowd swayed to and fro, and jostled, and shouted,
becoming evidently more angry every moment, it made way for the young
noble, who advanced fearlessly, with a sort of calm and scornful
insolence, contemning the rage which his own vile deed had awakened.
At length one of the mob, bolder than the rest, thrust himself in between
the torch bearers and their lord, and meeting the latter face to face,
cried out, so that all the crowd might hear,
"Lo! Aulus Fulvius! the violator of Icilia! the friend of the people!"
A loud roar of savage laughter followed; and then, encouraged by the
applause of his fellows, the man added,
"Vote for Aulus Fulvius, the friend of the people! vote for good Aulus,
and his virtuous friend Catiline!"
The hot blood flashed to the brow of the young noble, at the undisguised
scorn of the plebeian’s speech. Insolence he could have borne, but
contempt!—and contempt from a plebeian!
He raised his hand; and slight and unmuscular as he appeared, indignation
lent such vigor to that effeminate arm, that the blow which he dealt him
on the face, cast the burly mechanic headlong, with the blood spouting
from his mouth and nostrils.
A fearful roar of the mob, and a furious rush against the oppressor,
followed.
The torch-bearers fought for their master gallantly, with their tough
oaken staves; and the young man showed his patrician blood by his
patrician courage in the fray. Flaccus, too, wished and endeavored to
interpose, not so much that he cared to shield his unworthy kinsman, as
that he sought to preserve the energies of the people for a more noble
trial. The multitude, moreover, impeded one another by their own violent
impetuosity; and to this it was owing, more than to the defence of his
followers, or the intercession of the popular Flaccus, that the young
libertine was not torn to pieces, on the threshold of his own father’s
house.
The matter, however, was growing very serious—stones, staves, and torches
flew fast through the air—the crash of windows in the neighboring houses
was answered by the roar of the increasing mob, and every thing seemed to
portend a very dangerous tumult; when, at the same moment, the door of the
Fulvian House was thrown open, and the high-crested helmets of a cohort
were seen approaching, in a serried line, above the bare heads of the
multitude.
Order was restored very rapidly; for a pacific party had been rallying
around Fulvius Flaccus, and their efforts, added to the advance of the
levelled pila of the cohort, were almost instantly successful.
Nor did the sight, which was presented by the opening door of the Fulvian
mansion, lack its peculiar influence on the people.
An old man issued forth, alone, from the unfolded portals.
He was indeed extremely old; with hair as white as snow, and a long
venerable beard falling in waves of silver far down upon his chest. Yet
his eyebrows were black as night, and these, with the proud arch of his
Roman nose, and the glance of his eagle eyes, untamed by time or hardship,
almost denied the inference drawn from the white head and reverend chin.
His frame, which must once have been unusually powerful and athletic, was
now lean and emaciated; yet he held himself erect as a centennial pine on
Mount Algidus, and stood as firmly on his threshold, looking down on the
tumultuous concourse, which waved and fluctuated, like the smaller trees
of the mountain side, beneath him.
His dress was of the plain and narrow cut, peculiar to the good olden
time; yet it had the distinctive marks of the senatorial rank.
It was the virtuous, severe, old senator—the noblest, alas! soon to be the
last, of his noble race.
"What means this tumult?" he said in a deep firm sonorous voice,
"Wherefore is it, that ye shout thus, and hurl stones about a friendly
door! For shame! for shame! What is it that ye lack? Bread? Ye have had it
ever at my hands, without seeking it thus rudely."
"It is not bread, most noble Aulus, that we would have," cried the old
man, who had made himself somewhat conspicuous before, "but vengeance!"
"Vengeance, on whom, and for what?" exclaimed the noble Roman.
But ere his question could be answered, the crowd opened before him, and
his son stood revealed, sobered indeed by the danger he had run, but pale,
haggard, bleeding, covered with mud and filth, and supported by one of his
wounded slaves.
"Ah!" cried the old man, starting back aghast, "What is this? What fresh
crime? What recent infamy? What new pollution of our name?"
"Icilia! Icilia! vengeance for poor Icilia!" cried the mob once again; but
they now made no effort to inflict the punishment, for which they
clamored; so perfect was their confidence in the old man’s justice, even
against his own flesh and blood.
At the next moment a voice was heard, loud and clear as a silver trumpet,
calling upon the people to disperse.
It was the voice of Paullus, who now strode into the gap, left by the
opening concourse, glittering in the full panoply of a decurion of the
horse, thirty dismounted troopers arranging themselves in a glittering
line behind him.
At the sight of the soldiery, led by one whose face was familiar to him,
the audacity of the young man revived; and turning round with a light
laugh toward Arvina,
"Here is a precious coil," he said, "my Paullus, about a poor plebeian
harlot!"
"I never heard that Icilia was such," replied the young soldier sternly,
for the dark tale was but too well known; "nor must you look to me, Aulus
Fulvius, for countenance in deeds like these, although it be my duty to
protect you from violence! Come my friends," he continued, turning to the
multitude, "You must disperse, at once, to your several homes; if any have
been wronged by this man, he can have justice at the tribunal of the
Prætor! But there must be no violence!"
"Is this thing true, Aulus?" asked the old man, in tones so stern and
solemn, that the youth hung his head and was silent.
"Is this thing true?" the Senator repeated.
"Why, hath he not confessed it?" asked the old man, who had spoken so many
times before; and who had lingered with Fulvius Flaccus, and a few others
of the crowd. "It is true."
"Who art thou?" asked the old Patrician, a terrible suspicion crossing his
mind.
"The father of that daughter, whom thy son forcibly dishonored!"
"Enter!" replied the senator, throwing the door, in front of which he
stood, wide open, "thou shalt have justice!"
Then, casting a glance full of sad but resolute determination upon the
culprit, all whose audacity had passed away, he said in a graver tone,
"Enter thou likewise; thou shalt have punishment!"
"Punishment!" answered the proud youth, his eye flashing, "Punishment! and
from whom?"
"Punishment from thy father! wilt thou question it? Punishment, even unto
death, if thou shalt be found worthy to die!—the law is not dead, if it
have slept awhile! Enter!"
He dared not to reply—he dared not to refuse. Slow, sullen, and
crest-fallen, he crossed his father’s threshhold; but, as he did so, he
glared terribly on Paullus, and shook his hand at him, and cried in tones
of deadly hatred,
"This is thy doing! curses—curses upon thee! thou shalt rue it!"
Arvina smiled in calm contempt of his impotent resentment.
The culprit, the accuser, and the judge passed inward; the door closed
heavily behind them; the crowd dispersed; the soldiery marched onward; and
the street, in front of the Fulvian House, was left dark and silent.
An hour perhaps had passed, when the door was again opened, and the aged
plebeian, Icilia’s father, issued into the dark street.
"Scourged!" he cried, with a wild triumphant laugh, "Scourged, like a
slave, at his own father’s bidding! Rejoice, exult, Icilia! thy shame is
half avenged!"