CHAPTER XXI.

[pg 223]CHAPTER XXI.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.[pg 224]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[pg 225]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.[pg 226]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[pg 227]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,[pg 228]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[pg 229]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?"[pg 230]"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—.""Hewillslay 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.[pg 231]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. Ca[pg 232]tiline, 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,hisshortened blade, aimed with a deadly thrust tore through[pg 233]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.[pg 234]CHAPTER XXII.A NIGHT OF HORROR.Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.Childe Harold.The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and silvery moon was sailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure light shone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the commonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, not triumph.Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from the Prætorian gate, scarce two-thirds had returned at sun-set.And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most noble of the host; for all the most gallant had fallen dead in that desperate struggle, or had sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their conquered foemen.Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from that dread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day was utterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while it lasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen taken—a living captive.For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in the annals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful, when the nature of the[pg 235]ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to the vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost every wound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the men of either party pitiless and desperate, are all taken into consideration.In long ranks, like grass in the mower's swathes, the rebel warriors lay, with their grim faces, and glazed eyes, set in that terrible expression of ferocity which is always observed on the lineaments of those who have died from wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them, in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of their slaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value which the men had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution. They who had taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but in the literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen stabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out their dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitor slain save by the steel blade's edge.The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge and executioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrocious crimes.No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survived on whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so complete or final.But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no glory to the victors.So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously contested the series of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final and decisive charge of the Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the early winter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak and shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by the wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shouts of the exulting soldiers were to be[pg 236]heard hailing their general "Imperator;" no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the great deeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed; no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped for by the victorious leader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for the liberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in no legitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the republic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against Romans, citizens, and brothers.The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks of women, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear that grievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences of defeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp was crowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed the known faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps to die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had so boldly striven.Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save in so much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could be expected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of morning.Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives, the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rent garments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the sorrowful ranks, shrieking, "Where are they," and were answered only by the short echo, "Where."Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught of her Arvina; until at a late hour of the night, remembering her solitary situation and high birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself visited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible her wounded spirit by praises of her lost lover's conduct."He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadly struggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloody onset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia, you[pg 237]must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he was a hero.""Was!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streaming eyes—"then heisno longer?""I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowed himself to slay Catiline with his own hands. Such vows are not easy, Julia, nor safe of performance.""And Catiline?" asked Julia,—"the parricide—the monster?""Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have survived it," replied Petreius. "But how he fell, or where, as yet we know not.""Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus.""I think so, Julia," answered the general."I know it," she said slowly—"but what availeth that to me—to me who had rather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his glorious eye—alas! alas! my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive him!""Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false hopes, but he may yet be living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—""To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, like the dayspring. "Why not to-night?—Petreius, I say, why not to-night?""It is impossible. The men are all worn out with wounds and weariness, and must have daylight to the task. Dear girl, it is impossible.""I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him.""You must not, Julia.""Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed maiden from her true lover,—true, alas! in death! in death!""I will," replied Petreius firmly. "You know not the perils of such a night as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrion vultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who roam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordid than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with the earliest dawn to-morrow I will my[pg 238]self go with you. Fare you well, try to sleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia."And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Roman left the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had been pressed into her service, and to Arvina's freedmen who were devoted to her, on no account to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even, if need were, to use force to prevent her.Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting over the field of blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning the brow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of life, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides, where, before the wind rose, there had been but feeble wailings and half-unconscious lamentations.Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side, another, and another, and then the snarling fiendish cry of the fell wolf-pack.Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each helpless sufferer, unanimous, as that accursed sound fell on their palsied ears, and tortured them back into life.But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even the shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp, who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of friend and foe,realcomrade and false traitor.It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls of the hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added the flapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking to the carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beak and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild beast and the carrion fowl.Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to new life, and new horrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his wounds were mortal, and yet he felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt, even if spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.[pg 239]As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was feeling about for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard his name called feebly by some one near him."Who calls Arvina?" he replied faintly. "I am here.""I, Caius Pansa," answered the voice; it was that of the old legionary horseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by the hand of Paullus. "I feared thou wert dead.""We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa," replied the young man. "Hark! to those wolves! It makes my very flesh creep on my bones! They are sweeping this way, too.""No! no! cheer up, brave heart," replied the veteran. "We will not die this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I cannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather bottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me to beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We will share the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—I knew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward."Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and with sore anguish to the old trooper's side, and shared his generously proffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh courage from his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the day breaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to their obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fierce wolf-howls had come within ten feet of where they sat, half recumbent, propped on a pile of dead, but still their united voices and the defensive show which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and new hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of the soldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of the rebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on the fresh morning air.At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly[pg 240]acute and bitter, from a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that after calling several times in vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,"It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè as this, and such a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawl to him with the flask, and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus.""I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my hurts shoot terribly, but I will try."And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawled painfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but ere he reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed a corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in the death pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfully was his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by his own teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beak and talons of some half-gorged vulture.But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared upon him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, and started back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, and murmuring, "Ah! Catiline!"The dying traitor's lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and he strove hard to speak, but the words rattled in his throat inarticulate, and a sharp ruckling groan was the only sound that he uttered.But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the ground, and drove his sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a last desperate exertion through Paullus' massive corslet, and deep into his bosom.With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles to arise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strange mixed expression of agony and triumph; while old Pansa, after crying, twice or thrice, "Paullus, ho! noble Paullus!" exclaimed mournfully, "Alas! He is dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him."[pg 241]Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several mounted officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward the fatal spot, pausing from time to time to examine every pile of carcasses, and after causing his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the hope of finding him they sought.Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by the discovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place in which the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallen here but to die almost on the instant.But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general."Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!""The immortal Gods be praised!" cried Julia, interpreting the casual words at once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped to the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was not so deceived."Who? who is here?" exclaimed the general. "Ha! my stout Pansa, right glad am I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But whom do you mean? Who is here?""Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!"—"By all the Gods!" exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse and gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, and retaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished it while living!But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedless and unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on human corpses, in her wild haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor, the casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate hands, which could alone be distinguished of her lover's prostrate form."Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!""Alas! alas!"—cried Petreius, "Raise her up; raise them both, this is most lamentable!"—"Never heed me!" said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who were busy raising him from the ground. "Help the poor girl! Help the brave youth! He may be[pg 242]living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas! that he is not living now!""Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend?—who slew him?"Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a horrid smile, the glaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his hand aloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half words articulate, sneered fiendishly—"I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha! ha!"—But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the officers who had lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia."He is not dead!""His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood,""He lives! he lives!"—"Curses! cur—cur—ha! ha!—this—this is—Hades!"The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror glared from the savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strong frame, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the dark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting home.It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenched in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide, and the great orator had long since swornthat he had saved his country, among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long since retired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, when Paullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanks of his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It was balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, most suitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,16clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes, her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, the lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noble husband's mansion, amid the merry[pg 243]blaze of waxen torches, and the soft swell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train of consuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft and gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula—"Where thou art Caius, I am Caia."Thenceforth their trials ceased; their happiness began; and thenceforth, they two were one for ever. And, for years afterward, when Roman maidens called blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to wish her than to be happy as Arvina's Julia.And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by the love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, the fame of such a deed, as the death ofthe Roman Traitor.THE END

[pg 223]CHAPTER XXI.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.[pg 224]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[pg 225]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.[pg 226]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[pg 227]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,[pg 228]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[pg 229]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?"[pg 230]"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—.""Hewillslay 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.[pg 231]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. Ca[pg 232]tiline, 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,hisshortened blade, aimed with a deadly thrust tore through[pg 233]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.[pg 234]CHAPTER XXII.A NIGHT OF HORROR.Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.Childe Harold.The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and silvery moon was sailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure light shone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the commonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, not triumph.Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from the Prætorian gate, scarce two-thirds had returned at sun-set.And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most noble of the host; for all the most gallant had fallen dead in that desperate struggle, or had sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their conquered foemen.Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from that dread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day was utterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while it lasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen taken—a living captive.For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in the annals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful, when the nature of the[pg 235]ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to the vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost every wound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the men of either party pitiless and desperate, are all taken into consideration.In long ranks, like grass in the mower's swathes, the rebel warriors lay, with their grim faces, and glazed eyes, set in that terrible expression of ferocity which is always observed on the lineaments of those who have died from wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them, in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of their slaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value which the men had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution. They who had taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but in the literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen stabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out their dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitor slain save by the steel blade's edge.The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge and executioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrocious crimes.No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survived on whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so complete or final.But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no glory to the victors.So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously contested the series of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final and decisive charge of the Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the early winter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak and shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by the wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shouts of the exulting soldiers were to be[pg 236]heard hailing their general "Imperator;" no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the great deeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed; no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped for by the victorious leader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for the liberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in no legitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the republic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against Romans, citizens, and brothers.The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks of women, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear that grievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences of defeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp was crowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed the known faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps to die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had so boldly striven.Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save in so much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could be expected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of morning.Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives, the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rent garments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the sorrowful ranks, shrieking, "Where are they," and were answered only by the short echo, "Where."Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught of her Arvina; until at a late hour of the night, remembering her solitary situation and high birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself visited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible her wounded spirit by praises of her lost lover's conduct."He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadly struggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloody onset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia, you[pg 237]must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he was a hero.""Was!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streaming eyes—"then heisno longer?""I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowed himself to slay Catiline with his own hands. Such vows are not easy, Julia, nor safe of performance.""And Catiline?" asked Julia,—"the parricide—the monster?""Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have survived it," replied Petreius. "But how he fell, or where, as yet we know not.""Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus.""I think so, Julia," answered the general."I know it," she said slowly—"but what availeth that to me—to me who had rather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his glorious eye—alas! alas! my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive him!""Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false hopes, but he may yet be living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—""To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, like the dayspring. "Why not to-night?—Petreius, I say, why not to-night?""It is impossible. The men are all worn out with wounds and weariness, and must have daylight to the task. Dear girl, it is impossible.""I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him.""You must not, Julia.""Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed maiden from her true lover,—true, alas! in death! in death!""I will," replied Petreius firmly. "You know not the perils of such a night as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrion vultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who roam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordid than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with the earliest dawn to-morrow I will my[pg 238]self go with you. Fare you well, try to sleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia."And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Roman left the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had been pressed into her service, and to Arvina's freedmen who were devoted to her, on no account to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even, if need were, to use force to prevent her.Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting over the field of blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning the brow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of life, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides, where, before the wind rose, there had been but feeble wailings and half-unconscious lamentations.Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side, another, and another, and then the snarling fiendish cry of the fell wolf-pack.Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each helpless sufferer, unanimous, as that accursed sound fell on their palsied ears, and tortured them back into life.But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even the shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp, who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of friend and foe,realcomrade and false traitor.It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls of the hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added the flapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking to the carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beak and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild beast and the carrion fowl.Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to new life, and new horrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his wounds were mortal, and yet he felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt, even if spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.[pg 239]As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was feeling about for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard his name called feebly by some one near him."Who calls Arvina?" he replied faintly. "I am here.""I, Caius Pansa," answered the voice; it was that of the old legionary horseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by the hand of Paullus. "I feared thou wert dead.""We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa," replied the young man. "Hark! to those wolves! It makes my very flesh creep on my bones! They are sweeping this way, too.""No! no! cheer up, brave heart," replied the veteran. "We will not die this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I cannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather bottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me to beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We will share the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—I knew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward."Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and with sore anguish to the old trooper's side, and shared his generously proffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh courage from his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the day breaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to their obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fierce wolf-howls had come within ten feet of where they sat, half recumbent, propped on a pile of dead, but still their united voices and the defensive show which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and new hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of the soldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of the rebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on the fresh morning air.At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly[pg 240]acute and bitter, from a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that after calling several times in vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,"It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè as this, and such a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawl to him with the flask, and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus.""I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my hurts shoot terribly, but I will try."And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawled painfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but ere he reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed a corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in the death pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfully was his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by his own teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beak and talons of some half-gorged vulture.But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared upon him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, and started back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, and murmuring, "Ah! Catiline!"The dying traitor's lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and he strove hard to speak, but the words rattled in his throat inarticulate, and a sharp ruckling groan was the only sound that he uttered.But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the ground, and drove his sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a last desperate exertion through Paullus' massive corslet, and deep into his bosom.With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles to arise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strange mixed expression of agony and triumph; while old Pansa, after crying, twice or thrice, "Paullus, ho! noble Paullus!" exclaimed mournfully, "Alas! He is dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him."[pg 241]Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several mounted officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward the fatal spot, pausing from time to time to examine every pile of carcasses, and after causing his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the hope of finding him they sought.Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by the discovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place in which the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallen here but to die almost on the instant.But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general."Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!""The immortal Gods be praised!" cried Julia, interpreting the casual words at once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped to the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was not so deceived."Who? who is here?" exclaimed the general. "Ha! my stout Pansa, right glad am I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But whom do you mean? Who is here?""Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!"—"By all the Gods!" exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse and gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, and retaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished it while living!But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedless and unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on human corpses, in her wild haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor, the casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate hands, which could alone be distinguished of her lover's prostrate form."Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!""Alas! alas!"—cried Petreius, "Raise her up; raise them both, this is most lamentable!"—"Never heed me!" said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who were busy raising him from the ground. "Help the poor girl! Help the brave youth! He may be[pg 242]living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas! that he is not living now!""Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend?—who slew him?"Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a horrid smile, the glaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his hand aloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half words articulate, sneered fiendishly—"I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha! ha!"—But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the officers who had lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia."He is not dead!""His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood,""He lives! he lives!"—"Curses! cur—cur—ha! ha!—this—this is—Hades!"The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror glared from the savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strong frame, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the dark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting home.It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenched in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide, and the great orator had long since swornthat he had saved his country, among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long since retired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, when Paullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanks of his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It was balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, most suitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,16clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes, her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, the lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noble husband's mansion, amid the merry[pg 243]blaze of waxen torches, and the soft swell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train of consuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft and gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula—"Where thou art Caius, I am Caia."Thenceforth their trials ceased; their happiness began; and thenceforth, they two were one for ever. And, for years afterward, when Roman maidens called blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to wish her than to be happy as Arvina's Julia.And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by the love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, the fame of such a deed, as the death ofthe Roman Traitor.THE END

[pg 223]CHAPTER XXI.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.[pg 224]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[pg 225]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.[pg 226]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[pg 227]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,[pg 228]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[pg 229]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?"[pg 230]"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—.""Hewillslay 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.[pg 231]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. Ca[pg 232]tiline, 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,hisshortened blade, aimed with a deadly thrust tore through[pg 233]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.

At least we'll die with harness on our back.Macbeth.

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[pg 225]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.

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[pg 227]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,[pg 228]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[pg 229]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—."

"Hewillslay 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.[pg 231]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. Ca[pg 232]tiline, 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,hisshortened blade, aimed with a deadly thrust tore through[pg 233]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.

[pg 234]CHAPTER XXII.A NIGHT OF HORROR.Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.Childe Harold.The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and silvery moon was sailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure light shone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the commonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, not triumph.Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from the Prætorian gate, scarce two-thirds had returned at sun-set.And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most noble of the host; for all the most gallant had fallen dead in that desperate struggle, or had sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their conquered foemen.Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from that dread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day was utterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while it lasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen taken—a living captive.For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in the annals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful, when the nature of the[pg 235]ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to the vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost every wound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the men of either party pitiless and desperate, are all taken into consideration.In long ranks, like grass in the mower's swathes, the rebel warriors lay, with their grim faces, and glazed eyes, set in that terrible expression of ferocity which is always observed on the lineaments of those who have died from wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them, in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of their slaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value which the men had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution. They who had taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but in the literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen stabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out their dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitor slain save by the steel blade's edge.The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge and executioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrocious crimes.No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survived on whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so complete or final.But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no glory to the victors.So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously contested the series of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final and decisive charge of the Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the early winter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak and shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by the wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shouts of the exulting soldiers were to be[pg 236]heard hailing their general "Imperator;" no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the great deeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed; no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped for by the victorious leader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for the liberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in no legitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the republic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against Romans, citizens, and brothers.The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks of women, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear that grievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences of defeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp was crowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed the known faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps to die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had so boldly striven.Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save in so much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could be expected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of morning.Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives, the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rent garments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the sorrowful ranks, shrieking, "Where are they," and were answered only by the short echo, "Where."Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught of her Arvina; until at a late hour of the night, remembering her solitary situation and high birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself visited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible her wounded spirit by praises of her lost lover's conduct."He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadly struggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloody onset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia, you[pg 237]must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he was a hero.""Was!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streaming eyes—"then heisno longer?""I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowed himself to slay Catiline with his own hands. Such vows are not easy, Julia, nor safe of performance.""And Catiline?" asked Julia,—"the parricide—the monster?""Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have survived it," replied Petreius. "But how he fell, or where, as yet we know not.""Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus.""I think so, Julia," answered the general."I know it," she said slowly—"but what availeth that to me—to me who had rather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his glorious eye—alas! alas! my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive him!""Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false hopes, but he may yet be living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—""To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, like the dayspring. "Why not to-night?—Petreius, I say, why not to-night?""It is impossible. The men are all worn out with wounds and weariness, and must have daylight to the task. Dear girl, it is impossible.""I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him.""You must not, Julia.""Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed maiden from her true lover,—true, alas! in death! in death!""I will," replied Petreius firmly. "You know not the perils of such a night as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrion vultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who roam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordid than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with the earliest dawn to-morrow I will my[pg 238]self go with you. Fare you well, try to sleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia."And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Roman left the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had been pressed into her service, and to Arvina's freedmen who were devoted to her, on no account to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even, if need were, to use force to prevent her.Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting over the field of blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning the brow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of life, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides, where, before the wind rose, there had been but feeble wailings and half-unconscious lamentations.Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side, another, and another, and then the snarling fiendish cry of the fell wolf-pack.Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each helpless sufferer, unanimous, as that accursed sound fell on their palsied ears, and tortured them back into life.But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even the shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp, who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of friend and foe,realcomrade and false traitor.It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls of the hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added the flapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking to the carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beak and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild beast and the carrion fowl.Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to new life, and new horrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his wounds were mortal, and yet he felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt, even if spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.[pg 239]As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was feeling about for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard his name called feebly by some one near him."Who calls Arvina?" he replied faintly. "I am here.""I, Caius Pansa," answered the voice; it was that of the old legionary horseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by the hand of Paullus. "I feared thou wert dead.""We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa," replied the young man. "Hark! to those wolves! It makes my very flesh creep on my bones! They are sweeping this way, too.""No! no! cheer up, brave heart," replied the veteran. "We will not die this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I cannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather bottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me to beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We will share the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—I knew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward."Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and with sore anguish to the old trooper's side, and shared his generously proffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh courage from his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the day breaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to their obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fierce wolf-howls had come within ten feet of where they sat, half recumbent, propped on a pile of dead, but still their united voices and the defensive show which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and new hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of the soldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of the rebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on the fresh morning air.At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly[pg 240]acute and bitter, from a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that after calling several times in vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,"It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè as this, and such a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawl to him with the flask, and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus.""I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my hurts shoot terribly, but I will try."And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawled painfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but ere he reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed a corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in the death pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfully was his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by his own teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beak and talons of some half-gorged vulture.But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared upon him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, and started back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, and murmuring, "Ah! Catiline!"The dying traitor's lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and he strove hard to speak, but the words rattled in his throat inarticulate, and a sharp ruckling groan was the only sound that he uttered.But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the ground, and drove his sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a last desperate exertion through Paullus' massive corslet, and deep into his bosom.With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles to arise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strange mixed expression of agony and triumph; while old Pansa, after crying, twice or thrice, "Paullus, ho! noble Paullus!" exclaimed mournfully, "Alas! He is dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him."[pg 241]Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several mounted officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward the fatal spot, pausing from time to time to examine every pile of carcasses, and after causing his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the hope of finding him they sought.Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by the discovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place in which the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallen here but to die almost on the instant.But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general."Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!""The immortal Gods be praised!" cried Julia, interpreting the casual words at once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped to the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was not so deceived."Who? who is here?" exclaimed the general. "Ha! my stout Pansa, right glad am I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But whom do you mean? Who is here?""Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!"—"By all the Gods!" exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse and gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, and retaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished it while living!But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedless and unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on human corpses, in her wild haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor, the casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate hands, which could alone be distinguished of her lover's prostrate form."Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!""Alas! alas!"—cried Petreius, "Raise her up; raise them both, this is most lamentable!"—"Never heed me!" said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who were busy raising him from the ground. "Help the poor girl! Help the brave youth! He may be[pg 242]living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas! that he is not living now!""Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend?—who slew him?"Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a horrid smile, the glaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his hand aloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half words articulate, sneered fiendishly—"I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha! ha!"—But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the officers who had lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia."He is not dead!""His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood,""He lives! he lives!"—"Curses! cur—cur—ha! ha!—this—this is—Hades!"The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror glared from the savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strong frame, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the dark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting home.It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenched in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide, and the great orator had long since swornthat he had saved his country, among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long since retired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, when Paullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanks of his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It was balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, most suitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,16clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes, her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, the lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noble husband's mansion, amid the merry[pg 243]blaze of waxen torches, and the soft swell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train of consuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft and gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula—"Where thou art Caius, I am Caia."Thenceforth their trials ceased; their happiness began; and thenceforth, they two were one for ever. And, for years afterward, when Roman maidens called blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to wish her than to be happy as Arvina's Julia.And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by the love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, the fame of such a deed, as the death ofthe Roman Traitor.THE END

Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.Childe Harold.

Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

Childe Harold.

The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and silvery moon was sailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure light shone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the commonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, not triumph.

Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from the Prætorian gate, scarce two-thirds had returned at sun-set.

And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most noble of the host; for all the most gallant had fallen dead in that desperate struggle, or had sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their conquered foemen.

Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from that dread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day was utterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while it lasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen taken—a living captive.

For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in the annals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful, when the nature of the[pg 235]ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to the vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost every wound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the men of either party pitiless and desperate, are all taken into consideration.

In long ranks, like grass in the mower's swathes, the rebel warriors lay, with their grim faces, and glazed eyes, set in that terrible expression of ferocity which is always observed on the lineaments of those who have died from wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them, in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of their slaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value which the men had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.

Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution. They who had taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but in the literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen stabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.

With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out their dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitor slain save by the steel blade's edge.

The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge and executioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrocious crimes.

No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survived on whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so complete or final.

But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no glory to the victors.

So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously contested the series of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final and decisive charge of the Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the early winter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak and shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by the wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.

The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shouts of the exulting soldiers were to be[pg 236]heard hailing their general "Imperator;" no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the great deeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed; no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped for by the victorious leader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for the liberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in no legitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the republic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against Romans, citizens, and brothers.

The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks of women, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear that grievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences of defeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.

No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp was crowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed the known faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps to die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had so boldly striven.

Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save in so much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could be expected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of morning.

Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives, the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rent garments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the sorrowful ranks, shrieking, "Where are they," and were answered only by the short echo, "Where."

Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught of her Arvina; until at a late hour of the night, remembering her solitary situation and high birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself visited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible her wounded spirit by praises of her lost lover's conduct.

"He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadly struggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloody onset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia, you[pg 237]must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he was a hero."

"Was!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streaming eyes—"then heisno longer?"

"I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowed himself to slay Catiline with his own hands. Such vows are not easy, Julia, nor safe of performance."

"And Catiline?" asked Julia,—"the parricide—the monster?"

"Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have survived it," replied Petreius. "But how he fell, or where, as yet we know not."

"Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus."

"I think so, Julia," answered the general.

"I know it," she said slowly—"but what availeth that to me—to me who had rather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his glorious eye—alas! alas! my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive him!"

"Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false hopes, but he may yet be living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—"

"To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, like the dayspring. "Why not to-night?—Petreius, I say, why not to-night?"

"It is impossible. The men are all worn out with wounds and weariness, and must have daylight to the task. Dear girl, it is impossible."

"I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him."

"You must not, Julia."

"Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed maiden from her true lover,—true, alas! in death! in death!"

"I will," replied Petreius firmly. "You know not the perils of such a night as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrion vultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who roam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordid than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with the earliest dawn to-morrow I will my[pg 238]self go with you. Fare you well, try to sleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia."

And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Roman left the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had been pressed into her service, and to Arvina's freedmen who were devoted to her, on no account to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even, if need were, to use force to prevent her.

Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting over the field of blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning the brow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of life, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides, where, before the wind rose, there had been but feeble wailings and half-unconscious lamentations.

Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side, another, and another, and then the snarling fiendish cry of the fell wolf-pack.

Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each helpless sufferer, unanimous, as that accursed sound fell on their palsied ears, and tortured them back into life.

But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even the shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp, who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of friend and foe,realcomrade and false traitor.

It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls of the hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added the flapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking to the carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beak and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild beast and the carrion fowl.

Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!

That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to new life, and new horrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his wounds were mortal, and yet he felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt, even if spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.

As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was feeling about for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard his name called feebly by some one near him.

"Who calls Arvina?" he replied faintly. "I am here."

"I, Caius Pansa," answered the voice; it was that of the old legionary horseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by the hand of Paullus. "I feared thou wert dead."

"We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa," replied the young man. "Hark! to those wolves! It makes my very flesh creep on my bones! They are sweeping this way, too."

"No! no! cheer up, brave heart," replied the veteran. "We will not die this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I cannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather bottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me to beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We will share the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—I knew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward."

Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and with sore anguish to the old trooper's side, and shared his generously proffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh courage from his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the day breaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to their obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.

Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fierce wolf-howls had come within ten feet of where they sat, half recumbent, propped on a pile of dead, but still their united voices and the defensive show which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and new hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.

Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of the soldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of the rebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on the fresh morning air.

At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly[pg 240]acute and bitter, from a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that after calling several times in vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,

"It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè as this, and such a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawl to him with the flask, and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus."

"I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my hurts shoot terribly, but I will try."

And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawled painfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but ere he reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed a corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in the death pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.

It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfully was his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by his own teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beak and talons of some half-gorged vulture.

But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared upon him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, and started back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, and murmuring, "Ah! Catiline!"

The dying traitor's lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and he strove hard to speak, but the words rattled in his throat inarticulate, and a sharp ruckling groan was the only sound that he uttered.

But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the ground, and drove his sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a last desperate exertion through Paullus' massive corslet, and deep into his bosom.

With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles to arise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.

Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strange mixed expression of agony and triumph; while old Pansa, after crying, twice or thrice, "Paullus, ho! noble Paullus!" exclaimed mournfully, "Alas! He is dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him."

Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several mounted officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward the fatal spot, pausing from time to time to examine every pile of carcasses, and after causing his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the hope of finding him they sought.

Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by the discovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place in which the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallen here but to die almost on the instant.

But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general.

"Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!"

"The immortal Gods be praised!" cried Julia, interpreting the casual words at once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped to the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was not so deceived.

"Who? who is here?" exclaimed the general. "Ha! my stout Pansa, right glad am I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But whom do you mean? Who is here?"

"Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!"—

"By all the Gods!" exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse and gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, and retaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished it while living!

But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedless and unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on human corpses, in her wild haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor, the casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate hands, which could alone be distinguished of her lover's prostrate form.

"Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!"

"Alas! alas!"—cried Petreius, "Raise her up; raise them both, this is most lamentable!"—

"Never heed me!" said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who were busy raising him from the ground. "Help the poor girl! Help the brave youth! He may be[pg 242]living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas! that he is not living now!"

"Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend?—who slew him?"

Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a horrid smile, the glaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his hand aloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half words articulate, sneered fiendishly—"I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha! ha!"—

But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the officers who had lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia.

"He is not dead!"

"His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood,"

"He lives! he lives!"—

"Curses! cur—cur—ha! ha!—this—this is—Hades!"

The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror glared from the savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strong frame, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the dark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting home.

It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenched in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide, and the great orator had long since swornthat he had saved his country, among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long since retired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, when Paullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanks of his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It was balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, most suitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,16clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes, her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, the lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noble husband's mansion, amid the merry[pg 243]blaze of waxen torches, and the soft swell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train of consuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft and gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula—

"Where thou art Caius, I am Caia."

Thenceforth their trials ceased; their happiness began; and thenceforth, they two were one for ever. And, for years afterward, when Roman maidens called blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to wish her than to be happy as Arvina's Julia.

And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by the love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, the fame of such a deed, as the death ofthe Roman Traitor.

THE END

Back to IndexNext