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 wassailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure lightshone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of thecommonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, nottriumph.
Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from thePrætorian 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, orhad sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of theirconquered foemen.
Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from thatdread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day wasutterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while itlasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizentaken—a living captive.
For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in theannals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful,when the nature of the ground, which rendered flight almost impossible tothe vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost everywound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the menof 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 offerocity which is always observed on the lineaments of those who have diedfrom wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them,in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of theirslaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value whichthe 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 whohad taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but inthe literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallenstabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.
With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out theirdark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitorslain save by the steel blade’s edge.
The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge andexecutioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrociouscrimes.
No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survivedon whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so completeor 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 theseries of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final anddecisive charge of the Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the earlywinter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak andshattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by thewailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.
The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shoutsof the exulting soldiers were to be heard hailing their general"Imperator;" no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the greatdeeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed;no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped for by the victoriousleader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for theliberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in nolegitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of therepublic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, againstRomans, citizens, and brothers.
The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks ofwomen, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear thatgrievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences ofdefeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.
No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp wascrowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed theknown faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhapsto die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had soboldly striven.
Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save inso much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could beexpected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath ofmorning.
Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives,the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rentgarments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into thesorrowful ranks, shrieking, "Where are they," and were answered only bythe 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 andhigh birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himselfvisited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible herwounded spirit by praises of her lost lover’s conduct.
"He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadlystruggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloodyonset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia,you must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he wasa hero."
"_Was_!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streamingeyes—"then he _is_ no longer?"
"I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowedhimself 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 hadrather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his gloriouseye—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 yetbe living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—"
"To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, likethe 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, andmust 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 truelover,—true, alas! in death! in death!"
"I will," replied Petreius firmly. "You know not the perils of such anight as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrionvultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, whoroam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordidthan the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with theearliest dawn to-morrow I will myself go with you. Fare you well, try tosleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia."
And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Romanleft the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had beenpressed into her service, and to Arvina’s freedmen who were devoted toher, 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 ofblood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning thebrow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least oflife, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercingshrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides,where, before the wind ros
e, there had been but feeble wailings andhalf-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 torturedthem back into life.
But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even theshouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp,who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, offriend and foe, real comrade and false traitor.
It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls ofthe hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added theflapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking tothe carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, andfaint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beakand 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 newhorrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his woundswere 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 aboutfor his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard hisname 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 legionaryhorseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by thehand 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 aresweeping this way, too."
"No! no! cheer up, brave heart," replied the veteran. "We will not diethis bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and Icannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leatherbottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me tobeat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We willshare the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—Iknew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward."
Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and withsore anguish to the old trooper’s side, and shared his generouslyproffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh couragefrom his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the daybreaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to theirobscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.
Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fiercewolf-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 defensiveshow which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and newhopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.
Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of thesoldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of therebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, onthe fresh morning air.
At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly acute and bitter, froma heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that aftercalling 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, andsuch a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawlto 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 shootterribly, but I will try."
And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawledpainfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but erehe reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed acorpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in thedeath pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.
It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfullywas his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by hisown teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beakand talons of some half-gorged vulture.
But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared uponhim in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, andstarted back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, andmurmuring, "Ah! Catiline!"
The dying traitor’s lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and hestrove 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 drovehis sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a lastdesperate exertion through Paullus’ massive corslet, and deep into hisbosom.
With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles toarise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.
Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strangemixed 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 mountedofficers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward thefatal 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 thehope of finding him they sought.
Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by thediscovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place inwhich the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallenhere 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 wordsat once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she galloppedto the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he wasnot so deceived.
"Who? who is here?" exclaimed the general. "Ha! my stout Pansa, right gladam I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. Butwhom do you mean? Who is here?"
"Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!"—
"By all the Gods!" exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse andgazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, andretaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished itwhile living!
But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedlessand unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on humancorpses, 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 mostlamentable!"—
"Never heed me!" said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who werebusy raising him from the ground. "Help the poor girl! Help the braveyouth! He may be 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, theglaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his handaloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half wordsarticulate, 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 hadlifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia.
"He is not dead!"
"His hurts are not mort
al, 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 thesavage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strongframe, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, thedark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlastinghome.
It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenchedin rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide,and the great orator had long since sworn THAT HE HAD SAVED HIS COUNTRY,among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long sinceretired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, whenPaullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanksof his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good andgreat Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It wasbalmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, mostsuitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,(16)clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes,her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, thelovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noblehusband’s mansion, amid the merry blaze of waxen torches, and the softswell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train ofconsuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seencollected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft andgentle, 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 maidenscalled blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate towish her than to be happy as Arvina’s Julia.
And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by thelove of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, thefame of such a deed, as the death of THE ROMAN TRAITOR.
THE END