THE BATTLE.
At least we’ll die with harness on our back.
MACBETH.
It was indeed time that the last arrangements of the traitor were
completed; for, long since, from the gates of the Consular camp the great
army of the enemy had been filing out, and falling into order, not a mile
distant.
One third, at least, superior to the rebel host in numbers, the loyal
soldiers were as high in spirit, as firm in resolution; were better armed,
better officered, and, above all, strong in a better cause.
Nor if those had the incentive of despair to spur them to great deeds, did
these lack a yet stronger stimulus to action. There were bright eyes, and
fair forms in their camp, dependent on their victory for life, and, yet
dearer, honor. So great was the terror spread through those regions by the
name of Catiline, and by the outrages committed already by his barbarous
banditti, that all the female nobility of the provinces, wherein the war
was waging, had fled to the Roman camp, as to their only place of safety.
For all that district was ripe for insurrection; the borough towns awaited
only the first sunshine of success, to join the rebellion; the rural
slaves were, to a man, false at heart; and it was evident to all that the
slightest check of the Consular forces would be the signal for tumult,
massacre, and conflagration in the provincial towns, for all the horrors
of a servile rising in the champaign.
Flight to Rome was impossible, since all the villainy and desperate crime
of the land was afloat, and every where, beyond the outposts of Antonius’
head quarters, the roads were infested with banditti, runaway slaves, and
rustic robbers.
To the camp, therefore, had all the patricians of the district flocked,
the men as volunteers, with such of their clients as they could trust, and
such of their wealth as was portable; the women as suppliants, tearful and
terrified, for Rome’s powerful protection.
Meanwhile, for leagues around, by day the open country was seen blackened
by numberless columns of smoke, by night flashing with numberless pyres of
flame, the blaze of country seats and villas; and terror was on all sides,
murder and rape, havoc and desolation.
The minds of the Roman soldiery were inflamed, therefore, to the utmost;
the sight of the ravaged country, the charms, the tears, the terrors of
the suppliant ladies, had kindled all that was patriotic, all that was
generous, all that was manly in their nature; and it was with
deep-recorded vows of vengeance that they had buckled on their armor, and
grinded their thirsty swords for the conflict.
But throughout all that ardent host there was not one so determined, so
calm in his resolved ire, so deadly bent on vengeance, as Paullus Arvina.
Julia was in the camp; for no means had occurred of sending her to Rome in
safety, and her high counsels, her noble feminine courage, would have
given birth alone to contagious valor in her lover’s spirit, had he been
weak and faltering as of old between his principles and his passions.
But it was not so. The stern trials to which his constancy had been
subjected, the fearful strife of the hottest passions which had raged so
long in his bosom, had hardened him like steel thrice tempered in the
furnace, and he was now no longer the impulsive, enthusiastic, changeful
stripling, in whom to-day’s imagination swept away yesterday’s resolve,
but a cool, resolute, thoughtful man.
It is events, not years, which make men old or young. It is adversity and
trial, not ease and prosperity, which make men, from dwarfs, giants.
And events had so crowded on the boy in the last few months, that those
months had matured his wisdom more than all the years of his previous
life. Adversity and trial had so swelled his mental stature, that aged men
might have been proud to cope with him in counsel, strong men to rival him
in execution.
The sun was already high in heaven, when the cavalry of the seventh
legion, which had been selected to act as the general’s escort, in
addition to the Prætorian cohort of infantry, swept forth from the gates,
following Petreius, who, although holding the second rank only in the
army, was actually in command; Antonius, on the pretext of a fit of the
gout, having declined to lead that day.
The men were already marshalled at the base of the ascent, leading to the
narrow plain on which, as in the amphitheatre, the fight was to be fought
out hand to hand, with little room for generalship, or intricate
manoeuvring, but every opportunity for the display of mortal strength and
desperate gallantry.
Here they had halted, on the verge of the broken ground, awaiting the
arrival of their general in chief to reform their array, and complete
their preparations, before advancing to the attack.
The lines of the enemy were concealed from them by the abrupt acclivity,
and the level space on the top of the plateau, which intervened between
the hosts; and it seemed probable that an officer of Catiline’s intuitive
eye and rapid resource, would not fail to profit by the difficulties of
the ground, in order to assail the consular troops while struggling among
the rocks and thickets which encumbered the ascent. It behoved, therefore,
to hold the men well in hand, to fortify the heads of the advancing
columns with the best soldiers, and to be ready with reinforcements at all
points; and to this end Petreius had ordered a brief halt, before
attacking.
So eager were the spirits of the men, however, and so hot for the
encounter, that they were murmuring already almost angrily, and calling on
their centurions and tribunes to lead them at once to the shock.
The fierce acclamations of the rebels, consequent on the address of
Catiline, had kindled not daunted the brave indignation which possessed
them; and stung, as it were, by some personal insult, each soldier of the
array burned to be at it.
So stood the case, when, escorted by the magnificent array of the
legionary horse, Petreius gallopped through the ranks. A military man, by
habit as by nature, who had served for more than thirty years as tribune,
præfect of allies, commander of a legion, and lastly prætor, all with
exceeding great distinction, he knew nearly all the men in his ranks by
sight, was acquainted with their services and honors, had led them
oftentimes to glory, and was their especial favorite.
He made no set speech, therefore, to his legions, but as he gallopped
through the lines called to this man or that by name, bidding him
recollect this skirmish, or think upon that storm, fight, as he did in
this pitched battle, or win a civic crown as in that sally, and finally
shouted to them all in a high voice, entreating them to remember that they
were Roman soldiers, fighting against a rabble of unarmed banditti, for
their country, their wives, their children, their hearths and their
altars.
One full-mouthed shout replied to his brief address.
"Lead on! Petreius, we will conquer!"
He waved his hand toward the trumpeters, and nodded his high crested
helmet; and instant there pealed forth that thrilling brazen clangor,
"that bids the Romans close."
Nor less sonorously did the war music of the rebels make reply, ringing
among the hills their bold defiance.
Then onward rolled that bright array, with a long steady sweep, like that
of an unbroken line of billows rushing in grand and majestical upon some
sandy cape.
In vain did the sinuosities of the broken ground, in vain did crag and
thicket, ravine and torrents’ bed impede their passage; closing their
files or serrying them, as the nature of the ascent required, now wheeling
into solid column, deploying now into extended line, still they rolled
onward, unchecked, irresistible—
A long array of helmets bright,
A long array of spears.
The glorious eagles glittered above them in the unclouded sunshine, the
proud initials, which had gleamed from their crimson banners over one half
the world, shone out conspicuous, SPQR, as the broad folds streamed to
their length upon the frosty air.
A solitary trumpet spoke at times, to order their slow terrible advance;
there was no hum of voices, no shout, no confusion; only the solemn and
continuous tramp of their majestic march, shaking the earth like an
incessant roll of thunder—only the clang of their brazen harness, as
buckler clashed with buckler.
All the stern discipline, all the composed and orderly manœuvres, all the
cold steadiness of modern war was there, combined with all the
gorgeousness and glitter of the chivalric ages.
Contrary to all expectation, no opposition met them as they scaled that
abrupt hill side. Fearful of exposing his flanks, Catiline wisely held his
men back, collecting all their energies for the dread onset.
In superb order, regular and even, Petreius’ infantry advanced upon the
plateau, their solid front filling the whole space with a mass of brazen
bucklers, ten deep, and thrice ten hundred wide, without an interval, or
break, or bend in that vast line.
Behind these came the cavalry, about a thousand strong, and the Prætorian
cohort, with the general in person, forming a powerful reserve, whereby he
proposed to decide the day, so soon as the traitors should be shaken by
his first onset.
Once more the line was halted; once more Petreius gallopped to the van;
and passed from left to right across the front, reconnoitering the
dispositions of the enemy. Then taking post, at the right, he unsheathed
his broadsword, and waved it slowly in the air, pointing to the impassive
ranks of Catiline.
Then the shrill trumpets flourished once again, and the dense mass bore
onward, steady and slow, the enemy still motionless and silent, until
scarce sixty yards intervened between the steadfast ranks, and every man
might distinguish the features and expression of his personal antagonist.
There was a pause. No word was given. No halt ordered. But intuitively, as
if by instinct, every man stopped, and drew a deep breath, unconscious
that he did so, collecting himself for the dread struggle.
The point was reached, from which it was customary to hurl the tremendous
volley of ponderous steel-headed pila, which invariably preceded the sword
charge of the legions, and for the most part threw the first rank of the
enemy into confusion, and left them an easy conquest to the short stabbing
sword, and sturdy buckler.
But now not a javelin was raised on either side—the long stern swell of
the trumpets, ordering the charge, was drowned by a deep solemn shout,
which pealed wilder and higher yet into a terrible soul-stirring cheer;
and casting down their heavy missiles, both fronts rushed forward
simultaneously, with their stout shields advanced, and their short
broadswords levelled to the charge.
From flank to flank, they met simultaneous, with a roar louder than that
of the most deafening thunder, a shock that made the earth tremble, the
banners flap upon their staves, the streams stand still, as if an
earthquake had reeled under them.
Then rose the clang of blades on helm and buckler, clear, keen, incessant;
and charging shouts and dying cries, and patriotic acclamations, and mad
blasphemies; and ever and anon the piercing clangor of the screaming
brass, lending fresh frenzy to the frantic tumult.
From right to left, the plain was one vast arena full of single
combats—the whole first ranks on both sides had gone down at the first
shock; the second and the third had come successively to hand to hand
encounter; and still, as each man fell, stabbed to death by the pitiless
sword, another leaped into his place; and still the lines, though bent on
each side and waving like a bow, were steadfast and unbroken; and still
the clang of brazen bucklers and steel blades rang to the skies, rendering
all commands, all words, inaudible.
Officers fought like privates; skirmishers, hand to hand, like
legionaries. Blood flowed like water; and so fierce was the hatred of the
combatants, so deadly the nature of the tremendous stabbing broadswords of
the Romans, that few wounds were inflicted, and few men went down ’till
they were slain outright.
The dust stood in a solid mass over the reeling lines; nor could the wind,
though it blew freshly, disperse the dense wreaths, so constantly did they
surge upward from the trampling feet of those inveterate gladiators. At
times, the waving of a banner would be seen, at times a gleamy brazen
radiance, as some rank wheeled forward, or was forced back in some
desperate charge; but, for the most part, all was dim and dark, and the
battle still hung balanced.
Wherever the fight was the fiercest, there rang the warshout "Catiline!
Catiline!" to the darkened skies; and there ever would the Roman army
waver, so furiously did he set on with his best soldiers, still bringing
up reserves to the weakest points of his army, still stabbing down the
fiercest of the consular host, fearless, unwearied, and unwounded.
But his reserves were now all engaged, and not one point of the Roman line
was broken; Manlius had fallen in the front rank, playing a captain’s and
a soldier’s part. The Florentine had fallen in the front rank, battling
with gallantry worthy a better cause. All the most valiant officers, all
the best veterans had fallen, in the first rank, all with their faces to
the foe, all with their wounds in front, all lying on the spot which they
had held living, grim-visaged, and still terrible in death.
"Paullus Arvina!" exclaimed Petreius, at this juncture, after having
observed the equal strife long and intently, and having discerned with the
eagle eye of a general’s instinct what had escaped all those around him,
that Catiline’s last reserves were engaged. "The time is come; ride to the
tribune of the horse, and bid him dismount his men. Horse cannot charge
here! command the tribune of the Prætorian cohort to advance! We will
strike full at the centre!"
"I go, Petreius!" and bowing his head, till his crimson crest mingled with
his charger’s mane, he spurred furiously to the rear, and had delivered
his message and returned, while the shouts, with which the reserve had
greeted the command to charge, were yet ringing in the air.
When he returned, the general had dismounted, and one of his freedmen was
unbuckling the spurs from his steel greaves. His sword was out, and it was
evident that he was about to lead the last onset in person.
"A boon, noble Petreius!" cried the youth, leaping from his horse—"By all
the Gods! By all your hopes of glory! grant me one boon, Petreius."
"Ha! what?" returned the general quickly—"Speak out, be brief—what boon?"
"Be it mine to head the charge!"
"Art thou so greedy of fame, boy; or so athirst to die!"
"So greedy of Revenge, Petreius. I have a vow in Heaven, and in Hell, to
slay that parricide. If he should die by any hand but mine, I am forsworn
and infamous!"
"Thou, boy, and to slay Catiline!"
"Even I, Petreius."
"Thou art mad to say it."
"Not mad, not mad, indeed, Petreius—."
"He _will_ slay him, Petreius," cried an old veteran of Arvina’s troop.
"The Gods thundered when he swore it. We all heard it. Grant his prayer,
General; we will back him to the death. But be sure, he will slay him."
"Be it so," said Petreius, struck despite himself by the confidence of the
youth, and the conviction of the veterans. "Be it so, if ye will. But,
remember, when we have broken through the centre, wheel to the right with
the dismounted horse—the Prætorians must charge to the left. Ho! we are
all in line. Forward! Ho! Victory, and Rome!"—
And with the word, he rushed forward, himself a spear’s length in front of
his best men, who, with a long triumphant shout, dashed after him.
Passing right through the wearied troops, who had sustained the shock and
brunt of the whole day, and who now opened their ranks gladly to admit the
reinforcement, these fresh and splendid soldiers fell like a thunderbolt
upon the centre of Catiline’s army, weakened already by the loss of its
best men; and clove their way clean through it, solid and unbroken,
trampling the dead and dying under foot, and hurling a small body of the
rebels, still combating in desperation, into the trenches of their camp,
wherein they perished to a man refusing to surrender, and undaunted.
Then, wheeling to the left and right, they fell on the naked flanks of the
reeling and disordered mass, while the troops whom they had relieved,
re-forming themselves rapidly, pressed forward with tremendous shouts of
victory, eager to share the triumph which their invincible steadiness had
done so much to win.
It was a battle no longer; but a route; but a carnage. Yet still not one
of the rebels turned to fly; not one laid down his arms, or cried for
quarter.
Broken, pierced through, surrounded, overwhelmed by numbers, they fought
in single lines, in scattered groups, in twos or threes, back to back,
intrepid to the last, and giving mortal wounds in their extreme agony.
More of the consular troops fell, after the field was won, than during all
the previous combat. No lances, no long weapons, no missiles were at hand,
wherewith to overwhelm the desperadoes; no horse wherewith to tread them
under foot; hand to hand, man to man, it was fought out, with those short
stabbing blades, against which the stoutest corslet was but as parchment,
the hardest shield of brass-bound bull’s hide, but as a stripling’s wicker
target.
Still in the front, abreast still with the bravest veterans shouting
himself hoarse with cries of "To me! to me, Catiline, to me, Paul Arvina!"
The young man had gone through the whole of that dreadful melee; striking
down a man at every blow, and filling the soldiers’ mouths with wonder at
the boy’s exploits—he had gone through it all, without a scratch,
unwounded.
More than once had his mortal enemy been almost within arm’s length of
him; their eyes had glared mutual hatred on each other, their blades had
crossed once, but still the throng and rush of combatants and flyers had
forced them asunder; and now the strife was almost ended, the tide of
slaughter had receded toward the rebel camp, the ramparts of which the
legionaries were already storming.
Weary and out of breath and disappointed, Paullus Arvina halted alone,
among piles of the dying and the dead, with groans and imprecations in his
ears, and bitterness and vexation at his heart.
His comrades had rushed away on the track of the retreating rebels; and
their shouts, as they stormed the palisades, reached him, but failed to
awake any respondent note of triumph in his spirit.
He had no share in the vulgar victory, he cared not to strike down and
slaughter the commoners of the rebellion. Catiline was the quarry at which
he flew, and with no game less noble could he rest contented. Catiline, it
would seem, had escaped him for the moment; and he stood leaning on his
red sword, doubtful.
Instinctively he felt assured that his enemy had not retreated. Almost he
feared that his death had crowned some other hand with glory.
When suddenly, a mighty clatter arose in the rear, toward the Roman camp,
and turning swiftly toward the sound, he perceived a desperate knot of
rebels still charging frantically onward, although surrounded by thrice
their numbers of inveterate and ruthless victors.
"By the Gods! he is there!" and with the speed of the hunted deer, he
rushed toward the spot, bounding in desperate haste over the dying and the
dead, blaspheming or unconscious.
He reached the meleè. He dashed headlong into the thick of it. The Romans
were giving way before the fury of a gory madman, as he seemed, who bore
down all that met him at the sword’s point.
"Catiline! Catiline!" and at the cry, the boldest of the consular army
recoiled. "Ho!—Romans! Ho! who will slay Sergius Catiline? Ho! Romans! Ho!
His head is worth the winning! Who will slay Sergius Catiline?"
And, still at every shout, he struck down, and stabbed, and maimed, and
trampled, even amid defeat and ruin victorious, unsubdued, a terror to his
victors.
"Who will slay Sergius Catiline?"
And, as Arvina rushed upon the scene, the veteran who had so confidently
announced his coming triumph, crossed swords with the traitor, and went
down in a moment, stabbed a full span deep in his thigh.
"Ho! Romans! Ho! who will slay Sergius Catiline?"—
"Paullus Arvina!"—cried the youth, springing forward, and dealing him with
the word a downright blow upon the head, which cleft his massive casque
asunder.
"I will! I, even I, Paullus Arvina!"—
But he shouted too soon; and soon rued the imprudence of raising his arm
to strike, when at sword’s point with such a soldier.
As his own blow fell on the casque of the traitor, _his_ shortened blade,
aimed with a deadly thrust tore through the sturdy shield, tore through
the strong cuirass, and pierced his side with a ghastly wound.
Arvina staggered—he thought he had received his death blow; and had not
the blade of Catiline, bent by the violence of his own effort, stuck in
the cloven shield, resisting every attempt to withdraw it, the next blow
must have found him unprepared, must have destroyed him.
But ere the desperado could recover his weapon, Arvina rallied and closed
with him, grasping him by the throat, and shouting "Lucia! Vengeance!"—
Brave as he was and strong, not for a single moment could Arvina have
maintained that death-grapple, had his foe been unwounded.
But the arch traitor was bleeding at every pore; gashed in every limb of
his body; he had received three mortal wounds already; he was fast failing
when Arvina grappled him, and at the name of his injured child, his
conscience conquered. His sword at length came away, extricated when too
late from the tough bull-hide; but, ere he could nerve his arm to strike
again, Arvina’s point had torn his thigh, had gored his breast, had
pierced his naked throat, with three wounds, the least of them mortal.
But even in that agony he struck home! He could not even curse, but he
struck home, and a fierce joyous smile illuminated his wan face, as he saw
his slayer stumble forward, and fall beside him on the bloody greensward.
In a moment, however, Paullus rallied, recovered his feet, drew from his
bosom the long black ringlet of poor Lucia, and bathed it in the life
blood of her slayer.
"Lucia! Ho! Lucia! Rejoice! my vow, my vow is kept! Thou art avenged,
avenged! Ah! Lucia!—Julia!"—
And he fell sick and swooning upon the yet living bleeding body of his
mortal foeman.