The Roman Traitor, Vol. 2

by Henry William Herbert

  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 werecompleted; for, long since, from the gates of the Consular camp the greatarmy of the enemy had been filing out, and falling into order, not a miledistant.

  One third, at least, superior to the rebel host in numbers, the loyalsoldiers 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, didthese lack a yet stronger stimulus to action. There were bright eyes, andfair forms in their camp, dependent on their victory for life, and, yetdearer, honor. So great was the terror spread through those regions by thename of Catiline, and by the outrages committed already by his barbarousbanditti, that all the female nobility of the provinces, wherein the warwas 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 awaitedonly the first sunshine of success, to join the rebellion; the ruralslaves were, to a man, false at heart; and it was evident to all that theslightest check of the Consular forces would be the signal for tumult,massacre, and conflagration in the provincial towns, for all the horrorsof a servile rising in the champaign.

  Flight to Rome was impossible, since all the villainy and desperate crimeof the land was afloat, and every where, beyond the outposts of Antonius’head quarters, the roads were infested with banditti, runaway slaves, andrustic 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, andsuch of their wealth as was portable; the women as suppliants, tearful andterrified, for Rome’s powerful protection.

  Meanwhile, for leagues around, by day the open country was seen blackenedby numberless columns of smoke, by night flashing with numberless pyres offlame, 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 ofthe suppliant ladies, had kindled all that was patriotic, all that wasgenerous, all that was manly in their nature; and it was withdeep-recorded vows of vengeance that they had buckled on their armor, andgrinded their thirsty swords for the conflict.

  But throughout all that ardent host there was not one so determined, socalm 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 insafety, and her high counsels, her noble feminine courage, would havegiven birth alone to contagious valor in her lover’s spirit, had he beenweak and faltering as of old between his principles and his passions.

  But it was not so. The stern trials to which his constancy had beensubjected, the fearful strife of the hottest passions which had raged solong in his bosom, had hardened him like steel thrice tempered in thefurnace, and he was now no longer the impulsive, enthusiastic, changefulstripling, 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 andtrial, not ease and prosperity, which make men, from dwarfs, giants.

  And events had so crowded on the boy in the last few months, that thosemonths had matured his wisdom more than all the years of his previouslife. Adversity and trial had so swelled his mental stature, that aged menmight have been proud to cope with him in counsel, strong men to rival himin execution.

  The sun was already high in heaven, when the cavalry of the seventhlegion, which had been selected to act as the general’s escort, inaddition to the Prætorian cohort of infantry, swept forth from the gates,following Petreius, who, although holding the second rank only in thearmy, was actually in command; Antonius, on the pretext of a fit of thegout, having declined to lead that day.

  The men were already marshalled at the base of the ascent, leading to thenarrow plain on which, as in the amphitheatre, the fight was to be foughtout hand to hand, with little room for generalship, or intricatemanoeuvring, but every opportunity for the display of mortal strength anddesperate gallantry.

  Here they had halted, on the verge of the broken ground, awaiting thearrival of their general in chief to reform their array, and completetheir 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 betweenthe hosts; and it seemed probable that an officer of Catiline’s intuitiveeye and rapid resource, would not fail to profit by the difficulties ofthe ground, in order to assail the consular troops while struggling amongthe rocks and thickets which encumbered the ascent. It behoved, therefore,to hold the men well in hand, to fortify the heads of the advancingcolumns with the best soldiers, and to be ready with reinforcements at allpoints; and to this end Petreius had ordered a brief halt, beforeattacking.

  So eager were the spirits of the men, however, and so hot for theencounter, that they were murmuring already almost angrily, and calling ontheir centurions and tribunes to lead them at once to the shock.

  The fierce acclamations of the rebels, consequent on the address ofCatiline, had kindled not daunted the brave indignation which possessedthem; and stung, as it were, by some personal insult, each soldier of thearray burned to be at it.

  So stood the case, when, escorted by the magnificent array of thelegionary horse, Petreius gallopped through the ranks. A military man, byhabit as by nature, who had served for more than thirty years as tribune,præfect of allies, commander of a legion, and lastly prætor, all withexceeding great distinction, he knew nearly all the men in his ranks bysight, was acquainted with their services and honors, had led themoftentimes to glory, and was their especial favorite.

  He made no set speech, therefore, to his legions, but as he galloppedthrough the lines called to this man or that by name, bidding himrecollect this skirmish, or think upon that storm, fight, as he did inthis pitched battle, or win a civic crown as in that sally, and finallyshouted to them all in a high voice, entreating them to remember that theywere Roman soldiers, fighting against a rabble of unarmed banditti, fortheir country, their wives, their children, their hearths and theiraltars.

  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 crestedhelmet; 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, ringingamong the hills their bold defiance.

  Then onward rolled that bright array, with a long steady sweep, like thatof an unbroken line of billows rushing in grand and majestical upon somesandy cape.

  In vain did the sinuosities of the broken ground, in vain did crag andthicket, ravine and torrents’ bed impede their passage; closing theirfiles or serrying them, as the nature of the ascent required, now wheelinginto solid column, deploying now into extended line, still they rolledonward, unchecked, irresistible—

  A long array of helmets bright, A long array of spears.

  The glorious eagles glittered above them in the unclouded sunshine, theproud initials, which had gleamed from their crimson banners over one halfthe world, shone out conspicuous, SPQR, as the broad folds streamed totheir length upon the frosty air.

  A solitary trumpet spoke at times, to order their slow terrible advance;there was no hum of voices, no shout, no confusion; only the solemn andcontinuous tramp of their majestic march, shaking the earth like anincessant roll of thunder—only the clang of their brazen harness, asbuckler clashed with buckler.

  All the stern discipline, all the composed and orderly manœuvres, all thecold steadin
ess of modern war was there, combined with all thegorgeousness and glitter of the chivalric ages.

  Contrary to all expectation, no opposition met them as they scaled thatabrupt hill side. Fearful of exposing his flanks, Catiline wisely held hismen back, collecting all their energies for the dread onset.

  In superb order, regular and even, Petreius’ infantry advanced upon theplateau, their solid front filling the whole space with a mass of brazenbucklers, ten deep, and thrice ten hundred wide, without an interval, orbreak, or bend in that vast line.

  Behind these came the cavalry, about a thousand strong, and the Prætoriancohort, with the general in person, forming a powerful reserve, whereby heproposed to decide the day, so soon as the traitors should be shaken byhis 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 thedispositions of the enemy. Then taking post, at the right, he unsheathedhis broadsword, and waved it slowly in the air, pointing to the impassiveranks of Catiline.

  Then the shrill trumpets flourished once again, and the dense mass boreonward, steady and slow, the enemy still motionless and silent, untilscarce sixty yards intervened between the steadfast ranks, and every manmight distinguish the features and expression of his personal antagonist.

  There was a pause. No word was given. No halt ordered. But intuitively, asif by instinct, every man stopped, and drew a deep breath, unconsciousthat he did so, collecting himself for the dread struggle.

  The point was reached, from which it was customary to hurl the tremendousvolley of ponderous steel-headed pila, which invariably preceded the swordcharge of the legions, and for the most part threw the first rank of theenemy into confusion, and left them an easy conquest to the short stabbingsword, and sturdy buckler.

  But now not a javelin was raised on either side—the long stern swell ofthe 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 forwardsimultaneously, with their stout shields advanced, and their shortbroadswords levelled to the charge.

  From flank to flank, they met simultaneous, with a roar louder than thatof the most deafening thunder, a shock that made the earth tremble, thebanners flap upon their staves, the streams stand still, as if anearthquake 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 madblasphemies; and ever and anon the piercing clangor of the screamingbrass, lending fresh frenzy to the frantic tumult.

  From right to left, the plain was one vast arena full of singlecombats—the whole first ranks on both sides had gone down at the firstshock; the second and the third had come successively to hand to handencounter; and still, as each man fell, stabbed to death by the pitilesssword, another leaped into his place; and still the lines, though bent oneach side and waving like a bow, were steadfast and unbroken; and stillthe clang of brazen bucklers and steel blades rang to the skies, renderingall commands, all words, inaudible.

  Officers fought like privates; skirmishers, hand to hand, likelegionaries. Blood flowed like water; and so fierce was the hatred of thecombatants, so deadly the nature of the tremendous stabbing broadswords ofthe Romans, that few wounds were inflicted, and few men went down ’tillthey 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 theysurge upward from the trampling feet of those inveterate gladiators. Attimes, the waving of a banner would be seen, at times a gleamy brazenradiance, as some rank wheeled forward, or was forced back in somedesperate charge; but, for the most part, all was dim and dark, and thebattle 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 armywaver, so furiously did he set on with his best soldiers, still bringingup reserves to the weakest points of his army, still stabbing down thefiercest of the consular host, fearless, unwearied, and unwounded.

  But his reserves were now all engaged, and not one point of the Roman linewas broken; Manlius had fallen in the front rank, playing a captain’s anda soldier’s part. The Florentine had fallen in the front rank, battlingwith gallantry worthy a better cause. All the most valiant officers, allthe best veterans had fallen, in the first rank, all with their faces tothe foe, all with their wounds in front, all lying on the spot which theyhad held living, grim-visaged, and still terrible in death.

  "Paullus Arvina!" exclaimed Petreius, at this juncture, after havingobserved the equal strife long and intently, and having discerned with theeagle 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 thetribune of the horse, and bid him dismount his men. Horse cannot chargehere! command the tribune of the Prætorian cohort to advance! We willstrike full at the centre!"

  "I go, Petreius!" and bowing his head, till his crimson crest mingled withhis charger’s mane, he spurred furiously to the rear, and had deliveredhis message and returned, while the shouts, with which the reserve hadgreeted the command to charge, were yet ringing in the air.

  When he returned, the general had dismounted, and one of his freedmen wasunbuckling the spurs from his steel greaves. His sword was out, and it wasevident that he was about to lead the last onset in person.

  "A boon, noble Petreius!" cried the youth, leaping from his horse—"By allthe 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, toslay that parricide. If he should die by any hand but mine, I am forswornand infamous!"

  "Thou, boy, and to slay Catiline!"

  "Even I, Petreius."

  "Thou art mad to say it."

  "Not mad, not mad, indeed, Petreius—."

  "He _will_ slay him, Petreius," cried an old veteran of Arvina’s troop."The Gods thundered when he swore it. We all heard it. Grant his prayer,General; we will back him to the death. But be sure, he will slay him."

  "Be it so," said Petreius, struck despite himself by the confidence of theyouth, 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 withthe dismounted horse—the Prætorians must charge to the left. Ho! we areall in line. Forward! Ho! Victory, and Rome!"—

  And with the word, he rushed forward, himself a spear’s length in front ofhis best men, who, with a long triumphant shout, dashed after him.

  Passing right through the wearied troops, who had sustained the shock andbrunt of the whole day, and who now opened their ranks gladly to admit thereinforcement, these fresh and splendid soldiers fell like a thunderboltupon the centre of Catiline’s army, weakened already by the loss of itsbest men; and clove their way clean through it, solid and unbroken,trampling the dead and dying under foot, and hurling a small body of therebels, 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 thereeling and disordered mass, while the troops whom they had relieved,re-forming themselves rapidly, pressed forward with tremendous shouts ofvictory, eager to share the triumph which their invincible steadiness haddone so much to win.

  It was a battle no longer; but a route; but a carnage. Yet still not oneof the rebels turned to fly; not one laid down his arms, or cried forquarter.

  Broken, pierced through, surrounded, overwhelmed by numbers, they foughtin 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 allthe previous combat. No lances, no long weapons, no missiles were at hand,wherewith to overwhelm the desperadoes; no horse wherewith to tread themunder foot; hand to hand, man to man, it was fought out, with those shortstabbing blades, against which the stoutest corslet was but as parchment,the hardest shield of brass-bound bull’s hide, but as a stripling’s wickertarget.

  Still in the front, abreast still with the bravest veterans shoutinghimself 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; strikingdown a man at every blow, and filling the soldiers’ mouths with wonder atthe 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 ofhim; their eyes had glared mutual hatred on each other, their blades hadcrossed once, but still the throng and rush of combatants and flyers hadforced them asunder; and now the strife was almost ended, the tide ofslaughter had receded toward the rebel camp, the ramparts of which thelegionaries 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 hisears, and bitterness and vexation at his heart.

  His comrades had rushed away on the track of the retreating rebels; andtheir shouts, as they stormed the palisades, reached him, but failed toawake any respondent note of triumph in his spirit.

  He had no share in the vulgar victory, he cared not to strike down andslaughter the commoners of the rebellion. Catiline was the quarry at whichhe flew, and with no game less noble could he rest contented. Catiline, itwould seem, had escaped him for the moment; and he stood leaning on hisred sword, doubtful.

  Instinctively he felt assured that his enemy had not retreated. Almost hefeared 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 ofrebels still charging frantically onward, although surrounded by thricetheir numbers of inveterate and ruthless victors.

  "By the Gods! he is there!" and with the speed of the hunted deer, herushed toward the spot, bounding in desperate haste over the dying and thedead, blaspheming or unconscious.

  He reached the meleè. He dashed headlong into the thick of it. The Romanswere giving way before the fury of a gory madman, as he seemed, who boredown all that met him at the sword’s point.

  "Catiline! Catiline!" and at the cry, the boldest of the consular armyrecoiled. "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, andtrampled, even amid defeat and ruin victorious, unsubdued, a terror to hisvictors.

  "Who will slay Sergius Catiline?"

  And, as Arvina rushed upon the scene, the veteran who had so confidentlyannounced his coming triumph, crossed swords with the traitor, and wentdown 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 withthe word a downright blow upon the head, which cleft his massive casqueasunder.

  "I will! I, even I, Paullus Arvina!"—

  But he shouted too soon; and soon rued the imprudence of raising his armto strike, when at sword’s point with such a soldier.

  As his own blow fell on the casque of the traitor, _his_ shortened blade,aimed with a deadly thrust tore through the sturdy shield, tore throughthe strong cuirass, and pierced his side with a ghastly wound.

  Arvina staggered—he thought he had received his death blow; and had notthe blade of Catiline, bent by the violence of his own effort, stuck inthe cloven shield, resisting every attempt to withdraw it, the next blowmust have found him unprepared, must have destroyed him.

  But ere the desperado could recover his weapon, Arvina rallied and closedwith him, grasping him by the throat, and shouting "Lucia! Vengeance!"—

  Brave as he was and strong, not for a single moment could Arvina havemaintained that death-grapple, had his foe been unwounded.

  But the arch traitor was bleeding at every pore; gashed in every limb ofhis body; he had received three mortal wounds already; he was fast failingwhen Arvina grappled him, and at the name of his injured child, hisconscience conquered. His sword at length came away, extricated when toolate from the tough bull-hide; but, ere he could nerve his arm to strikeagain, Arvina’s point had torn his thigh, had gored his breast, hadpierced 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 hestruck home, and a fierce joyous smile illuminated his wan face, as he sawhis slayer stumble forward, and fall beside him on the bloody greensward.

  In a moment, however, Paullus rallied, recovered his feet, drew from hisbosom the long black ringlet of poor Lucia, and bathed it in the lifeblood 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 hismortal foeman.