University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE MULVIAN BRIDGE.

Two Gentlemen of Verona.

On that same night, and nearly at the same hour wherein
the messenger of Aulus Fulvius arrived at the Latin
villa, there was a splendid banquet given in a house near
the forum.

It was the house of Decius Brutus, unworthy bearer of
a time-honored name, the husband of the infamous Sempronia.

At an earlier hour of the evening, a great crowd had
been gathered round the doors, eager to gaze on the ambassadors
of the Highland Gauls, who, their mission to
Rome ended unsuccessfully, feasted there for the last time
previous to their departure.

As it grew dark, however, tired of waiting in the hope
of seeing the plaided warriors depart, the throng had dispersed,
and with exception of the city watches and the
cohorts, which from hour to hour perambulated them, the
streets were unusually silent, and almost deserted.

There was no glare of lights from the windows of Brutus'
house, as there would be in these days, and in modern
mansions, to indicate the scene of festivity; for it was in
the inmost chamber, of the most secluded suite of apartments,
that the boards had been spread for the comissatio,
or nocturnal revel.

The cæna, or dinner, had been partaken by all the guests
previous to their arrival at their entertainer's, and the tables
were laid only with light dainties and provocatives to
thirst, such as salted meats and fishes, the roe of the sturgeon
highly seasoned, with herbs and fruits, and pastry
and confections, of all kinds.

Rich urns, with heaters, containing hot spiced wines,
prepared with honey, smoked on the boards of costly citrean
wood, intermixed with crystal vases filled with the
rarest vintages of the Falernian hills, cooled and diluted
with snow-water.

And around the circular tables, on the tapestried couches,
reclined the banqueters of both sexes, quaffing the rich
wines to strange toasts, jesting, and laughing wildly, singing
at times themselves as the myrtle branch and the lute
went round, at times listening to the licentious chaunts of
the unveiled and almost unrobed dancing girls, or the obscene
and scurrilous buffoonery of the mimes and clowns,
who played so conspicuous a part in the Roman entertainments
of a later period.

Among these banqueters there was not a single person
not privy to the conspiracy, and few who have not been
introduced already to the acquaintance of the reader, but
among these few was Sempronia—Sempronia, who could
be all things, at all times, and to all persons—who with all
the softness and grace and beauty of the most feminine of
her sex, possessed all the daring, energy, vigor, wisdom
of the bravest and most intriguing man—accomplished to
the utmost in all the liberal arts, a poetess and minstrel
unrivalled by professional performers, a dancer more finished
and voluptuous than beseemed a Roman matron, a
scholar in both tongues, the Greek as well as her own,
and priding herself on her ability to charm the gravest and
most learned sages by the modesty of her bearing and the
wealth of her intellect, as easily as the most profligate debauchees
by her facetious levity, her loose wit, and her
abandonment of all restraint to the wildest license.

On this evening she had strained every nerve to fascinate,
to dazzle, to astonish.

She had danced as a bacchanal, with her luxuriant hair
dishevelled beneath a crown of vine leaves, with her bright
shoulders and superb bust displayed at every motion by

the displacement of the panther's skin, which alone covered
them, timing her graceful steps to the clang of the silver
cymbals which she waved and clashed with her bare
arms above her stately head, and showing off the beauties
of her form in attitudes more classically graceful, more
studiously indelicate, than the most reckless figurante of
our days.

She had sung every species of melody and rythm, from
the wildest dithyrambic to the severest and most grave
alcaic; she had struck the lute, calling forth notes such as
might have performed the miracles attributed to Orpheus
and Amphion.

She had exerted her unrivalled learning so far as to discourse
eloquently in the uncouth and almost unknown
tongues of Germany and Gaul.

For she had Gaulish hearers, Gaulish admirers, whom,
whether from mere female vanity, whether from the awakening
of some strange unbridled passion, or whether from
some deeper cause, she was bent on delighting.

For mixed in brilliant contrast with the violet and flower
enwoven tunics, with the myrtle-crowned perfumed love-locks
of the Roman feasters, were seen the gay and many-chequered
plaids, the jewelled weapons, and loose lion-like
tresses of the Gallic Highlanders, and the wild blue
eyes, sharp and clear as the untamed falcon's, gazing in
wonder or glancing in childlike simplicity at the strange
scenes and gorgeous luxuries which amazed all their
senses.

The tall and powerful young chief, who had on several
occasions attracted the notice of Arvina, and whom he had
tracked but a few days before into this very house, reclined
on the same couch with its accomplished mistress, and
it was on him that her sweetest smiles, her most speaking
glances were levelled, for him that her charms were displayed
so unreservedly and boldly.

And the eyes of the young Gaul flashed at times a
strange fire, but it was difficult to tell, if it were indignation
or desire that kindled that sharp flame—and his cheek
burned with a hectic and unwonted hue, but whether it
was the hue of shame or passion, what eye could determine.

One thing alone was evident, that he encouraged her in

her wild licence, and affected, if he did not feel, the most
decided admiration for her beauty.

His hand had toyed with hers, his fingers had strayed
through the mazes of her superb raven ringlets, his lip had
pressed hers unrebuked, and his ear had drunk in long
murmuring low-breathed sighs, and whispers unheard by
any other.

Her Roman lovers, in other words two-thirds of those
present, for she was no chary dame, looked at each other,
some with a sneering smile, some with a shrewd and knowing
glance, and some with ill-dissembled jealousy, but not
one of them all, so admirable was her dissimulation—if
that may be called admirable, which is most odious—could
satisfy himself, whether she was indeed captivated by the
robust and manly beauty of the young barbarian, or
whether it was merely a piece of consummate acting, the
more to attach him to their cause.

It might have been observed had the quick eye of Catiline
been there, prompt to read human hearts as if they
were written books—that the older envoys looked with suspicious
and uneasy glances, at the demeanor of their young
associate, that they consulted one another from time to time
with grave and searching eyes, and that once or twice, when
Sempronia, who alone of those present understood their
language, was at a distance, they uttered a few words in
Gaelic, not in the most agreeable or happiest accent.

Wilder and wilder waxed the revelry, and now the
slaves withdrew, and breaking off into pairs or groups, the
guests dispersed themselves among the peristyles, dimly illuminated
with many twinkling lamps, and shrubberies of
myrtle and laurestinus which adorned the courts and gardens
of the proud mansions.

Some to plot deeds of private revenge, private cruelty
—some to arrange their schemes of public insurrection—
some to dally in secret corners with the fair patricians—
some to drain mightier draughts than they had yet partaken,
some to gamble for desperate stakes, all to drown care
and the anguish of conscious guilt, in the fierce pleasure of
excitement.

Apart from the rest, stood two of the elder Gauls, in
deep and eager conference—one the white-headed chief,

and leader of the embassy, the other a stately and noble-looking
man of some forty-five or fifty years.

They were watching their comrade, who had just stolen
away, with one arm twined about the fair Sempronia's
waist, and her hand clasped in his, through the inner peristyle,
into the women's chambers.

“Feargus, I doubt him,” said the old man in a low guarded
whisper. “I doubt him very sorely. These Roman
harlots are made to bewitch any man, much more us Gael,
whose souls kindle at a spark!”

“It is true, Phadraig,” answered the other, still speaking
in their own tongue. “Saw ever any man such infamy?
—And these—these dogs, and goats, call us barbarians!
Us, by the Spirit of Thunder! who would die fifty deaths
every hour, ere we would see our matrons, nay! but our
matrons' basest slaves, demean themselves as these patricians!
Base, carnal, bloody-minded beasts are they—and
yet forsooth they boast themselves the masters of the
world.”

“Alas! that it should be so, Feargus,” answered the
other. “But so it is, that they are masters, and shall be
masters yet awhile, but not long. I have heard, I have
seen among the mist of our water-falls, the avalanches of
our hills, the voices and the signs of Rome's coming ruin,
but not yet. Therefore it is that I counselled peace.”

“I know that thou art Taishatr, the great seer of our
people,” replied the other with an expression of deep awe
on his features—“Shall Rome indeed so perish!”

“She shall, Feargus. Her sons shall forget the use of
the blade, her daughters of the distaff—for heroes and warriors
she shall bring forth pipers and fiddlers, pandars and
posturers; for heroines and matrons, songstresses, dancing
girls, and harlots. The beginning thou seest now, the end
cometh not in ages.”

“And our people, Phadraig, our northern races”—

“Shall govern and despise them! our arms shall carry
devastation into regions of which their Consuls never
heard, and under Gaelic eagles; our men shall wield thunder
louder and deadlier, than the bolts of Roman Gods. I
have said, Feargus. It shall be, but not yet; nor shall our
eyes behold it; but it shall soothe us yet, in these days of
our country's desolation, to know how great she shall be

hereafter, and these how less than little—the very name of
Roman synonimous with slavery and degradation!”

There was a long pause, during which neither of the
chieftains spoke, the one musing over the strange visions,
which are phenomena by no means unusual to mountaineers,
in all ages; the other dreaming of future glory to his
race, and aroused by the predictions of the seer, to an ecstacy,
as it were, of expectant triumph.

“Enough of this”—said the old man, at length. “As I
said but now, I doubt Eachin sorely.”

“If he prove false, I will stab him to the heart, with my
own hand, though he be my father's brother's grandson, and
the best warrior of our tribe; but no, no, Phadraig, the boy
is young, and his blood is hot and fiery; and the charms of
that witch might well move a colder spirit—but he is true
as steel, and wise and wary for one so young. He may
sun himself in her smiles, or revel on her lips, but trust me,
Eachin of the iron hand, will never betray council.”

“Keep your eye on him, nevertheless, Feargus,” said the
other, “and, as you said but now, kill him at once, if you
perceive him false.”

“Ha! what! noble Patricius?” cried Lentulus, coming
up to them suddenly, and addressing the old chief by his
latinized name—“what is this that thou arguest so sagely,
in thy sonorous and male tongue.”

“The might and majesty of Rome,” answered the old
man quietly, “and our people's misery and degradation.”

“Nay! nay! chief, be not downhearted. Look upward
now, after dark night comes brilliant morning,” said the Roman.
“Your people shall rise ere long, to power and glory
and dominion.”

“So I told Feargus.”

“Ha! the brave Ferragus! and doth he not credit your
wisdom's prophecy.”

“I put all faith in Rome's gratitude, in Catiline's valor
and justice.”

“Aye! when we once have put down this faction, we
will do justice to our friends.”

“And we are of the number!”

“Surely, the twenty thousand horse, which you have
promised us, are twenty thousand pledges of your friendship,
as many claims on our favor.”

“See, here comes Eachin,” said the old man; “and
time wears onward, it is nigh midnight. We must away to
our lodgings. Our train awaits us, and we but tarry for
your envoy and the letters.”

“Titus Volturcius! I will go fetch him hither. He hath
our letters sealed and ready. He is but draining a last
cup, with our brave Cethegus. I will go fetch him.” And,
with the words, he turned away, gathering his toga in superb
draperies about his stately person, and traversing the
corridor with proud and measured strides, and as he went,
muttered through his teeth—“The fool barbarians! As if
we would give them anything but chains and scourges!
The poor benighted idiots!”

“Ho, Eachin, where left you our fair hostess?” asked
Feargus in Latin—“methinks you are smitten somewhat
with her beauty!”

“She is very beautiful!” said the old chieftain gravely.

“Beautiful! Feargus! Phadraig! beautiful, did ye say?”
and the youth gazed at them in wonder, “That vile sensual,
soulless harlot! she beautiful! Then virtue must be
base indeed, and honor shameful!” he cried, with noble
indignation, in his own Gaëlic tongue, his eyes flashing,
and his cheek burning crimson.

“Why, if you held her then so cheaply, have you so
much affected her society?”

“Oh! you suspect me, Feargus. But it needs not. The
barbarian hath some shrewdness, and some honesty. Sempronia
too, suspected us, and would have won my secret
from me, had I indeed a secret, by sweet words and
sweeter kisses.”

“And thou”—

“Gave kiss for kiss, with interest; and soft word for
soft word. I have sighed as if I were any Roman—but
no secret, Feargus; Phadraig, no secret. Do you doubt
me?”

“Not I, boy,” answered the warrior. “Your father was
my cousin, and I think you are not a bastard.”

“I think not either. But see, here come these noble
Romans!”

“It is their envoy with the letters for their leader. We
shall be dismissed now, from this haunt of thieves and harlots!”

“And laughed at, when dismissed, for fools and barbarians!”

“One never knows who is the fool, till the game is lost.”

“Nor who is laughed at 'till it is won!”

“Here is our Titus, my good friends,” said Lentulus,
coming forward, leading along with him a slightly-made but
well-formed and active-looking man, with a downcast yet
roving eye, and a sneering lip, as if he were one who believing
nothing, deserved not to be believed in anything
himself. “He hath the letters, and credentials secured on
his person. On his introduction, our Catiline shall know
you as true friends, and as such receive and reward you!”

“Titus Volturcius, is welcome. We tarried but for
him, we will now take our leaves, with thanks for your
gracious courtesies.”

“A trifle, a mere trifle,” said Sempronia, who had that
moment returned—“We only desired to teach you how
we Romans live in our homes daily.”

“A very pleasant lesson, ha! my young friend”—said
Lentulus to Eachin; and then he said out to Cethegus,
in Greek, “I am compelled to call the Highland bull my
friend, for his accursed name would break the jaws of any
Roman—there is no twisting it into Latin!”

“Hush! he will hear you, Lentulus,” said the other.
“I believe the brutes hear with their eyes, and understand
through their finger-ends,” and he too used the same language;
yet, strange to say, it would have seemed as if the
young man did in some sort comprehend his words, for his
cheek turned fiery red, and he bit his lip, and played nervously
with the hilt of the claymore.

“Thou will not forget the lesson!” whispered Sempronia.

“Never!” replied the Highlander. “Never while one
red drop runs in these veins. And the last drop in them
will I shed gladly, to teach these noble Romans how grateful
a barbarian can be, poor though he be and half savage,
for being thus instructed in Roman hospitality and Roman
virtue! Farewell, ye noble Senators, farewell most beautiful
and noble matron!”

And with deep salutations, half dignified, half awkward,
the Gauls strode away, into the quiet and moon-lighted

streets, strange contrast to the glare and riot of those
patrician halls and polluted chambers.

“A singular speech that!” said Cethegus musing. “It
sounded much as if it might bear a double meaning! could
it be irony and cover treason?”

“Irony in a stupid Gaul! thou art mad, Cethegus, to
think of it!” said Autronius with a sneer.

“I should as soon look for wit in an elephant,” said
Longinus Cassius.

“Or I for love in a cold lizard!” cried Sempronia,
laughing.

“You found some love in the barbarian, I think, my
Sempronia?” exclaimed Cethegus.

“More warmth than wit, I assure you,” she replied still
laughing. “I acted my part with him rarely. If he
were inclined once to play us false, he is bound to us now
by chains”—

“Of roses, fair one?”

“Never mind. If he break them, call me”—

“Chaste? Sempronia”—enquired Cæparius, interrupting
her.

“Audacious!” she answered with an affected frown,
amid the laugh which followed the retort.

“What do you think of it, my Lentulus?” asked Cethegus,
who although he had jested with the others, did not
by any means appear satisfied in his mind, or convinced of
the good faith of the Highlanders.

“That it is two hours now past midnight,” answered
Lentulus yawning, “and that I am amazing sleepy. I
was not in bed till the third watch last night, writing those
letters, ill luck to them. That is what I think, Cethegus.
And that I am going to bed now, to trouble myself about
the matter no more, until the Saturnalia.”

And so that company broke up, never to meet again, on
this side Hades.

Not long thereafter the Gauls, having reached their
lodgings at the house of their patron Fabius Sanga, where
everything had been prepared already for their departure,
mounted their horses, and set forth on their way homeward,
accompanied by a long train of armed followers;
Titus Volturcius riding in the first rank, between the principal
chiefs of the party.

The moon had risen; and the night was almost as clear
as day, for a slight touch of frost had banished all the vapors
from the sky, and the stars sparkled with unusual
brilliancy.

Although it was clear and keen, however, the night was
by no means cold, as it would have been under the like
circumstances in our more northern climes; and the gardens
in the suburbs of the city with their numerous clumps
of stone-pine, and thickets of arbutus and laurestinus, looked
rich and gay with their polished green foliage, long after
the deciduous trees had dropped their sere leaves on the
steamy earth.

No sounds came to the ears of the travellers, as they
rode at that dead hour of night through the deserted
streets; the whole of the vast city appeared to be hushed
in deep slumber, soon, Caius Volturcuis boasted as they
rode along, to burst like a volcano into the din and glare
of mighty conflagration.

They met not a single individual, as they threaded the
broad suburra with their long train of slaves and led-horses;
not one as they passed through the gorge between the Viminal
and Quirinal hills, nor as they scaled the summit of
the latter eminence, and reached the city walls, where
they overlooked Sallust's gardens in the valley, and on the
opposite slope, the perfumed hill of flowers.

A sleepy sentinel unbarred the gate for the ambassadors,
while four or five of his comrades sat dozing in their armor
around a stove, in the centre of the little guard-house, or
replenishing their horn cups, at short intervals, from an
urn of hot wine, which hissed and simmered on the hearth.

“Excellent guard they keep!” said Volturcius sneeringly,
“right trusty discipline! of much avail would such
watchers be, were Catiline without the walls, with ten
thousand men, of Sylla's veterans.”

“And is your Catiline so great a captain?” asked the
Highlander.

“The best in Rome, since Sylla is no more! He learned
the art of war under that grand, that consummate soldier!
He was scarce second to him in his life time!”

“Why, then, hath Rome found no service for him?”
asked the Gaul. “If he, as you say, is so valiant and so

skillful, why hath he not commanded in the east, in place
of Pompey, or Lucullus?”

“Jealousy is the bane of Rome! jealousy and corruption!
Catiline will not pander to the pride of the insolent
patricians, nor buy of them employments or honors with
his gold.”

“And is he free from this corruption?”

“No man on earth of more tried integrity! While all
of Rome beside is venal, his hand alone is conscious of no
bribe, his heart alone incorruptible!”

“Thou must be a true friend of his; all men speak not
so highly of this Catiline.”

“Some men lie! touching him specially, they lie!”

“By the Gods! I believe so!” answered the old Gaul,
with calm irony.

“By Mars! and Apollo! they lie foully!”

“I think I have heard one, at least, do so.”

“Thou shalt hear hundreds, if thou listen to them.”

“So many?”

“Aye! by the Gods!—most of the—by your head! Patricius,
that was a man, I think; armed too; who looked
forth from behind yon buttress of the bridge.”

“No! no! Volturcius, 'twas but the shadow of yon pine
tree, waving athwart the moonlight. I marked it long
since,” answered the wily Gaul. “Proceed, I pray you—
most of the what, wert thou about to say?”

But, by this time, the speakers had advanced to the centre
of the long Mulvian bridge, a magnificent stone structure
crossing the broad and sluggish Tiber, two miles below
the city; and giving access to the far-famed Flaminian
way.

Their train, following closely after them, had all entered
into the defile, the last of them having already passed the
abutment nearest to Rome, when a loud shout arose from
either side the bridge; and from the thickets and gardens
at each extremity forth rushed a band of stout youths
armed with casques and cuirasses of bronze, with the oblong
shields and Spanish stabbing swords of the legionaries.

Each band was led by a Prætor, Lucius Valerius Flaccus
commanding at the end next Rome, and Caius Pomptinus,
on the Emilian way, and each fell into accurate and

beautiful array, barring the outlets of the bridge with a
triple file of bright blades and sturdy bucklers.

Nor was this all; for a little party was pushed forward
on each flank, with bows and javelins, ready to enfilade
the narrow pass with cross shot of their missiles, in case
any attempt should be made to force a passage. And at
the end, moreover, of the bridge toward Etruria and the
camp of Catiline, at which such an attempt was most likely
to occur, the glittering helmets and crimson horsehair
crests of a troop of cavalry were seen glancing in the
moonbeams, as they wheeled into line behind the footmen,
ready to charge at once should the infantry be broken.

“Stand! stand!” cried the soldiery at each end. “Stand
and surrender!”

But the younger men of the Gauls, unsheathing their
claymores, set up their terrible slogan, or Celtic battle
cry; and, plunging their spurs into the sides of their fiery
horses came thundering across the bridge with a charge
that would probably have trodden the Prætor's infantry under
foot, had not the old chief, whom the Romans called
Patricius, and Ferragus reined their steeds suddenly across
the way, calling upon their men to halt and be steady.

But Volturcius, knowing too well the consequence of
being taken, dashed forward with his sword drawn; and
made a desperate attempt to cut his way through the infantry,
striking down two or three, slashing and stabbing
to the right and left, displaying singular skill in the use of
his weapon, and extreme personal intrepidity.

“Treason! treason, my friends!” he shouted. “Ho,
Ferragus, Patricius, ho! Charge, charge, men, gallantly.
They are but a handful!” and still he plied his blade,
which was now crimson to the hilt, with fearful energy.

“No! no! not so!” cried the ambassadors—“lay down
your arms! it is the prætor's train. Lay down your arms!
all shall be well, if you resist not.”

And at the same time, “Yield thee! yield thee! Volturcius,”
cried Pomptinus. “We are friends all; and would
not hurt thee—but have thee we must, and thy letters.—
Dost thou not know me, Titus?”

“Very well, Caius,” cried the other, still fighting desperately
against a host; for the men were commanded not
to kill, but to take him alive at all hazards. “I know thee

very well; but I will not yield to thee! So take that,
Prætor!” and, with the word, he dealt him a blow on his
crest that brought him to his knee in a moment.

“He is a mad man!” cried a veteran legionary. “We
must kill him!”

“Not for your lives,” shouted Pomptinus, and springing
to his feet he plunged his sword home into his horse's
chest, up to the very hilt; and then leaping on one side
nimbly, as the animal fell headlong, being slain outright,
he seized Volturcius by the shoulder, and pulled him down
from the saddle.

But even at this disadvantage, the conspirator renewed
the single combat with the prætor; until at length, assured
by his repeated promises that his life should be spared, he
yielded his sword to that officer, and adjuring him in the
name of all the Gods! to protect him, gave himself up a
prisoner, as if to avowed enemies.

Those of the Gauls, who had been ignorant, at first,
what was in progress, perceiving now that the whole matter
had been arranged with the concurrence of their chiefs,
submitted quietly; and two or three of the prætor's people
who had been wounded being accommodated with temporary
litters made of bucklers and javelins with watch
cloaks thrown over them, the whole party turned their
horses' heads, and directed their march toward Rome.

And silence, amid which the gentle murmur of the river,
and the sigh of the breeze were distinctly audible, succeeded
to the clang of arms, and the shouts of the combatants,
unheard for many a year, so near to the walls of
the world's metropolis.