In a few days he had, with his little band, captured several convoys of flour and cattle, massacred isolated legionaries up to the very walls of Nemetacum and terrified the Roman population of the town.
“These Gauls,” said the tribunes and centurions, “are cruel barbarians, mockers of the gods, enemies of the human race. Scorning their plighted word, they offend the majesty of Rome and of Peace. They deserve to be made an example. We owe it to humanity to chastise these criminals.”
The complaints of the settlers and the cries of the soldiers penetrated into the quaestor’s tribunal.
At first Marcus Antonius paid no heed to them. In well-heated, well-closed halls he was busied with actors and courtesans who were representing on the stage the works of that Hercules whom he resembled in feature, in the cut of his short curly beard, and in the vigour of his limbs. Clothed in a lion’s skin, club in hand, Julia’s robust son threw fictitious monsters to the ground and with his arrow pierced a false hydra. Then, suddenly exchanging the lion’s pelt for Omphale’s robe, he likewise changed his passion.
Meanwhile convoys were being intercepted, bands of soldiers surprised, harried and put to flight, and one morning the centurion, G. Fusius, was found hanging disembowelled from a tree near the Golden Gate.
In the Roman camp it was known that the author of this brigandage was Commius, formerly king by the grace of Rome, now a robber chieftain. Marcus Antonius commanded energetic action to be taken in order to assure the safety of soldiers and settlers. And, foreseeing that the crafty Gaul would not easily be captured, he bade the Proctor straightway to make some terrible example. In order to carry out his chief’s design, the Proctor caused the two richest Atrebates in the city of Nemetacum to be brought before his tribunal.
One was by name Vergal, the other Ambrow.
Both were of illustrious birth, and they had been the first of their tribe to make friends with Cæsar. Poorly rewarded for their prompt submission, robbed of all their honours and of a great part of their wealth, ceaselessly annoyed by coarse centurions and covetous lawyers, they had ventured to whisper a few complaints. Imitating the Romans and wearing the toga, they lived in Nemetacum, vain and simple-minded, proud and humiliated. The Proctor examined them, condemned them to suffer the traitors’ death and on that very day handed them over to the lictors. They died doubting Roman justice.
Thus did the quaestor by his firmness banish fear from the hearts of the settlers, who presented him with a laudatory address. The municipal councillors of Nemetacum, blessing his paternal vigilance and his piety, decreed that a bronze statue should be raised in his honour. After this several Roman merchants, having ventured out of the town, were surprised and slain by Komm’s horsemen.
6
The prefect of the body of cavalry stationed at Nemetacum of the Atrebates was Caius Volusenus Quadratus, the same who had formerly enticed King Commius into a trap and had said to the centurions of his escort: “When I hold out my hand as a sign of friendship you will strike from behind.” Caius Volusenus Quadratus was held in high esteem in the army because of his obedience to the call of duty and his unflinching courage. He had received rich rewards and enjoyed the honours due to military virtue. Marcus Antonius appointed him to hunt down Commius.
Volusenus zealously carried out the mission confided to him. He planned ambuscades for Komm, and, keeping in constant touch with his robber bands, harassed them incessantly. Meanwhile the Atrebate, a cunning master of guerrilla warfare, wore out the Roman cavalry by his swift movements and surprised isolated soldiers. As a matter of religious sentiment he slew his prisoners, trusting thus he propitiate the gods. But the gods hide their thoughts as well as their countenances. And it was after one of these pious performances that Komm fell into the greatest danger. Wandering in the land of the Morini, he had just slain by night on a stone in the forest two young and handsome prisoners, when on issuing from the wood he and all his men were surprised by the cavalry of Volusenus, which, being better armed and better skilled in manoeuvring, surrounded him and killed many of his warriors and their horses. He succeeded, however, in making his escape, accompanied by the bravest and the cleverest of the Atrebates. They fled; they galloped at full speed over the plain, towards the beach where the misty Ocean rolls its pebbles over the sand. And, looking round, they saw the Roman helmets gleaming far behind them.
Komm had a fair hope of escaping. His horses were swifter and less heavily laden than the enemy’s. He reckoned on reaching in time the boats awaiting him in a neighbouring cove, and with his faithful followers making for the land of the Britons.
Thus thought the chief, and the Atrebates rode in silence. Now a drop in the ground on a clump of dwarf-trees would hide the horsemen of Volusenus. Then on the immense grey plain the two companies would again come in sight of one another, but separated by an increasingly wide interval. The pale bronze helmets were outdistanced and Komm could distinguish naught to the rear save a cloud of dust moving on the horizon. Already the Gauls were breathing with delight the salt sea air. But as they drew nigh the shore the dusty incline caused the pace of the Gallic horses to slacken, and Volusenus began to gain on them.
Faint, almost imperceptible, the sound of Roman voices was caught by the keen ears of the barbarians, when, beyond the wind-bent larches, they first descried from the summit of a dune the masts of ships that lay gathered in the bend of the lonely shore. They uttered one long cry of joy. And Komm congratulated himself on his prudence and good luck. But, having begun their descent to the beach, they paused half-way down, seized with fear and horror, as they perceived the fine boats of the Veneti, broad keeled, lofty of stem and stern, now high and dry on the sand, there to remain for many a long hour, while far away in the distance gleamed the waves of the low tide. At this sight they sat inertly, stricken dumb, stooping over their steaming horses, which with muscles relaxed bowed their heads to the land breeze which blinded them as it blew their long manes into their eyes.
In the confusion and the silence resounded the voice of the chief crying:
“To the ships, horsemen! The wind is good! To the ships I”
They obeyed without understanding. And, pushing on to the ships, Komm bade them unfurl the sails. They were the skins of beasts dyed bright colours. No sooner were they unfurled than the rising wind filled the sails.
The Gauls wondered what could be the object of this manœuvre and whether the chief hoped to see the stout oaken keels ploughing through the sand of the beach as if it were the water of the Ocean. Some thought there might yet be time for flight, others of meeting death while slaying the Romans.
Meanwhile Volusenus, at the head of his horsemen, was climbing the hill which borders on the pebbled, sandy shore. Rising from the bottom of the cove he saw the masts of the ships of the Veneti. Perceiving the sails unfurled and filled with a favourable wind, he bade his troops halt, called down obscene curses on the head of Commius, groaned over his horses, which had perished in vain, and, turning bridle, commanded his men to return to camp.
“What is the good,” he thought, “of pursuing the bandits any farther? Commius has embarked. He has set sail, and, borne by such a wind, he is already far beyond the reach of the javelin.”
Soon afterwards Komm and the Atrebates reached the thickets and the moving islands, which they filled with the sound of their heroic laughter.
Six months later Komm again took the field. One day Volusenus surprised him, with a score of horsemen, on open ground. With the prefect was about an equal number of men and horses. He gave the order to attack. The Atrebate, whether he feared his inability to meet the charge, or whether he planned some stratagem, signed to his followers to flee, and himself wildly dashed across the immense plain in a long, galloping flight, hard pressed by Volusenus. Then, suddenly, he turned, and, followed by his Gauls, threw himself furiously on the Prefect of the Horse and, with one thrust of his lance, pierced his thigh. At the sight of their general struck down the Romans fled in amazement. Then the di
scipline of their military training asserted itself, enabling them to overcome the natural instinct of fear; they returned to pick up Volusenus just as Komm, full of a fierce delight, was pouring upon him the most ferocious insults. The Gauls could not withstand the little Roman band, which, forming a compact mass, charged them vigorously and slew or captured the greater number. Commius almost alone escaped, thanks to his horse’s speed.
Volusenus was carried back in a dying state to the Roman camp. But, thanks to the leech’s art or the strength of his own constitution, he recovered from his wound. In this fray Commius had lost everything, his faithful warriors and his hatred. Satisfied with his vengeance, henceforth tranquil and content, he sent a messenger to Marcus Antonius. This messenger, having been admitted to the quæstor’s tribunal, spoke thus:
“Marcus Antonius, King Commius promises to appear in any place which shall be indicated to him, to do all that thou shalt command and to give hostages. One thing only he asks — that he shall be spared the disgrace of ever appearing before a Roman.”
Marcus Antonius was magnanimous.
“I understand,” said he, “that Commius may be somewhat disgusted by his interviews with our generals. I excuse him from ever appearing before any of us. I grant him his pardon; and I receive his hostages.”
What happened afterwards to Komm of the Atrebates is unknown; the rest of his life cannot be traced.
FARINATA DEGLI UBERTI; OR, CIVIL WAR
Ed ei s’ergea col petto e con la fronte,
Come avesse lo inferno in gran dispitto.
Inferno, Can. 10.
AS he sat on the terrace of his tower, the aged Farinata degli Uberti fixed his keen gaze on the battlemented town. Standing at his side, Fra Ambrogio looked at the sky that was blushing with the rosy hues of evening and crowning with its fiery blossoms the garland of hills which encircles Florence. From the neighbouring banks of the Amo the perfume of myrtles was wafted upwards into the still air. The birds’ last cries had re-echoed from the bright roof of San-Giovanni. Suddenly there came the sound of two horses passing over the sharp pebbles from the riverbed which paved the road, and two young riders, handsome as two St. Georges, emerging from the narrow street, rode past the windowless palace of the Uberti. When they were at the foot of the Ghibelline tower one spat as a sign of contempt; the other, raising his arm, put his thumb between his fore and his middle finger. Then both, spurring their horses, reached the wooden bridge at a gallop. Farinata, a witness of this insult offered to his name, remained tranquil and silent. His shrivelled cheeks trembled and briny tears moistened his yellow eyeballs. Finally, he shook his head three times and said:
“Why does this people hate me?”
Fra Ambrogio did not reply. And Farinata continued to gaze down upon the city, which he could no longer see save through the bitter mist which veiled his eyes. Then, turning towards the monk his thin face with its eagle nose and threatening jaws, he asked again:
“Why does this people hate me?”
The monk made a gesture as if he would drive away a fly.
“What matters to you, Messer Farinata, the obscene insolence of two striplings bred in the Guelf towers of Oltarno?”
FARINATA.
Nothing to me, indeed, are those two Frescobaldi, minions of the Romans, sons of pimps and prostitutes. I fear not the scorn of such as they. Neither for my friends nor, especially, for my enemies is it possible to despise me. My sorrow is to feel weighing upon me the hatred of the people of Florence.
FRA AMBROGIO.
Hatred has prevailed in cities since the sons of Cain introduced pride with the arts, and since the two Theban horsemen satisfied their fraternal hatred by shedding each other’s blood. Insult breeds wrath, and wrath insult With unfailing fecundity hatred engenders hatred.
FARINATA.
But how can love engender hatred? And wherefore am I odious to my well-beloved city?
FRA AMBROGIO.
Since you wish it, Messer Farinata, I will give you an answer. But from my lips you will have naught but truthful words. Your fellow citizens cannot forgive you for having fought at Montaperto, beneath Manfred’s white banner, on the day when the Arbia was stained with Florentine blood. And they hold that on that day, in that fatal valley, you were not the friend of your city.
FARINATA.
What! I have not loved her! To live her life, to live for her alone, to suffer fatigue, hunger, thirst, fever, sleeplessness, and that most terrible of woes, exile; to brave death at every hour, to risk falling alive into the hands of those whom my death alone would not suffice to content; to dare everything, to endure everything for her sake, for her good, to rescue her from the power of my enemies, who were hers, to induce her whether she would or not to follow wholesome advice, to espouse the right cause, to think as I thought myself, with the noblest and the best, to wish her entirely beautiful and subtle and generous, to sacrifice for this object alone my possessions, my sons, my neighbours, my friends; in her interest alone to render myself liberal, avaricious, faithful, perfidious, magnanimous, criminal, this was not to love my city! Who loved her, then, if I did not?
FRA AMBROGIO.
Alas, Messer Farinata, your pitiless love caused violence and craft to take arms against the city and cost the lives of ten thousand Florentines!
FARINATA.
Yes, my affection for my city was as strong as that, Fra Ambrogio. And the deeds it inspired me to perform are worthy to serve as examples to our sons and our sons’ sons. That the memory of them might not perish I would write of them myself, if I had a head for writing. When I was young, I composed love-songs, which ladies marvelled at and the clerks put into their books. With that exception, I have always despised letters as greatly as the arts, and I have no more troubled to write than to weave wool. Let every man follow my example and act according to his rank in life. But you, Fra Ambrogio, who are a very learned scribe, it is for you to relate the great enterprises I have led. Great honour would it bring you, if you told them not as a monk, but as a noble, for they are knightly and noble deeds. Such a story would show how active I have been. And of all that I have done I regret nothing.
I was exiled, the Guelfs had slain three of my kinsfolk. Sienna received me; of this my enemies made such a grievance that they incited the Florentines to march in arms against the hospitable city. For the exiles, for Sienna, I asked the aid of Caesar’s son, the King of Sicily.
FRA AMBROGIO.
It is only too true: you were the ally of Manfred, the friend of the Sultan of Luceria, of the astrologer, the renegade, the excommunicated.
FARINATA.
Then we swallowed the Pontiff’s excommunications like water. I know not whether Manfred had learned to read destiny in the stars, but true it is that he made much of his Saracen horsemen. He was as prudent as he was brave, a sagacious prince, careful of the blood of his men and of the gold in his coffers. He replied to the Siennese that he would grant them succour. He made great promises in order to inspire great gratitude. He gave them but meagre fulfilment through craft and fear of diminishing his own power. He sent his banner with one hundred German horsemen. Disappointed and incensed, the Siennese spoke of rejecting this contemptible aid. I gave them better counsel and taught them the art of passing a cloth through a ring. One day, having gorged the Germans with wine and meat, I induced them to make a sortie at so unlucky a moment that they fell into an ambuscade and were all slain by the Guelfs of Florence, who took Manfred’s white banner and trailed it in the dust at the end of an ass’s tail. Straightway I informed the Sicilian of the insult. He felt it, as I had foreseen, and, to execute vengeance, he sent eight hundred horsemen, with a goodly number of infantry, under the command of Count Giordano, who was reputed to be the equal of Hector of Troy. Meanwhile Sienna and her allies assembled their militia. Before long our strength was thirteen thousand fighting men. We were fewer than were the Guelfs of Florence. But among them were false Guelfs who merely awaited the hour to declare themselves Ghibelli
nes, while among our Ghibellines there were no Guelfs. Thus having on my side, not all the advantage (one never has all), but advantages which were great and unhoped for, I was impatient to engage in a battle, which, if won, would destroy my enemies, and, if lost, would only crush my allies. I hungered and thirsted after this battle. To make the Florentine army engage in it I used every means of which I could conceive, I sent to Florence two minor friars charged secretly to inform the Council that, seized with repentance and desiring to buy my fellow-citizens’ pardon by rendering some signal service, I was ready for ten thousand florins to deliver up into their hands one of the gates of Sienna; but that for the success of the enterprise it would be necessary for the Florentine army, in as great strength as was possible, to advance to the banks of the Arbia, under the pretence of coming to the aid of the Guelfs of Montacino. When my two friars had departed, my mouth spat out the pardon it had asked, and, perturbed by a terrible anxiety, I waited. I feared lest the nobles of the Council should realize the folly of sending an army to the Arbia. But I hoped that the project, by its very extravagance, would please the plebeians and that they would adopt it all the more eagerly because of the opposition of the nobles, whom they mistrusted. And so it happened: the nobility discerned the snare, but the artisans fell into it. They were in the majority on the Council. At their command the Florentine army set forth and carried out the plan which I had formed for its destruction. How beautiful was that dawn, when, riding into a little band of exiles, I saw the sun pierce the white morning mist and shine on the forest of Guelf lances which covered the slopes of La Malenal I had put my hand on my enemies. But a little more artfulness and I was sure of destroying them. By my advice, Count Giordano caused the infantry of the commune of Sienna to defile three times before their eyes, changing their helmets after their first and second appearances, in order that they might seem more numerous than they actually were; and thus he showed them to the Guelfs, first red, as an omen of blood; then green, as an omen of death; then half-black, half-white, as an omen of captivity. True omens! O what delight! when, charging the Florentine horse, I beheld it waver and wheel in circles like a flight of crows, when I saw the man in my pay, him whose name I may not utter for fear of defiling my lips, strike down with one blow of his sword the standard which he had come to defend, and all the horsemen, looking vainly henceforth for their rallying point, the white and blue colours, flee panic-stricken, trampling one another down, while we in their pursuit slaughtered them like pigs brought to market. Only the artisans of the commune stood their ground. Then we had to slay round the bleeding quarry. Finally, there remained before us naught save corpses and cowards, who joined hands to come to us and on their knees to beg for mercy. And I, content with my work, stood apart.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 343