THE ROMAN FATHER.
Daughter, He fled.
* * * * *
That Flight was parricide.
MASON’S CARACTACUS.
The streets of Rome were in fierce and terrible confusion all that day
long, on which the conspirators were arrested, and all the night that
followed it.
Late on the evening of that day, when it was already dark, the Consul had
addressed the people by torch-light in the forum, delivering that superb
speech, known as the third oration against Catiline.
In it, he had informed them clearly of all the events which had occurred
in the last twenty-four days, since the delivery of his second speech,
more especially treating of those which had taken place in the preceding
day and night.
The conspiracy made manifest by overwhelming evidence—the arrest of the
ambassadors, the seizure of the letters, the acknowledgment of those
letters for their own by the terrified and bewildered traitors, and lastly
the committal of the ringleaders of the plot to close custody, previous to
the discussion of their fate—such were the wondrous and exciting facts,
which he had announced to the assembled multitudes, inviting them to join
him in a solemn thanksgiving to the Gods, and public celebration, decreed
by the Senate to his honor; congratulating them on their escape from a
danger so imminent and so general; and calling on them, in conclusion, to
watch over the safety of the city by nocturnal guards and patroles, as
they had done so diligently during all that emergency.
The thundering acclamations, which greeted the close of that luculent and
powerful exposition, the zeal with which the concourse hailed him
unanimously Savior of Rome and Father of his country, the eagerness of
affection with which all ranks and ages thronged around him, expressing
their gratitude and their devotion, by all means imaginable, proved
satisfactorily that, whatever might have been the result had massacre,
plunder, and conflagration fallen upon them unawares, the vast mass of the
people were now loyal, and true to their country.
The seven hills never had resounded with louder din of civic triumph, than
they did on that glorious night; not when the noble Scipio triumphed for
Carthage overthrown; not when the mighty Marius,(10) begirt with a host of
captives and all the pomp of war, dismounted, happiest of men, from his
Teutonic Car.
The streets were as light as day with the glare of lamps, and torches, and
bonfires blazing on all the circumjacent heights, as with tremendous
shouts, and unpremeditated triumph, the mighty multitude escorted the
great Consul home, not to his own house, where the rites of the Good
Goddess were in celebration, and whither no male could be admitted, but to
his next-door neighbor’s mansion, in which he and his friends were
entertained with more than regal splendor.
What could have been more glorious, what more unmixed with any touch of
bitterness, or self reproach, than Cicero’s position on that evening?
His country saved from miseries unparalleled—saved by himself alone—no aid
of rival generals, no force of marshalled hosts to detract from the
greatness of his own achievement—all the strife borne, all the success
won, all the glory conquered by the force of his own genius, of his own
moral resolution. No blood of friends had been spilt to buy that conquest,
and wring its tribute of anguished sorrow from eyes bright with the mixed
excitement of regret and triumph—no widow’s tears, no orphan’s sighs, had
mounted heavenward amid those joyous conclamations.
With no sword drawn, with no army arrayed, alone in his peaceful toga, he
had conquered the world’s peace; and, for that night at least, he enjoyed,
as his great merit’s meed, a world’s gratitude.
All night long had the streets been crowded with fond and ardent throngs
of all ages, sexes, ranks, conditions, questioning, cheering, carolling,
carousing—all, in appearance at least, unanimous in joy; for none dared in
such an ebullition of patriotic feeling to display any disaffection.
And the morrow dawned upon Rome, still noisy, still alive with tumultuous
joy, still filled, through the whole area within its walls, by thousands,
and tens of thousands, hoarse with shouting, weary almost of revelling,
haggard and pale from the excess of excitement.
Such was the scene, which the metropolis of the world presented, when at
the second hour of the morning, on the day following the arrest of
Lentulus, a small party consisting of about fifty horsemen, conducting a
prisoner, with his arms bound behind his back, gagged, and with the lappet
of his cloak so disposed as to conceal his face, entered the Quirinal
gate, from the direction of the Flaminian way.
They were the clients of the Fulvian House, leading the miserable Aulus
homeward, under the command of his cousin. The horses were jaded, and
bleeding from many a spur gall; the men were covered with dust and sweat;
and several of their number were wounded; but, what at once struck the
minds of all who beheld them, was that their faces, although stern and
resolute, were grave, dejected and sad, while still it would seem that
they were returning in triumph from some successful expedition.
At any other time, the entrance of such a party would have awakened much
astonishment and surprise, perhaps might have created a tumult among the
excitable and easily agitated Romans; but now so strangely had the popular
mind been stimulated during the last days, that they either paid no
attention to the train at all, or observed, pointing to the prisoner, that
there went another of the parricides.
Just, however, as the new-comers entered the gate, another armed band met
them, moving outward; the latter being a full troop, thirty in number, of
cavalry of the seventh legion, with a banner, and clarion, and Paullus
Arvina at their head, in complete armor, above which he wore a rich
scarlet cloak, or _paludamentum_, floating over his left shoulder.
The face of the young man was as pale as that of a corpse, his eyes were
sunken, and surrounded by dark circles, his cheeks were hollow, and among
the short black curls, which were visible beneath the brazen peak of his
sculptured casque, there was one as white as snow.
Since the dread news had reached him of Julia’s abduction, he had not
closed his eyes for a moment; and, although scarcely eight and forty hours
had elapsed, since he received the fatal intelligence, he had grown older
by many years.
No one, who looked upon him, would have judged him to be younger than
thirty-five or forty years, when he was in truth little more than half way
on life’s journey toward the second period.
There was a cold firm determination too written on all his features, such
as is rarely seen in young men; and the wild vacillating light which used
to flicker so changefully over his fine face, was lost in an expression of
mournful and despairing resolution.
Still his attitude on his charger’s back was fine and spirited; his head
was proudly erect; and his voice, as from time to time, he uttered some
command to his troopers, was clear, steady, and sonorous.
So much indeed was he altered, that Caius Fulvius, who knew him well,
gazed at him doubtfully for half a minute ere he addressed him, as the two
troops came almost into contact, the mounted clients of the Fulvian House,
withdrawing to the wayside to allow the legionaries to pass.
Assured at last that it was indeed Arvina, he called out as he passed—
"Tell me, I pray thee, Paullus, what means this concourse in the streets?
hath aught of ill befallen?"
"Ha! is it thou, Caius Fulvius?" replied Arvina. "I will speak with thee
anon. Lead the men forward," he added, turning round in his saddle to the
second Decurion of his troop, "my good Drusus. I will overtake you, ere
you shall reach the Mulvian bridge." Here wheeling his horse to the side
of the young nobleman, "Where hast thou been, Caius, that thou hast not
heard? All the conspirators have been arrested. Lentulus, and Cethegus,
Gabinius, Statilius, and Cæparius! They have confessed their letters—the
Gaulish ambassadors, and Titus Volturcius have given evidence against
them. The senate is debating even now on their doom."
"Indeed! indeed! when did all this fall out?" enquired the other evidently
in great astonishment.
"Yesterday morning they were taken. The previous night, in the third
watch, the ambassadors were stopped on the Mulvian bridge, and the
treasonable papers found on Volturcius."
"Ha! this is indeed news!" cried Caius. "What will befall Lentulus and the
rest? Do men know anything!"
"Death!" answered Arvina gravely.
"Death! art thou certain? A Prætor, a consular of Rome! and all the others
Senators! Death! Paullus?"
"Death!" replied the other still more solemnly, than before. "Yet
methinks! that rather should be a boon, than the fit penalty of such
guilt! But where have you been, that you are ignorant of all this, and
whom have you there?"
Caius Fulvius shook his head sorrowfully, and a deep groan burst from the
lips of the muffled man, a groan of rage mingled with hate and terror.
"I will tell _thee_, Arvina," said the young man, after a moment’s pause,
during which Paullus had been gazing with a singular, and even to himself
incomprehensible, emotion at the captive horseman. "We have been sent to
fetch _him_ back," and he pointed to his wretched cousin, "as he fled to
join Catiline. We overtook him nigh to Volsinii."
"Who—who—" exclaimed Arvina in a terrible hoarse voice—"By all the Gods!
who is he?—"
"Aulus—"
"Ha! villain! villain! He shall die by my hand!" burst from Arvina’s lips
with a stifled cry, and drawing his sword as he spoke, he made toward him.
But Caius Fulvius, and several others of the clients threw themselves into
the way, and the former said quietly but very firmly, "No—no, my Paullus,
that must not be. His life is devoted to a baser doom; nor must his blood
be shed by a hand so noble! But wherefore—Ha!" he exclaimed, interrupting
himself in mid speech. "Ha! Julia, I remember—I remember—would to the Gods
I could have rescued her."
For one second’s space Paullus Arvina glared upon the speaker, as if he
would have stabbed him where he sat on his horse motionless and
unresisting; then, shaking his head with an abrupt impatient motion as if
to rid himself of some fixed image or impression, he said,
"You are right, Caius. But tell me! by the Gods! was she with him? saw you
aught of her, as you took him?"
"She was in his power, my poor Paullus, as we were told at Sutrium; but
when we overtook him, he had sent forward all his band but a small party,
who fought so hard and handled us so roughly, that, he once taken, we
dared not set on them again. But, be of good cheer, my Paullus. There is a
gallant youth on the track of them; the same youth who went to save her at
the Latin villa but arrived too late; the same who brought us the tidings
of yon villain’s flight, who led us in pursuit of them. He follows still,
and swears that he will save her! The Gods grant it?"
"A youth, ha! who is he?"
"I know not. He refused to tell us, still saying that he was nameless. A
slight slender black-eyed youth. Exceeding dark-complexioned, but handsome
withal. You would have said, to look on him, he would lack strength to
ride an hour; yet, by the God of Faith! he was in the saddle incessantly
for nearly forty hours, and shewed less weariness than our sturdiest men.
Never saw I such fiery will, and resolute endurance, in one so young and
feeble."
"Strange!" muttered Paullus—"strange! why came he not to me?"
"He did go to your mansion, but found you not. You were absent on state
business—then came he to the father of this demon, who sent us in pursuit,
and we have, as I tell you, succeeded. May you do so likewise! He charged
me to say to you ’there was one on her track who would die to save her.’"
"’Tis passing strange! I may not even guess who it should be," he added
musing, "the Gods give him strength. But tell me, Caius, can I, by any
speed, overtake them?"
"I fear me not, Paullus, ere they have reached the camp. They were nigh to
Volsinii at noon yesterday; of course they will not loiter on the way."
"Alas!" replied the unhappy youth, "Curses! curses! ten thousand curses on
his head!" and he glanced savagely upon Aulus as he spoke—"to what doom do
ye lead him?"
"To an indignant father’s pitiless revenge!"
"May he perish ill!—may his unburied spirit wander and wail forever upon
the banks of Acheron, unpardoned and despairing!"
And turning suddenly away, as if afraid to trust himself longer in sight
of his mortal enemy, he plunged his spurs deep into his charger’s flank,
and gallopped away in order to overtake his troop, with which he was
proceeding to join the army which Antonius the consul and Petreius his
lieutenant were collecting on the sea-coast of Etruria in order to act
against Catiline.
Meanwhile the others rode forward on their gloomy errand toward the
Fulvian House.
They reached its doors, and at the trampling of their horses’ feet, before
any summons had been given, with a brow dark as night and a cold
determined eye, the aged Senator came forth to meet his faithful clients.
At the first glance he cast upon the party, the old man saw that they had
succeeded; and a strange expression of satisfaction mixed with agony
crossed his stern face.
"It is well!" he said gravely. "Ye have preserved the honor of my house. I
give ye thanks, my friends. Well have ye done your duty! It remains only
that I do my own. Bring in your prisoner, Caius, and ye, my friends, leave
us, I pray you, to our destiny."
The young man to whom he addressed himself, leaped down from his horse
with one or two of the clients, and, unbuckling the thong which fastened
his cousin’s legs under the belly of the beast he rode, lifted him to the
ground; for in a sort of sullen spite, although unable to resist, he moved
neither hand nor foot, more than a marble statue would have done; and when
he stood on the pavement, he made no step toward the door, and it was
necessary to carry him bodily up the steps of the colonnade, and through
the vestibule into the atrium.
In that vast hall a fearful group was assembled. On a large arm chair at
the upper end sat an aged matron, perfectly blind, with hair as white as
snow, and a face furrowed with wrinkles, the work of above a century. She
was the mother of the Senator, the grandmother of the young culprit. At
her right hand stood another large chair vacant, the seat of the master of
the house; and at her left sat another lady, already far advanced in
years, yet stately, firm, and unflinching—the wretched, but proud mother.
Behind her stood three girls of various ages, the youngest not counting
above sixteen years, all beautiful, and finely made, but pale as death,
with their superb dark eyes dilated and their white lips mute with strange
horror.
Lower down the hall toward the door, and not far removed from the altar of
the household gods, near the impluvium, stood a black wooden block, with a
huge broad axe lying on it, and a grim-visaged slave leaning against the
wall with folded arms in a sort of stoical indifference—the butcher of the
family. By his trade, he little cared whether he practised it on beasts or
men; and perhaps he looked forward with some pleasurable feelings to the
dealing of a blow against one of the proud lords of Empire.
No one could look upon that mute and sad assemblage without perceiving
that some dread domestic tragedy was in process; but how dreadful no one
could conceive, who was not thoroughly acquainted with the strange and
tremendous rigor of the old Roman Law.
The face of the mother was terribly convulsed, as she heard the clanging
hoof tramps at the door; and in an agony of unendurable suspense she laid
her hand upon her heart, as if to still its wild throbbing.
Roman although she was, and trained from her childhood upward in the
strictest school of Stoicism, he, on whom they were gathered there to sit
in judgment, was still her first-born, her only son; and she could not but
remember in this hour of wo the unutterable pleasure with which she had
listened to the first small cry of him, then so innocent and weak and
gentle, who now so strong in manhood and so fierce in sin, stood living on
the verge of death.
But now as the clanging of the horse hoofs ceased, different sounds
succeeded; and in a moment the anxious ears of the wife and mother could
discern the footsteps of the proud husband, and the fallen child.
They entered the hall, old Aulus Fulvius striding with martial steps and a
resolute yet solemn brow toward the chair of judgment, like to some
warlike Flamen about to execute the wrath of the Gods upon his fated
victim; the son shuffling along, with downcast eyes and an irregular pace,
supported on one hand by his detested cousin, and on the other by an aged
freedman of the house.
The head of the younger Aulus was yet veiled with the lappet of his gown;
so that he had seen none of those who were then assembled, none of the
fatal apparatus of his fore-ordered doom.
But now, as the old man took his seat, he made a movement with his hand,
and Caius, obedient to the gesture, lifted the woollen covering from the
son’s brow, and released his hold of his arm. At a second wafture, the
nephew and the freedman both departed, glad to be spared the witnessing a
scene so awful as that which was about to ensue.
The sound of their departing footsteps fell with an icy chill on the stout
heart of the young conspirator; and although he hated the man, who had
just left the room, more than any living being, he would yet willingly
have detained him at that crisis.
He felt that even hatred was less to be apprehended than the cold hard
decision of the impassive unrelenting father, in whose heart every
sentiment was dead but those of justice and of rigorous honor.
"Aulus, lift up your eyes!"
And, for the first time since he had entered the hall, the culprit looked
up, and gazed with a wild and haggard eye on the familiar objects which
met his glance on every side; and yet, familiar as they were, all seemed
to be strange, altered, and unusual.
The statues of his dead ancestors, as they stood, grim and uncouth in
their antique sculpture, between the pillars of the wall, seemed to dilate
in size, and, become gigantic, to frown stern contempt on their degenerate
descendant. The grotesque forms of the Etruscan household Gods appeared to
gibber at him; the very flames upon the altar, before them, cast lurid
gleams and ominous to his distempered fancy.
It was singular, that the last thing which he observed was that, which
would have been the first to attract the notice of a stranger—the block,
the axe, and the sullen headsman.
A quick shudder ran through every limb and artery of his body, and he
turned white and livid. His spirit was utterly appalled and broken; his
aspect was that of a sneaking culprit, a mean craven.
"Aulus, lift up your eyes!"
And he did lift them, with a strong effort, to meet the fixed and
searching gaze of his father; but so cold, so penetrating was that gaze,
that his glance fell abashed, and he trembled from head to foot, and came
well nigh to falling on the earth in his great terror.
"Aulus, art thou afraid to die?—thou, who hast sworn so deeply to dye
thine hands in _my_ gore, in the gore of all who loved their country? Art
thou afraid to die, stabber, adulterer, poisoner, ravisher, parricide,
Catilinarian? Art thou afraid to die? I should have thought, when thou
didst put on such resolves, thou wouldst have cast aside all that is
human! Once more, I say, art thou afraid to die?"
"To die!" he exclaimed in husky tones, which seemed to stick in his
parched throat—"to die! to be nothing!"
And again the convulsive shudder ran through his whole frame.
But ere the Senator could open his lips to reply, the blind old grandam
asked, in a voice so clear and shrill that its accents seemed to pierce
the very souls of all who heard it—
"Is he a coward, Aulus Fulvius? Is he a coward, too, as well as a villain?
The first of our race, is he a coward?"
"I fear it," answered the old man gloomily. "But, cowardly or brave, he
must disgrace our house no farther. His time is come! his fate cries out
for him! Aulus must die! happy to die without the taint of public and
detected infamy—happy to die unseen in his father’s house, not in the base
and sordid Tullianum."
"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the wretched youth in a paroxysm of agony.
"Sisters, speak for me—plead for me! I am young, oh, too young to die!"
"The mother, whom thou hast sworn to murder—the sisters, whose virgin
youth thou hast agreed to yield to the licentious arms of thy foul
confederates!" answered the old man sternly; while the women, with
blanched visages, convulsed with agony, were silent, even to that appeal.
"Speak, speak! will you not speak for me, for your first-born son, my
mother?"
"Farewell!"—the cold word came forth from her pallid lips, with a mighty
effort—"Farewell, unhappy!" And, unable to endure the dreadful scene any
longer, she arose from her seat, and laid her hand on the blind woman’s
arm. "Come," she said, "mother of my lord! our task is ended! his doom
spoken! Let us go hence!"
But the youngest sister, overcoming her fear of the stern father, her
modesty of youth, and her sense of high-strained honor, cast herself at
the old man’s feet, and clung about his knees, crying with a shrill
painful cry—
"Oh, father! by your right hand! by your gray head! by all the Gods! I
implore you, pardon, spare him!"
"Up! up! base girl!" cried the old man; "wouldst have the infamy of our
house made public? and thou, most miserable boy, spare her, thou, this
disgrace, and me this anguish—veil thy head! bow thee to the block! bid
the slave do his office! At least, Aulus, if thou hast not lived, at least
die, a Roman!"
The second of the girls, while her sister had made that fruitless appeal
to the father’s mercy, walked steadily to her brother, kissed his brow
with a tearless eye, and in a low voice bade him "Farewell for ever!" then
turned away, impassive as her father, and followed her mother and the
blind grandam from the fatal hall.
But the third daughter stepped up to the faltering youth with a hectic
flush on her cheek, and a fitful fire in her eye, and whispered in his
ear,
"Aulus, my brother! unhappy one, it is vain! Thou _must_ die, for our
house’s honor! Die, then, my brother, as it becomes a Fulvius, bravely,
and by a free hand! Which of our house perished ever by a base weapon, or
a slavish blow? Thou wert brave ever,—be brave now, oh! my brother!"
And at her words, his courage, his pride, rallied to his aid; and he met
her eye with a flashing glance, and answered in a firm tone, "I _will_,
sister, I will die as becomes a Roman, as becomes a Fulvius! But how shall
I die by a free hand, bound as I am, and weaponless?"
"Thus, brother," she replied, drawing a short keen knife from the bosom of
her linen stola; and severing the bonds which confined his elbows, she
placed it in his hands. "It is keen! it will not fail you! it is the last
gift of the last who loves you, Aulus!"
"The best gift! Farewell, sister!"
"Farewell, Aulus, for ever!" And she too kissed him on the brow; and as
she kissed him, a hot tear fell upon his cheek. Then, turning toward her
sister who was still clinging to the old man’s knees, embarrassing him
with useless prayers, so that he had observed none of that by-play, she
said to her firmly,
"Come, little girl, come! It is fruitless! Bid him farewell! he is
prepared to die! he cannot survive his honor!"
And she drew her away, screaming and struggling, with eyes deluged in
tears, from the apartment wherein the Senator now stood face to face with
his first born, the slave alone present as a witness of the last struggle.
But Aulus had by this time recovered all the courage of his race, all his
own natural audacity; and waving his hand with a proud gesture toward the
slave, he exclaimed in tones of severe authority:
"Dismiss that wretched slave, Aulus Fulvius. Ready I am to die—nay! I wish
not to live! But it becomes not _thee_ to doom me to such a death, nor
_me_ so to die! Noble I am, and free; and by a free hand will I die, and a
noble weapon!"
There was so much command, so much high pride, and spirit, in his tone,
his expression, and his gesture, that an answering chord was struck in the
mind of the old man; so that without reply, and without evincing any
surprise at seeing the youth’s arms unbound, he waved a signal to the
slave to depart from the atrium.
Then the youth knelt down on one knee before the altar, and cried aloud in
a solemn voice—
"Pardon me, ye Gods of our house, for this dishonor which I have brought
upon you; absolve me, ye grand ancestors; mine eyes are open now, and I
perceive the sin, the shame, the sorrow of my deeds! Absolve me, ye great
Gods, and ye glorious men; and thou, my father, think sometimes of the
son, whom it repented of his guilt, but whom it pained not"—he raised his
arm aloft, and the bright knife-blade glittered in the rays of the
altar-fire, when the old Senator sprang forward, with all his features
working strangely, and cried "Hold!"
It might be that he had relented; but if it were so, it was too late; for,
finishing his interrupted sentence with these words—
—"to die for his house’s honor!"—
the young man struck himself one quick blow on the breast, with a hand so
sure and steady, that the knife pierced through his ribs as if they had
been paper, and clove his heart asunder, standing fixed hilt-deep in his
chest; while, without word, or groan, or sigh or struggle, he dropped flat
on his back beside the _impluvium_, and was dead in less time than it has
taken to describe the deed.
The father looked on for a moment calmly; and then said in a cool hard
voice, "It is well! it is well! The Gods be thanked! he died as a Roman
should!"
Then he composed his limbs, and threw a white cloth which lay nigh the
block, over the face and body of the wretched youth.
But, as he turned to leave the atrium, nature was too strong for his
philosophy, for his pride; and crying out, "My son! my son! He was yet
mine own son! mine own Aulus!" and burying his face in his toga, he burst
into a paroxysm of loud grief, and threw himself at length on the dead
body: father and son victims alike to the inexorable Roman honor!