THE EVE OF BATTLE.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased.
MACBETH.
Nearly a fortnight had elapsed since the rescue of Julia, and the sad
death of Catiline’s unhappy daughter, and yet the battle which was daily
and hourly expected, had not been fought.
With rare ability and generalship, Catiline had avoided an action with the
troops of Antonius, marching and countermarching among the rugged passes
of the Appennines, now toward Rome, now toward Gaul, keeping the enemy
constantly on the alert, harassing the consul’s outposts, threatening the
city itself with an assault, and maintaining with studious skill that
appearance of mystery, which is so potent an instrument whether to terrify
or to fascinate the vulgar mind.
During this period the celerity of his movements had been such that his
little host appeared to be almost ubiquitous, and men knew not where to
look for his descent, or how to anticipate the blow, which he evidently
had it in contemplation to deliver.
In the meantime, he had given such of his adherents as fled from Rome
immediately on the execution of the conspirators, an opportunity to join
him, and many had in fact done so with their clients, and bands of
gladiators.
The disaffected of the open country had all united themselves to him; and
having commenced operations with a force not exceeding two thousand men,
he was now at the head of six times that number, whom he had formed into
two complete legions, and disciplined them with equal assiduity and
success.
Now, however, the time had arrived when it was for his advantage no longer
to avoid an encounter with the troops of the commonwealth; for having
gained all that he proposed to himself by his dilatory movements and
Fabian policy, time namely for the concentration of his adherents, and
opportunity to discipline his men, he now began to suffer from the
inconveniences of the system.
Unsupplied with magazines, or any regular supply of provisions, his army
like a flight of locusts had stripped the country bare at every halting
place, and that wild hill country had few resources, even when shorn by
the licentious band of his desperadoes, upon which to support an army. The
consequence, therefore, of his incessant hurrying to and fro, was that the
valleys of the mountain chain which he had made the theatre of his
campaign, were now utterly exhausted; that his beasts of burden were
broken down and foundered; and that the line of his march might be traced
by the carcasses of mules and horses which had given out by the wayside,
and by the flights of carrion birds which hovered in clouds about his
rear, prescient of the coming carnage.
His first attempt was to elude Metellus Celer, who had marched down from
the Picene district on the Adriatic sea, with great rapidity, and taken
post at the foot of the mountains, on the head waters of the streams which
flow down into the great plain of the Po.
In this attempt he had been frustrated by the ability of the officer who
was opposed to him, who had raised no less than three legions fully
equipped for war.
By him every movement of the conspirator was anticipated, and met by some
corresponding measure, which rendered it abortive. Nor was it, any longer,
difficult for him to penetrate the designs of Catiline, since the
peasantry and mountaineers, who had throughout that district been
favorable to the conspiracy in the first instance, and who were prepared
to favor any design which promised to deliver them from inexorable
taxation, had been by this time so unmercifully plundered and harassed by
that banditti, that they were now as willing to betray Catiline to the
Romans, as they had been desirous before of giving the Romans into his
hands at disadvantage.
Fully aware of all these facts, and knowing farther that Antonius had now
come up so close to his rear, with a large army, that he was in imminent
danger of being surrounded and taken between two fires, the desperate
traitor suddenly took the boldest and perhaps the wisest measure.
Wheeling directly round he turned his back toward Gaul, whither he had
been marching, and set his face toward the city. Then making three great
forced marches he came upon the army of Antonius, as it was in column of
march, among the heights above Pistoria, and had there been daylight for
the attack when the heads of the consul’s cohorts were discovered, it is
possible that he might have forced him to fight at disadvantage, and even
defeated him.
In that case there would have been no force capable of opposing him on
that side Rome, and every probability would have been in favor of his
making himself master of the city, a success which would have gone far to
insure his triumph.
It was late in the evening, however, when the hostile armies came into
presence, each of the other, and on that account, and, perhaps, for
another and stronger reason, Catiline determined on foregoing the
advantages of a surprise.
Caius Antonius, the consul in command, it must be remembered, had been one
of the original confederates in Catiline’s first scheme of massacre and
conflagration, which had been defeated by the unexpected death of Curius
Piso.
Detached from the conspiracy only by Cicero’s rare skill, and
disinterested cession to him of the rich province of Macedonia, Antonius
might therefore justly be supposed unlikely to urge matters to extremities
against his quondam comrades; and it was probably in no small degree on
this account that Catiline had resolved on trying the chances of battle
rather against an old friend, than against an enemy so fixed, and of so
resolute patrician principles as Metellus Celer.
He thought, moreover, that it was just within the calculation of chances
that Antonius might either purposely mismanœuvre, so as to allow him to
descend upon Rome without a battle, or adopt such tactics as should give
him a victory.
He halted his army, therefore, in a little gorge of the hills opening out
upon a level plain, flanked on the left by the steep acclivities of the
mountain, which towered in that direction, ridge above ridge,
inaccessible, and on the right by a rugged and rocky spur, jutting out
from the same ridge, by which his line of battle would be rendered
entirely unassailable on the flanks and rear.
In this wild spot, amid huge gray rocks, and hanging woods of ancient
chesnuts and wild olive, as gray and hoary as the stones among which they
grew, he had pitched his camp, and now lay awaiting in grim anticipation
what the morrow should bring forth; while, opposite to his front, on a
lower plateau of the same eminence, the great army of the consul might be
descried, with its regular entrenchments and superb array of tents, its
forests of gleaming spears, and its innumerable ensigns, glancing and
waving in the cold wintry moonshine.
The mind of the traitor was darker and more gloomy than its wont. He had
supped with his officers, Manlius and a nobleman of Fæsulæ, whose name the
historian has not recorded, who held the third rank in the rebel army, but
their fare had been meagre and insipid, their wines the thin vintage of
that hill country; a little attempt at festivity had been made, but it had
failed altogether; the spirits of the men, although undaunted and prepared
to dare the utmost, lacked all that fiery and enthusiastic ardor, which
kindles patriot breasts with a flame so pure and pervading, on the eve of
the most desperate encounters.
Enemies of their country, enemies almost of mankind, these desperadoes
were prepared to fight desperately, to fight unto the death, because to
win was their only salvation, and, if defeated, death their only refuge.
But for them there was no grand heart-elevating spur to action, no fame to
be won, no deathless name to be purchased—their names deathless already,
as they knew too well, through black infamy!—no grateful country’s
praises, to be gained cheaply by a soldier’s death!—no! there were none of
these things.
All their excitements were temporal, sensual, earthy. The hope to conquer,
the lust to bask in the sunshine of power, the desire to revel at ease in
boundless luxury and riot.
And against these, the rewards of victory, what were the penalties of
defeat—death, infamy, the hatred and the scorn of ages.
The wicked have no friends. Never, perhaps, was this fact exemplified more
clearly than on that battle eve. Community of guilt, indeed, bound those
vicious souls together—community of interests, of fears, of perils, held
them in league—yet, feeling as they did feel that their sole chance of
safety lay in the maintenance of that confederation, each looked with evil
eyes upon his neighbor, each almost hated the others, accusing them
internally of having drawn them into their present perilous peril, of
having failed at need, or of being swayed by selfish motives only.
So little truth there is in the principle, which Catiline had set forth in
his first address to his banded parricides, "that the community of desires
and dislikes constitutes, in one word, true friendship!"—
And now so darkly did their destiny lower on those depraved and ruined
spirits, that even their recklessness, that last light which emanates from
crime in despair, had burned out, and the furies of conscience,—that
conscience which they had so often stifled, so often laughed to scorn, so
often drowned with riot and debauch, so often silenced by fierce
sophistry—now hunted them, harpies of the soul, worse than the fabulous
Eumenides of parricide Orestes.
The gloomy meal was ended; the parties separated, all of them, as it would
seem, relieved by the termination of those mock festivities which, while
they brought no gayity to the heart, imposed a necessity of seeming
mirthful and at ease, when they were in truth disturbed by dark thoughts
of the past, and terrible forebodings of the future.
As soon as his guests had departed and the traitor was left alone, he
arose from his seat, according to his custom, and began to pace the room
with vehement and rapid strides, gesticulating wildly, and muttering
sentences, the terrible oaths and blasphemies of which were alone audible.
Just at this time a prolonged flourish of trumpets from without, announced
the changing of the watch. It was nine o’clock. "Ha! the third hour!"
already, he exclaimed, starting as he heard the wild blast, "and Chærea
not yet returned from Antonius. Can it be that the dog freedman has played
me false, or can Antonius have seized him as a hostage?—I will go forth,"
he added, after a short pause, "I will go forth, and observe the night."
And throwing a large cloak over his armor, and putting a broad-brimmed
felt hat upon his head, in lieu of the high crested helmet, he sallied out
into the camp, carrying in addition to his sword a short massive javelin
in his right hand.
The night was extremely dark and murky. The moon had not yet risen, and
but for the camp-fires of the two armies, it would have been impossible to
walk any distance without the aid of a torch or lantern. A faint lurid
light was dispersed from these, however, over the whole sky, and thence
was reflected weakly on the rugged and broken ground which lay between the
entrenched lines of the two hosts.
For a while, concealed entirely by his disguise, Catiline wandered through
the long streets of tents, listening to the conversation of the soldiers
about the watch-fires, their strange superstitious legends, and old
traditionary songs; and, to say truth, the heart of that desperate man was
somewhat lightened by his discovery that the spirits of the men were alert
and eager for the battle, their temper keen and courageous, their
confidence in the prowess and ability of their chief unbounded.
"He is the best soldier, since the days of Sylla," said one gray-headed
veteran, whose face was scarred by the Pontic scymetars of Mithridates.
"He is a better soldier in the field, than ever Sylla was, by Hercules!"
replied another.
"Aye! in the field! Sylla, I have heard say, rarely unsheathed his sword,
and never led his men to hand and hand encounter," interposed a younger
man, than the old colonists to whom he spoke.
"It is the head to plan, not the hand to execute, that makes the great
captain. Caius, or Marcus, Titus or Tullus, can any one of them strike
home as far, perhaps farther, than your Syllas or your Catilines."
"By Mars! I much doubt it!" cried another. "I would back Catiline with
sword and buckler against the stoutest and the deftest gladiator that ever
wielded blade. He is as active and as strong as a Libyan tiger."
"Aye! and as merciless."
"May the foe find him so to-morrow!"
"To-morrow, by the Gods! I wish it were to-morrow. It is cold work this,
whereas, to-morrow night, I promise you, we shall be ransacking Antonius’
camp, with store of choice wines, and rare viands."
"But who shall live to share them is another question."
"One which concerns not those who win."
"And by the God of Battles! we will do that to-morrow, let who may fall
asleep, and who may keep awake to tell of it."
"A sound sleep to the slumberers, a merry rouse to the quick boys, who
shall keep waking!" shouted another, and the cups were brimmed, and
quaffed amid a storm of loud tumultuous cheering.
Under cover of this tumult, Catiline withdrew from the neighborhood, into
which he had intruded with the stealthy pace of the beast to which the
soldiers had compared him; and as he retired, he muttered to himself—"They
are in the right frame of mind—of the right stuff to win—and yet—and yet—"
he paused, and shook his head gloomily, as if he dared not trust his own
lips to complete the sentence he had thus begun.
A moment afterward he exclaimed—"But Chærea! but Chærea! how long the
villain tarries! By heaven! I will go forth and meet him."
And suiting the action to the word, he walked rapidly down the Quintana or
central way to the Prætorian gate, there giving the word to the
night-watch in a whisper, and showing his grim face to the half-astonished
sentinel on duty, he passed out of the lines, alone and unguarded.
After advancing a few paces, he was challenged again by the pickets of the
velites, who were thrust out in advance of the gates, and again giving the
word was suffered to pass on, and now stood beyond the farthest outpost of
his army.
Cautiously and silently, but with a swift step and determined air, he now
advanced directly toward the front of the Roman entrenchments, which lay
at a little more than a mile’s distance from his own lines, and ere long
reached a knoll or hillock which would by daylight have commanded a
complete view of the whole area of the consul’s camp, not being much out
of a sling’s cast from the ramparts.
The camp of the consul lay on the slope of a hill, so that the rear was
considerably higher than the front; Catiline’s eye, as he stood on that
little eminence, could therefore clearly discern all the different streets
and divisions of the camp, by the long lines of lamps and torches which
blazed along the several avenues, and he gazed anxiously and long, at that
strange silent picture.
With the exception of a slight clash and clang heard at times on the
walls, where the skirmishers were going on their rounds, and the neigh of
some restless charger, there was nothing that should have indicated to the
ear that nearly twenty thousand men were sleeping among those tented lines
of light—sleeping how many of them their last natural slumber.
No thoughts of that kind, however, intruded on the mind of the desperado.
Careless of human life, reckless of human suffering, he gazed only with
his enquiring glance of profound penetration, hoping to espy something,
whereby he might learn the fate—not of his messenger, that was to him a
matter of supreme indifference—but of his message to Antonius.
Nor was he very long in doubt on this head; for while he was yet gazing,
there was a bustle clearly perceptible about the prætorium, lights were
seen flitting to and fro, voices were heard calling and answering to one
another, and then the din of hammers and sounds of busy preparation.
This might have lasted perchance half an hour, to the great amazement of
the traitor, who could not conceive the meaning of that nocturnal hubbub,
when the clang of harness succeeded by the heavy regular tramp of men
marching followed the turmoil, and, with many torches borne before them,
the spears and eagle of a cohort were seen coming rapidly toward the
Prætorian Gate.
"By Hecate!" cried Catiline—"what may this mean, I wonder. They are too
few for an assault, nay! even for a false alarm. They have halted at the
gate! By the Gods! they are filing out! they march hitherward! and lo!
Manlius is aware of them. I will risk something to tarry here and watch
them."
As he spoke, the cohort marched forward, straight on the hillock where he
stood; and so far was it from seeking to conceal its whereabout, that its
trumpets were blown frequently and loudly, as if to attract observation.
Meantime the camp of Catiline was on the alert also, the ramparts were
lined with torches, by the red glare of which the legionaries might be
seen mustering in dense array with shields in serried order, and spear
heads twinkling in the torch-light.
As the cohorts approached the hill, Catiline fell back toward his own camp
a little, and soon found shelter in a small thicket of holleys and wild
myrtle which would effectually conceal him from the enemy, while he could
observe their every motion from its safe covert.
On the hillock, the cohort halted—one manipule stood to its arms in front,
while the rest formed a hollow square, all facing outward around its
summit. The torches were lowered, so that with all his endeavors, Catiline
could by no means discover what was in process within that guarded space.
Again the din of hammers rose on his ear, mixed now with groans and
agonizing supplications, which waxed at length into a fearful howl, the
utterance of one, past doubt, in more than mortal agony.
A strange and terrible suspicion broke upon Catiline, and the sweat
started in beadlike drops from his sallow brow. It was not long ere that
suspicion became certainty.
The clang of the hammers ceased; the wild howls sank into a continuous
weak pitiful wailing. The creak of pullies and cordage, the shouts of men
plying levers, and hauling ropes, succeeded, and slowly sullenly uprose,
hardly seen in the black night air, a huge black cross. It reached its
elevation, and was made fast in almost less time than it has taken to
relate it, and instantly a pile of faggots which had been raised a short
distance in front if it, and steeped in oil or some other unctuous matter,
was set on fire.
A tall wavering snowwhite glare shot upward, and revealed, writhing in
agony, and wailing wofully, the naked form of Chærea, bleeding at every
pore from the effects of the merciless Roman scourging, nailed on the
fatal cross.
So near was the little thicket in which Catiline lay, that he could mark
every sinew of that gory frame working in agony, could read every twitch
of those convulsed features.
Again the Roman trumpets were blown shrill and piercing, and a centurion
stepping forward a little way in front of the advanced manipule, shouted
at the pitch of his voice,
"THUS PERISH ALL THE MESSENGERS OF PARRICIDES AND TRAITORS!"
Excited, almost beyond his powers of endurance, by what he beheld and
heard, the fierce traitor writhed in his hiding place, not sixty paces
distant from the speaker, and gnashed his teeth in impotent malignity. His
fingers griped the tough shaft of his massive pilum, as if they would have
left their prints in the close-grained ash.
While that ferocious spirit was yet strong within him, the wretched
freedman, half frenzied doubtless by his tortures, lifted his voice in a
wild cry on his master—
"Catiline! Catiline!" he shrieked so thrillingly that every man in both
camps heard every syllable distinct and clear. "Chærea calls on Catiline.
Help! save! Avenge! Catiline! Catiline!"
A loud hoarse laugh burst from the Roman legionaries, and the centurion
shouted in derision.
But at that instant the desperate spectator of that horrid scene sprang to
his feet reckless, and shouting, as he leaped into the circle of bright
radiance,
"Catiline hears Chærea, and delivers,"—hurled his massive javelin with
deadly aim at his tortured servant.
It was the first blow Catiline ever dealt in mercy, and mercifully did it
perform its errand.
The broad head was buried in the naked breast of the victim, and with one
sob, one shudder, the spirit was released from the tortured clay.
Had a thunderbolt fallen among the cohort, the men could not have been
more stunned—more astounded. Before they had sufficiently recovered from
their shock to cast a missile at him, much less to start forth in pursuit,
he was half way toward his own camp in safety; and ere long a prolonged
burst, again and again reiterated, of joyous acclamations, told to the
consular camp that the traitors knew and appreciated the strange and
dauntless daring of their almost ubiquitous leader.
An hour afterward that leader was alone, in his tent, stretched on his
couch, sleeping. But oh! that sleep—not gentle slumber, not nature’s soft
nurse—but nature’s horrible convulsion! The eyes wide open, glaring,
dilated in their sockets as of a strangled man—the brow beaded with black
sweat drops—the teeth grinded together—the white lips muttering words too
horrible to be recorded—the talon-like fingers clutching at vacancy.
It was too horrible to last. With a wild cry, "Lucia! Ha! Lucia! Fury!
Avenger! Fiend!" he started to his feet, and glared around him with a
bewildered eye, as if expecting to behold some ghastly supernatural
visitant.
At length, he said, with a shudder—which he could not repress, "It was a
dream! A dream—but ye Gods! what a dream! I will sleep no more—’till
to-morrow. To-morrow," he repeated in a doubtful and enquiring tone,
"to-morrow. If I should fall to-morrow, and such dreams come in that sleep
which hath no waking, those dreams should be reality—that reality should
be—HELL! I know not—I begin to doubt some things, which of yore I held
certain! What if there should be Gods! avenging, everlasting torturers! If
there should be a HELL! Ha! ha!" he laughed wildly and almost frantically.
"Ha! ha! what matters it? Methinks this is a hell already!" and with the
words he struck his hand heavily on his broad breast, and relapsed into
gloomy and sullen meditation.
That night he slept no more, but strode backward and forward hour after
hour, gnawing his nether lip till the blood streamed from the wounds
inflicted by his unconscious teeth.
What awful and mysterious retribution might await him in the land of
spirits, it is not for mortals to premise; but in this at least did he
speak truth that night—conscience and crime may kindle in the human heart
a Hell, which nothing can extinguish, so long as the soul live identical
self-knowing, self-tormenting.