THE CRISIS.
He is about it. The doors are open.
MACBETH.
The morning had scarcely dawned, after that dismal and tempestuous night,
when three men were observed by some of the earlier citizens, passing up
the Sacred Way, toward the Cerolian Place.
It was not so much that the earliness of the hour attracted the notice of
these spectators—for the Romans were a matutinal people, even in their
most effeminate and luxurious ages, and the sun found few loiterers in
their chambers, when he came forth from his oriental gates—as that the
manner and expression of these men themselves were singular, and such as
might well excite suspicion.
They all walked abreast, two clad in the full garb of Senators, and one in
the distinctive dress of Roman knighthood. No one had heard them speak
aloud, nor seen them whisper, one to the other. They moved straight
onward, steadily indeed and rather slowly, but with something of
consciousness in their manner, glancing furtively around them from beneath
their bent brows, and sometimes even casting their eyes over their
shoulders, as if to see whether they were followed.
At about a hundred paces after these three, not however accompanying them,
or attached to their party, so far at least as appearances are considered,
two large-framed fellows, clothed in the dark gray frocks worn by slaves
and gladiators, came strolling in the same direction.
These men had the auburn hair, blue eyes, and massive, if not stolid cast
of features peculiar to northern races, at that time the conquered slaves,
though destined soon to be the victors, of Rome’s gigantic power.
When the first three reached the corner of the next block of buildings, to
the corner of that magnificent street called the Carinœ, they paused for a
few moments; and, after looking carefully about them, to mark whether they
were observed or not, held a short whispered conversation, which their
stern faces, and impassioned gestures seemed to denote momentous.
While they were thus engaged, the other two came sauntering along, and
passed them by, apparently unheeded, and without speaking, or saluting
them.
Those three men were the knight Caius Cornelius, a friend and distant
kinsman of Cethegus, who was the second of the number, and Lucius
Vargunteius, a Senator, whose name has descended only to posterity,
through the black infamy of the deed, which he was even at that moment
meditating.
Spurred into action by the menaces and violence of Catiline, who had now
resolved to go forth and commence open warfare from the entrenched camp
prepared in the Appenines, by Caius Manlius, these men had volunteered, on
the previous night, at a second meeting held in the house of Læca, to
murder Cicero, with their own hands, during his morning levee.
To this end, they had now come forth thus early, hoping so to anticipate
the visit of his numerous clients, and take him at advantage, unprepared
and defenceless.
Three stout men were they, as ever went forth armed and determined for
premeditated crime; stout in frame, stout of heart, invulnerable by any
physical apprehension, unassailable by any touch of conscience, pitiless,
fearless, utterly depraved.
Yet there was something in their present enterprise, that half daunted
them. Something in the character of the man, whom they were preparing to
assassinate—something of undefined feeling, suggesting to them the
certainty of the whole world’s reproach and scorn through everlasting
ages, however present success "might trammel up the consequence."
Though they would not have confessed it to their own hearts, they were
reluctant toward their task; and this unadmitted reluctance it was, which
led them to pause and parley, under the show of arranging their schemes,
which had in truth been fully organized on the preceding night.
They were too far committed, however, to recede; and it is probable that
no one of them, although their hearts were full almost to suffocation, as
they neared the good Consul’s door, had gone so far as to think of
withdrawing his hand from the deed of blood.
The outer door of the vestibule was open; and but one slave was stationed
in the porch; an old man quite unarmed, not having so much even as a
porter’s staff, who was sitting on a stone bench, in the morning sunshine.
As the conspirators ascended the marble steps, which gave access to the
vestibule, and entered the beautiful Tuscan colonnade, the two Germans,
who had stopped and looked back for a moment, seeing them pass in, set off
as hard as they could run, through an adjoining street toward the house of
Catiline, which was not very far distant.
It was not long ere they reached it, and entered without question or
hindrance, as men familiar and permitted.
In a small room, adjoining the inner peristyle, the master of the house
was striding to and fro across the tesselated floor, in a state of
perturbation, extreme even for him; whose historian has described him with
bloodless face, and evil eyes, irregular and restless motions, and the
impress of frantic guilt, ever plain to be seen in his agitated features.
Aurelia Orestilla sat near him, on a low cushioned stool, with her superb
Italian face livid and sicklied by unusual dread. Her hands lay tightly
clasped upon her knee—her lips were as white as ashes. Her large lustrous
eyes, burning and preternaturally distended, were fixed on the haggard
face of her husband, and followed him, as he strode up and down the room
in impotent anxiety and expectation.
Yet she, privy as she was to all his blackest councils, the instigator and
rewarder of his most hideous crime, knowing the hell of impotent agony
that was consuming his heart, she dared not address him with any words of
hope or consolation.
At such a crisis all ordinary phrases of comfort or cheering love, seem
but a mockery to the spirit, which can find no rest, until the doubts that
harass it are ended; and this she felt to be the case, and, had her own
torturing expectation allowed her to frame any speech to soothe him, she
would not have ventured on its utterance, certain that it would call forth
a torrent of imprecation on her head, perhaps a burst of violence against
her person.
The very affections of the wicked, are strangely mixed at times, with more
discordant elements; and it would have been a hard question to solve,
whether that horrible pair most loved, or hated one another.
The woman’s passions, strange to relate, had been kindled at times, by the
very cruelty and fury, which at other moments made her almost detest him.
There was a species of sublimity in the very atrocity of Catiline’s
wickedness, which fascinated her morbid and polluted fancy; and she almost
admired the ferocity which tortured her, and from which, alone of mortal
ills, she shrank appalled and unresisting.
And Catiline loved her, as well as he could love anything, loved her the
more because she too, in some sort, had elicited his admiration; for she
had crossed him many times, and once braved him, and, alone of human
beings, he had not crushed her.
They were liker to mated tigers, which even in their raptures of
affection, rend with the fang, and clutch with the unsheathed talon, until
the blood and anguish testify the fury of their passion, than to beings of
human mould and nature.
Suddenly the traitor stopped short in his wild and agitated walk, and
seemed to listen intently, although no sound came to the ears of the
woman, who was no less on the alert than he, for any stir or rumor.
"It is"—he said at length, clasping his hands above his head—"it is the
step of Arminius, the trusty gladiator—do you not hear it, Orestilla?"
"No," she replied, shaking her head doubtfully. "There is no sound at all.
My ear is quicker of hearing, too, than yours, Catiline, and if there were
any step, I should be first to mark it."
"Tush! woman!" he made answer, glaring upon her fiercely. "It is my
_heart_ that hears it."
"You have a heart, then!" she replied bitterly, unable even at that time
to refrain from taunting him.
"And a hand also, and a dagger! and, by Hell and all its furies! I know
not why I do not flesh it in you. I will one day."
"No, you will not," she answered very quietly.
"And wherefore not? I have done many a worse deed in my day. The Gods
would scarce punish me for that slaughter; and men might well call it
justice.—Wherefore not, I say? Do you think I so doat on your beauty, that
I cannot right gladly spare you?"
"Because," answered the woman, meeting his fixed glare, with a glance as
meaning and as fiery, "because, when I find that you meditate it, I will
act quickest. I know a drug or two, and an unguent of very sovereign
virtue."
"Ha! ha!" The reckless profligate burst into a wild ringing laugh of
triumphant approbation. "Ha! ha! thou mightst have given me a better
reason. Where else should I find such a tigress? By all the Gods! it is
your clutch and claws that I prize, more than your softest and most
rapturous caress! But hist! hist! now—do you not hear that step?"
"I do—I do," she replied, clasping her hands again, which she had
unclinched in her anger—"and it _is_ Arminius’ step! I was wrong to cross
thee, Catiline; and thou so anxious! we shall hear now—we shall hear all."
Almost as she spoke, the German gladiator rushed into the room, heated and
panting from his swift race; and, without any sign of reverence or any
salutation, exclaimed abruptly,
"Catiline, it is over, ere this time! I saw them enter his house!"
The woman uttered a low choking shriek, her face flushed crimson, and then
again turned paler than before, and she fell back on her cushioned seat,
swooning with joy at the welcome tidings.
But Catiline flung both his arms abroad toward heaven, and cried aloud—"Ye
Gods, for once I thank ye! if there be Gods indeed!" he added, with a
sneer—"thou sawest them enter, ha?—thou art not lying?—By all the furies!
If you deceive me, I will take care that you see nothing more in this
world."
"Catiline, these eyes saw them!"
"At length! at length!" he exclaimed, his eye flashing, and his whole
countenance glowing with fiendish animation, "and yet curses upon it!—that
I could not slay him—that I should owe to any other hand my vengeance on
my victim. Thou hast done well—ha! here is gold, Arminius! the last gold I
own—but what of that, to-morrow—to-morrow, I will have millions! Away!
away! bold heart, arouse your friends and followers—to arms, to arms, cry
havoc through the streets, and liberty and vengeance!"
While he was speaking yet, the door was again opened, and Cethegus entered
with the others, dull, gloomy, and crest-fallen; but Catiline was in a
state of excitement so tremendous, that he saw nothing but the men.
At one bound he reached Cethegus, and catching him by both hands—"How!" he
exclaimed—"How was it?—quick, tell me, quick! Did he die hard? Did he die,
conscious, in despair, in anguish?—Tell me, tell me, you tortured him in
the slaying—tell me, he died a coward, howling and cursing fate, and
knowing that I, _I_ slew him, and—speak Cethegus?—speak, man! By the Gods!
you are pale! silent!—these are not faces fit for triumph! speak, man, I
say, how died he?—show me his blood, Cethegus! you have not wiped it from
your dagger, give me the blade, that I may kiss away the precious
death-drops."
So rapidly and impetuously had he spoken, heaping query on query, that
Cethegus could not have answered, if he would. But, to say the truth, he
was in little haste to do so. When Catiline ceased, however, which he did
at length, from actual want of breath to enquire farther, he answered in a
low smothered voice.
"He is not dead at all—he refused"——
"Not dead!" shrieked Catiline, for it was a shriek, though articulate, and
one so piercing that it roused Aurelia from her swoon of joy—"Not dead!
Yon villain swore that he saw you enter—not dead!" he repeated, half
incredulously—"By heaven and hell! I believe you are jesting with me! Tell
me that you have lied, and I—I—I will worship you, Cethegus."
"His porter refused us entrance, and, as the door was opened, we saw in
the Atrium the slaves of his household, and half a hundred of his clients,
all armed from head to foot, with casque and corslet, pilum, broad-sword,
and buckler. And, to complete the tale, as we returned into the street
baffled and desperate, a window was thrown open in the banquet-hall above,
and we might see the Consul, with Cato, and Marcellus, and Scipio, and a
score of Consulars beside, gazing upon us in all the triumph of security,
in all the confidence of success. We are betrayed, that is plain—our plans
are all known as soon as they are taken, all frustrated ere acted! All is
lost, Catiline, for what remains to do?"
"To dare!" answered the villain, all undaunted even by this reverse—"and,
if need be, to die—but to despair, never!"
"But who can be the traitor?—where shall we look to find him?"
"Look there," exclaimed Catiline, pointing to the German gladiator, who
stood all confounded and chap-fallen. "Look there, and you shall see one;
and see him punished too! What ho! without there, ho! a dozen of you, if
you would shun the lash!"
And, at the summons, ten or twelve slaves and freedmen rushed into the
room in trepidation, almost in terror, so savage was the temper of the
lord whom they served, and so merciless his wrath, at the most trivial
fault or error.
"Drag that brute, hence!" he said, waving his hand toward the unhappy
gladiator, "put out his eyes, fetter him foot and hand, and cast him to
the congers in the fish-pond."
Without a moment’s pause or hesitation, they cast themselves upon their
miserable comrade; and, though he struggled furiously, and struck down two
or three of the foremost, and shouted himself hoarse, in fruitless efforts
to explain, he was secured, and bound and gagged, within a shorter time
than is required to describe it.
This done, one of the freedmen looked toward his dreaded master, and
asked, with pale lips, and a faltering voice,
"Alive, Catiline?"
"Alive—and hark you, Sirrah, fasten his head above the water, that he die
not too speedily. Those biggest congers will lug him manfully, Cethegus;
we will go see the sport, anon. It will serve to amuse us, after this
disappointment. There! away with him, begone!"
The miserable creature struggled desperately in his bonds, but in vain;
and strove so terribly to speak, in despite his gag, that his face turned
almost black, from the blood which rushed to every pore; but no sound
could he utter, as he was dragged away, save a deep-mouthed groan, which
was drowned by the laughter of the remorseless wretches, who gazed on his
anguish with fiendish merriment; among which, hideous to relate, the
thrilling sounds of Aurelia’s silvery and contagious mirth were distinctly
audible.
"He will take care to see more truly in Hades!" said Catiline, with his
sardonic smile, as he was dragged out of the room, by his appalled and
trembling fellows. "But now to business. Tell me, did you display any
weapon? or do aught, that can be proved, to show your intent on the
Consul?"
"Nothing, my Catiline," replied Cethegus, firmly.
"Nothing, indeed, Cethegus? By all our hopes! deceive me not!"
"By your head! nothing, Catiline."
"Then I care nothing for the failure!" answered the other. "Keep good
hearts, and wear smiling faces! I will kill him myself to-morrow, if, like
the scorpion, I must die in the deed."
"Try it not, Catiline. You will but fail—and"——
"Fail! who ever knew me fail, in vengeance?"
"No one!" said Orestilla—"and no one can hinder you of it. No! not the
Gods!"
"There are no Gods!" exclaimed the Traitor, "and if there be, it were all
one—I defy them!"
"Cicero says there is ONE, they tell me," said Cethegus, half mocking,
half in earnest—"and he is very wise."
"Very!" replied the other, with his accustomed sneer—"Therefore that ONE
may save him—if he can!"
"The thing is settled," cried Aurelia Orestilla, "I told him yesterday he
ought to do it, himself—I should not be content, unless Catiline’s hand
dealt him the death blow, Catiline’s eye gloated upon him in the
death-struggle, Catiline’s tongue jeered him in the death-pang!"
"You love him dearly, Orestilla," said Cethegus.
"And clearly he has earned it," she replied.
"By Venus! I would give half my hopes, to see him kiss you."
"And I, if my lips had the hydra’s venom. But come," she added, with a
wreathed smile and a beaming eye, "Let us go see the fishes eat yon
varlet; else shall we be too late for the sport."
"Rare sport!" said Cethegus, "I have not seen a man eaten, by a tiger
even, these six months past; and by a fish, I think, never!"
"The fish do it better," replied Catiline—"Better, and cleaner—they leave
the prettiest skeleton you can imagine—they are longer about it, you will
say—True; but I do not grudge the time."
"No! no! the longer, the merrier!" said Aurelia, laughing melodiously—"The
last fellow I saw given to the tigers, had his head crushed like a
nut-shell, by a single blow. He had not time to shriek even once. There
was no fun in that, you know."
"None indeed," said Cethegus—"but I warrant you this German will howl
gloriously, when the fish are at him." "Yes! yes!" exclaimed the lovely
woman, clapping her hands joyously. "We must have the gag removed, to give
free vent to his music. Come, come, I am dying to see him."
"Some one must die, since Cicero did not."
"Happy fellow this, if he only knew it, to give his friends so much
pleasure!"
"One of them such a fair lady too!"
"Will there be more pleasure, think you, in seeing the congers eat the
gladiator, or in eating the congers afterward?"
"Oh! no comparison! one can eat fat congers always."
"We have the advantage of them truly, for they cannot always eat fat
gladiators."
And they walked away with as much glee and expectation, to the scene of
agony and fiendish torture, vitiated by the frightful exhibitions of the
circus and the arena, as men in modern days would feel, in going to enjoy
the fictitious sorrows of some grand tragedian.
Can it be that the contemplation of human wo, in some form or other, is in
all ages grateful to poor corrupt humanity?