University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE FLIGHT.

Cicero.

His heart was a living hell, as he rushed homeward.
Cut off on every side, detected, contemned, hated, what
was left to the Traitor?

To retrace his steps was impossible,—nor, if possible,
would his indomitable pride have consented to surrender
his ambitious schemes, his hopes of vengeance.

He rushed homeward; struck down a slave, who asked
him some officious question; spurned Orestilla out of his
way with a bitter earnest curse; barred himself up in his
inmost chamber, and remained there alone one hour.

One hour; but in that hour what years, what ages of
time, what an eternity of agony, was concentrated!

For once in many years he sat still, motionless, silent,
while thought succeeded thought, and passion passion,
with indescribable rapidity and vividness.

In that one hour all the deeds of his life passed before
him, from his wild and reckless boyhood to his atrocious
and dishonored manhood.

The victims of his fiendish passions seemed to fleet, one
by one, before his eyes, with deathlike visages and ghastly
menace.

The noble virgin, whom he had first dishonored, scarcely
as yet a boy, pointed with bloody fingers to the deep self-inflicted
wound, which yawned in her snowy bosom.

The vestal, who had broken through all bounds of virtue,
piety, and honor, sacrificed soul and body to his unpitying
lust, gazed at him with that unearthly terror in her
eyes, which glared from them as they looked their last at
earth and heaven, when she descended, young and lovely,
into a living grave.

The son, whom he had poisoned, to render his house vacant
for unhallowed nuptials, with his whole frame convulsed
in agony, and the sardonic grin of death on his writhing
lips, frowned on him.

His brother, who had drawn life from the same soft bosom,
but whose kindred blood had pleaded vainly against
the fratricidal dagger, frowned on him.

His sister's husband, that mild and blameless knight,
whose last breath was spent in words of peace and pardon
to his slayer, now frowned on him.

The stern impassive face of Marius Gratidianus, unmoved
alike by agony or insult, frowned on him, in the serene
dignity of sustaining virtue.

Men of all ranks and ages, done to death by his hand or
his head, by poison, by the knife, by drowning, by starvation—women
deceived or violated, and then murdered,
while their kisses were yet warm on his lips—infants tortured
to death in the very wantonness of cruelty, and crime
that must have been nigh akin to madness, gibbered, and
glared upon him.

These things would seem impossible, they are in truth
incredible, but they are true beyond the possibility of cavil.

He was indeed one of those unaccountable and extraordinary
monsters, who, thanks to nature! appear but once
in many ages, to whom sin is dear for its own naked self,
to whom butchery[1] is a pastime, and blood and agonies and
tears a pleasurable excitement to their mad morbid appetites.

And in this hour of downfall, one by one, did his fancy
conjure up before him the victims of his merciless love,
his merciless hatred—both alike, sure and deadly.

It was a strange combination of mind, for there must
have been in the spirit that evoked these phantoms of the

conscience, something of remorse, if not of repentance.
Pale, ghastly, grim, reproachful, they all seemed to him to
be appealing to the just heavens for justice and revenge.
Yet there was even more of triumph and proud self-gratulation
in his mood, than of remorse for the past, or of
apprehension for the future.

As he thought of each, as he thought of all, he in some
sort gloated over the memory of his success, in some sort
derived confidence from the very number of his unpunished
crimes.

“They crossed me,” he muttered to himself, “and where
are they?—My fate cried out for their lives, and their lives
were forfeit. Who ever stood in my path, that has not perished
from before my face? Not one! Who ever strove
with me, that has not fallen? who ever frowned upon me,
that has not expiated the bended brow by the death-grin?
—Not one! not one! Scores, hundreds, have died for
thwarting me! but who of men has lived to boast of it!—
Not one!”

He rose from his seat, stalked slowly across the room,
drew his hand across his brow twice, with a thoughtful gesture,
and then said,

“Cicero! Cicero! Better thou never hadst been born!
Better—but it must be—my Fate, my fate demands it,
and neither eloquence nor wisdom, virtue nor valor, shall
avail to save thee. These were brave, beautiful, wise, pious,
eloquent; and what availed it to them? My Fate, my
fate shall prevail! To recede is to perish, is to be scorned
—to advance is to win—to win universal empire,” and
he stretched out his hand, as if he clutched an imaginary
globe—“to win fame, honor, the applause of ages—for with
the people—the dear people—failure alone and poverty are
guilt—success, by craft or crime, success is piety and virtue!—On!
Catifine! thy path is onward still, upward, and
onward! But not here!”

Then he unbarred the door, “What ho, Chærea!” and
prompt, at the word, the freedman entered. “Send out
my trustiest slaves, summon me hither instantly Lentulus
and the rest of those, who supped here on the Calends.
Ha! the Calends.” He repeated the word, as if some
new idea had struck him, on the mention of that day, and
he paused thoughtfully. “Aye! Paullus Arvina I had

well nigh forgotten—I have it; Aulus is the man; he hath
some private grudge at him! and beside those,” he added,
again addressing the freedman, “go thyself and bring Aulus
Fulvius hither, the son of the Senator—him thou wilt
find with Cethegus, the others at the house of Decius Brutus,
near the forum. They dine with Sempronia. Get
thee gone, and beshrew thy life! tarry not, or thou diest!”

The man quitted the room in haste; and Catiline continued
muttering to himself—“Aye! but for that cursed
boy, we should have had Præneste on the Calends! He
shall repent it, ere he die, and he shall die too; but not yet
—not till he is aweary of his very life, and then, by tortures
that shall make the most weary life a boon. I have it all,
the method, and the men! Weak fool, thou better hadst
been mine.”

Then turning to the table he sat down, and wrote many
letters, addressed to men of Consular dignity, persons of
worth and honor, declaring that, borne down on all sides
by false accusations, and helpless to oppose the faction of
his enemies, he yielded to the spite of fortune, and was
departing for Marseilles a voluntary exile, not conscious of
any crime, but careful of the tranquillity of the republic,
and anxious that no strife should arise from his private griefs.

To one, who afterward, almost deceived by his profound
and wonderful dissimulation, read it aloud in the Senate, in
proof that no civil war was impending, he wrote:

“Lucius Catiline to Quintus Catulus, sends health.
Your most distinguished faith, known by experience, gives
me in mighty perils a grateful confidence, thus to address
you. Since I have resolved to prepare no defence in the
new steps which I have taken, I am resolved to set forth
my apology, conscious to myself of no crime, which—So
may the God of Honor guard me!—you may rely upon
as true. Goaded by injury and insult, robbed of the guerdon
of my toils and industry, that state of dignity at which
I aimed, I pubicly have undertaken, according to my wont,
the cause of the unhappy and oppressed; not because I
am unable to pay all debts contracted on my own account,
from my own property—from those incurred in behalf of
others, the generosity of Orestilla and her daughter, by
their treasures, would have released me—but because I
saw men honored who deserve no honor, and felt myself

disgraced, on false suspicion. On this plea, I now take
measures, honorable in my circumstances, for preserving
that dignity which yet remains to me. I would have written
more, but I learn that violence is about to be offered
me. Now I commend to you Orestilla, and trust her to
your faith. As you love your own children, shield her
from injury. Farewell.”

This strange letter, intended, as after events evidently
proved, to bear a double sense, he had scarce sealed, when
Aulus Fulvius was announced.

For a few moments after he entered, Catiline continued
writing; then handing Chærea, who at a sign had remained
in waiting, a list of many names, “Let them,” he said,
“be here, prepared for a journey, and in arms at the fifth
hour. Prepare a banquet of the richest, ample for all
these, in the Atrium; in the garden Triclinium, a feast for
ten—the rarest meats, the choicest wines, the delicatest
perfumes, the fairest slave-girls in most voluptuous attire.
At the third hour! See to it! Get thee hence!”

The freedman bowed low, and departed on his mission;
then turning to the young patrician,

“I have sent for you,” he said, “the first, noble Aulus,
because I hold you the first in honor, bravery, and action;
because I believe that you will serve me truly, and to the
utmost. Am I deceived?”

“Catiline, you have judged aright.”

“And that you cannot serve me, more gratefully to yourself,
than in avenging me on that young pedant, Paullus
Arvina.”

The eyes of the youthful profligate flashed dark fire, and
his whole face beamed with intense satisfaction.

“By all the Powers of Tartarus!” he cried, “Show me
but how, and I will hunt him to the gates of Hades!”

Catiline nodded to him, with an approving smile, and after
looking around him warily for a minute, as if fearful even
of the walls' overhearing him, he stepped close up to him,
and whispered in his ear, for several moments.

“Do you conceive me, ha?” he said aloud, when he
had ended.

“Excellent well!” cried the other in rapturous triumph,
“but how gain an opportunity?”

“Look you, here is his signature, some trivial note or

other, I kept it, judging that one day it might serve a purpose.
You can write, I know, very cleverly—I have not
forgotten Old Alimentus' will—write to her in his name,
requesting her to visit him, with Hortensia, otherwise she
will doubt the letter. Then you can meet her, and do as I
have told you. Will not that pass, my Fulvius?”

“It shall pass,” answered the young man confidently.
“My life on it! Rely on me!”

“I hold it done already,” returned Catiline. “But you
comprehend all—unstained, in all honor, until she reach
me; else were the vengeance incomplete.”

“It shall be so. But when?”

“When best you can accomplish it. This night, I leave
the city.”

“You leave the city!”

“This night! at the sixth hour!”

“But to return, Catiline?”

“To return with a victorious, an avenging army! To
return as destroyer! with a sword sharper than that of
mighty Sylla, a torch hotter than that of the mad Ephesian!
To return, Aulus, in such guise, that ashes and blood only
show where Rome—was!”

“But, ere that, I must join you?”

“Aye! In the Appenines, at the camp of Caius Manlius.”

“Fear me not. The deed is accomplished—hatred and
vengeance, joined to resolve, never fail.”

“Never! but lo, here come the rest. Not a word to one
of these. The burly sword-smith is your man, and his
fellows! Strike suddenly, and soon; and, till you strike,
be silent. Ha! Lentulus, Cethegus, good friends all—welcome,
welcome!” he cried, as they entered, eight in number,
the ringleaders of the atrocious plot, grasping each by
the hand. “I have called you to a council, a banquet, and,
thence to action!”

“Good things all,” answered Lentulus, “so that the first
be brief and bold, the second long and loud, the last daring
and decisive!”

“They shall be so, all three! Listen. This very night,
I set forth to join Caius Manlius in his camp. Things
work not here as I would have them; my presence keeps
alive suspicion, terror, watchfulness. I absent, security

will grow apace, and from that boldness, and from boldness,
rashness! So will you find that opportunity, which
dread of me, while present, delays fatally. Watch your
time; choose your men; augment, by any means, the
powers of our faction; gain over friends; get rid of enemies,
secretly if you can; if not, audaciously. Destroy
the Consul—you will soon find occasion, or, if not find,
make it. Be ready with the blade and brand, to burn and
to slaughter, so soon as my trumpets shall sound havoc
from the hills of Fiesolè. metellus and his men, will be
sent after me with speed; Marcius Rex will be ordered
from the city, with his cohorts, to Capua, or Apulia, or the
Picene district; for in all these, the slaves will rise, so
soon as my Eagle soars above the Appenine. The heart
of the city will then lie open to your daggers.”

“And they shall pierce it to the core,” cried Cethegus.

“Wisely you have resolved, my Catiline, as ever,” said
Longinus Cassius. “Go, and success sit upon your banners!”

“Be not thou over slow, my Cassius, nor thou, Cethegus,
over daring. Temper each one, the metal of the other.
Let your counsels be, as the gathering of the storm-clouds,
certain and slow; your deeds, as the thunderbolt, rash,
rapid, irresistible!”

“How will you go forth, Catiline? Alone? in secret?”
asked Autronius.

“No! by the Father of Quirinus! with my casque on
my head, and my broad-sword on my thigh, and with three
hundred of my clients at my back! They sup in my Atrium,
at the fifth hour of the night, and at the sixth, we
mount our horses. I think Cicero will not bar our passage.”

“By Mars! he would beat the gates down rather, to let
you forth the more easily.”

“If he be wise he would.”

“He is wise,” said Catiline. “Would God that he were
less so.”

“To be overwise, is worse, sometimes, than to be foolish,”
answered Cethegus.

“And to be over bold, worse than to be a coward!” said
Catiline. “Therefore, Cethegus, be thou neither. Now,
my friends, I do not say leave me, but excuse me, until the
third hour, when we will banquet. Nay! go not forth

from the house, I pray you; it may arouse suspicion, which
I would have you shun. There are books in the library, for
who would read; foils in the garden, balls in the fives-court,
for who would breathe themselves before supper; and
lastly, there are some fair slaves in the women's chamber,
for who would listen to the lute, or kiss soft lips, and not
unwilling. I have still many things to do, ere I depart.”

“And those done, a farewell caress to Orestilla,” said
Cethegus, laughing.

“Aye! would I could take her with me.”

“Do you doubt her, then, that you fear to leave her?”

“If I doubted, I would not leave her—or I would leave
her so, as not to doubt her. Alexion himself, cannot in
general cure the people, whom I doubt.”

“I hope you never will doubt me,” said Curius, who
was present, the Judas of the faction, endeavoring to jest;
yet more than half feeling what he said.

“I hope not”—replied Catiline, with a strange fixed
glance, and a singular smile; for he did in truth, at that
very moment, half doubt the speaker. “If I do, Curius,
it will not be for long! But I must go,” he added, “and
make ready. Amuse yourselves as best you can, till I return
to you. Come, Aulus Fulvius, I must speak with you
farther.”

And, with the words, he left them, not indeed to apply
themselves to any sport or pleasure, but to converse anxiously,
eagerly, almost fearfully, on the events which were
passing in succession, so rapid, and so unforeseen. Their
souls were too much absorbed by one dominant idea, one
devouring passion, to find any interest in any small or casual
excitement.

To spirits so absorbed, hours fly like minutes, and none
of those guilty men were aware of the lapse of time, until
Catiline returned, dressed in a suit of splendid armor,
of blue Iberian steel, embossed with studs and chasings of
pure silver, with a rich scarlet sagum over it, fringed with
deep lace. His knees were bare, but his legs were defended
by greaves of the same fabric and material with his
corslet; and a slave bore behind him his bright helmet,
triply crested with crimson horsehair, his oblong shield
charged with a silver thunderbolt, and his short broad-sword

of Bilboa steel, which was already in those days, as famous
as in the middle ages. He looked, indeed, every inch a
captain; and if undaunted valor, unbounded energy, commanding
intellect, an eye of lightning, unequalled self-possession,
endless resource, incomparable endurance of
cold, heat, hunger, toil, watchfulness, and extremity of pain,
be qualities which constitute one, then was he a great
Captain.

A captain well formed to lead a host of demons.

The banquet followed, with all that could gratify the
eye, the ear, the nostril, or the palate. The board blazed
with lights, redoubled by the glare of gold and crystal.
Flowers, perfumes, incense, streamed over all, till the
whole atmosphere was charged with voluptuous sweetness.
The softest music breathed from the instruments of concealed
performers. The rarest wines flowed like water.
And flashing eyes, and wreathed smiles, and bare arms,
and bare bosoms, and most voluptuous forms, decked to
inflame the senses of the coldest, were prodigal of charms
and soft abandonment.

No modest pen may describe the orgies that ensued,—
the drunkenness, the lust, the frantic mirth, the unnatural
mad revelry. There was but one at that banquet, who,
although he drank more deeply, rioted more sensually,
laughed more loudly, sang more wildly, than any of the
guests, was yet as cool amid that terrible scene of excitement,
as in the council chamber, as on the battle field.

His sallow face flushed not; his hard clear eye swam
not languidly, nor danced with intoxication; his voice quivered
not; his pulse was as slow, as even as its wont.
That man's frame, like his soul, was of trebly tempered
steel.

Had Catiline not been the worst, he had been the greatest
of Romans.

But his race in Rome was now nearly ended. The water-clocks
announced the fifth hour; and leaving the more
private triclinium, in which the ringleaders alone had
feasted, followed by his guests,—who were flushed, reeling,
and half frenzied,—with a steady step, a cold eye, and
a presence like that of Mars himself, the Arch Traitor entered
the great open hall, wherein three hundred of his

clients, armed sumptuously in the style of legionary horsemen,
had banqueted magnificently, though they had stopped
short of the verge of excess.

All rose to their feet, as Catiline entered, hushed in
dread expectation.

He stood for one moment, gazing on his adherents, tried
veterans every man of them, case-hardened in the furnace
of Sylla's fiery discipline, with proud confidence and triumph
in his eye; and then addressed them in clear high
tones, piercing as those of an adamantine trumpet.

“Since,” he said, “it is permitted to us neither to live
in Rome securely, nor to die in Rome honorably, I go
forth—will you follow me?”

And, with an unanimous cry, as it had been the voice of
one man, they answered,

“To the death, Catiline!”

“I go forth, harming no one, hating no one, fearing no
one! Guiltless of all, but of loving the people! Goaded
to ruin by the proud patricians, injured, insulted, well nigh
maddened, I go forth to seek, not power nor revenge, but
innocence and safety. If they will leave me peace, the
lamb shall be less gentle; if they will drive me into war,
the famished lion shall be tamer. Soldiers of Sylla, will
you have Sylla's friend in peace for your guardian, in war
for your captain?”

And again, in one tumultuous shout, they replied, “In
peace, or in war, through life, and unto death, Catiline!”

“Behold, then, your Eagle!”—and, with the word, he
snatched from a marble slab on which it lay, covered by tapestry,
the silver bird of Mars, hovering with expanded
wings over a bannered staff, and brandished it on high, in
triumph. “Behold your standard, your omen, and your
God! Swear, that it shall shine yet again above Rome's
Capitol!”

Every sword flashed from its scabbard, every knee was
bent; and kneeling, with the bright blades all pointed like
concentric sunbeams toward that bloody idol, in deep emotion,
and deep awe, they swore to be true to the Eagle,
traitors to Rome, parricides to their country.

“One cup of wine, and then to horse, and to glory!”

The goblets were brimmed with the liquid madness;

they were quaffed to the very dregs; they clanged empty
upon the marble floor.

Ten minutes more, and the hall was deserted; and
mounted on proud horses, brought suddenly together, by
a perfect combination of time and place, with the broad
steel heads of their javelins sparkling in the moonbeams,
and the renowned eagle poised with bright wings above
them, the escort of the Roman Traitor rode through the
city streets, at midnight, audacious, in full military pomp,
in ordered files, with a cavalry clarion timing their steady
march—rode unresisted through the city gates, under the
eyes of a Roman cohort, to try the fortunes of civil war in
the provinces, frustrate of massacre and conflagration in
the capitol.

Cicero knew it, and rejoiced; and when he cried aloud
on the following day, “Abiit, EXCESSIT, EVASIT, ERUPIT—
He hath departed, he hath stolen out, he hath gone from
among us, he hath burst forth into war”—his great heart
thrilled, and his voice quivered, with prophetic joy and
conscious triumph. He felt even then that he had “Saved his Country.”