University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII
THE ROMAN FATHER.

Mason's Caractacus.

The streets of Rome were in fierce and terrible confusion
all that day long, on which the conspirators were arrested,
and all the night that followed it.

Late on the evening of that day, when it was already
dark, the Consul had addressed the people by torch-light
in the forum, delivering that superb speech, known as
the third oration against Catiline.

In it, he had informed them clearly of all the events
which had occurred in the last twenty-four days, since the
delivery of his second speech, more especially treating of
those which had taken place in the preceding day and
night.

The conspiracy made manifest by overwhelming evidence—the
arrest of the ambassadors, the seizure of the
letters, the acknowledgment of those letters for their own
by the terrified and bewildered traitors, and lastly the
committal of the ringleaders of the plot to close custody,
previous to the discussion of their fate—such were the
wondrous and exciting facts, which he had announced to
the assembled multitudes, inviting them to join him in a
solemn thanksgiving to the Gods, and public celebration,
decreed by the Senate to his honor; congratulating them

on their escape from a danger so imminent and so general;
and calling on them, in conclusion, to watch over the safety
of the city by nocturnal guards and patroles, as they had
done so diligently during all that emergency.

The thundering acclamations, which greeted the close
of that luculent and powerful exposition, the zeal with
which the concourse hailed him unanimously Savior of
Rome and Father of his country, the eagerness of affection
with which all ranks and ages thronged around him, expressing
their gratitude and their devotion, by all means
imaginable, proved satisfactorily that, whatever might have
been the result had massacre, plunder, and conflagration
fallen upon them unawares, the vast mass of the people
were now loyal, and true to their country.

The seven hills never had resounded with louder din of
civic triumph, than they did on that glorious night; not
when the noble Scipio triumphed for Carthage overthrown;
not when the mighty Marius,[1] begirt with a host of captives
and all the pomp of war, dismounted, happiest of
men, from his Teutonic Car.

The streets were as light as day with the glare of lamps,
and torches, and bonfires blazing on all the circumjacent
heights, as with tremendous shouts, and unpremeditated
triumph, the mighty multitude escorted the great Consul
home, not to his own house, where the rites of the Good
Goddess were in celebration, and whither no male could
be admitted, but to his next-door neighbor's mansion, in
which he and his friends were entertained with more than
regal splendor.

What could have been more glorious, what more unmixed
with any touch of bitterness, or self reproach, than
Cicero's position on that evening?

His country saved from miseries unparalleled—saved by
himself alone—no aid of rival generals, no force of marshalled
hosts to detract from the greatness of his own achievement—all
the strife borne, all the success won, all the
glory conquered by the force of his own genius, of his own

moral resolution. No blood of friends had been spilt to
buy that conquest, and wring its tribute of anguished sorrow
from eyes bright with the mixed excitement of regret
and triumph—no widow's tears, no orphan's sighs,
had mounted heavenward amid those joyous conclamations.

With no sword drawn, with no army arrayed, alone in
his peaceful toga, he had conquered the world's peace;
and, for that night at least, be enjoyed, as his great merit's
meed, a world's gratitude.

All night long had the streets been crowded with loud
and ardent throngs of all ages, sexes, ranks, conditions,
questioning, cheering, carolling, carousing—all, in appearance
at least, unanimous in joy; for none dared in such
an ebullition of patriotic feeling to display any disaffection.

And the morrow dawned upon Rome, still noisy, still
alive with tumultuous joy, still filled, through the whole
area within its walls, by thousands, and tens of thousands,
hoarse with shouting, weary almost of revelling, haggard
and pale from the excess of excitement.

Such was the scene, which the metropolis of the world
presented, when at the second hour of the morning, on the
day following the arrest of Lentulus, a small party consisting
of about fifty horsemen, conducting a prisoner, with
his arms bound behind his back, gagged, and with the lappet
of his cloak so disposed as to conceal his face, entered
the Quirinal gate, from the direction of the Flaminian
way.

They were the clients of the Fulvian House, leading the
miserable Aulus homeward, under the command of his
cousin. The horses were jaded, and bleeding from many
a spur gall; the men were covered with dust and sweat;
and several of their number were wounded; but, what at
once struck the minds of all who beheld them, was that
their faces, although stern and resolute, were grave, dejected
and sad, while still it would seem that they were returning
in triumph from some successful expedition.

At any other time, the entrance of such a party would
have awakened much astonishment and surprise, perhaps
might have created a tumult among the excitable and easily
agitated Romans; but now so strangely had the popular
mind been stimulated during the last days, that they either

paid no attention to the train at all, or observed, pointing
to the prisoner, that there went another of the parricides.

Just. however, as the new-comers entered the gate,
another armed band met them, moving outward; the latter
being a full troop, thirty in number, of cavalry of the
seventh legion, with a banner, and clarion, and Paullus
Arvina at their head, in complete armor, above which he
wore a rich scarlet cloak, or paludamentum, floating over
his left shoulder.

The face of the young man was as pale as that of a
corpse, his eyes were sunken, and surrounded by dark circles,
his cheeks were hollow, and among the short black
curls, which were visible beneath the brazen peak of his
sculptured casque, there was one as white as snow.

Since the dread news had reached him of Julia's abduction,
he had not closed his eyes for a moment; and, although
scarcely eight and forty hours had elapsed, since
he received the fatal intelligence, he had grown older by
many years.

No one, who looked upon him, would have judged him
to be younger than thirty-five or forty years, when he was
in truth little more than half way on life's journey toward
the second period.

There was a cold firm determination too written on all
his features, such as is rarely seen in young men; and the
wild vacillating light which used to flicker so changefully
over his fine face, was lost in an expression of mournful
and despairing resolution.

Still his attitude on his charger's back was fine and spirited;
his head was proudly erect: and his voice, as from
time to time, he uttered some command to his troopers,
was clear, steady, and sonorous.

So much indeed was he altered, that Caius Fulvius, who
knew him well, gazed at him doubtfully for half a minute
ere he addressed him, as the two troops came almost into
contact, the mounted clients of the Fulvian House, withdrawing
to the wayside to allow the legionaries to pass.

Assured at last that it was indeed Arvina, he called out
as he passed—

“Tell me, I pray thee, Paullus, what means this concourse
in the streets? hath aught of ill befallen?”

“Ha! is it thou, Caius Fulvius?” replied Arvina. “I

will speak with thee anon. Lead the men forward,” he
added, turning round in his saddle to the second Decurion
of his troop, “my good Drusus. I will overtake you, ere
you shall reach the Mulvian bridge.” Here wheeling his
horse to the side of the young nobleman, “Where hast
thou been, Caius, that thou hast not heard? All the conspirators
have been arrested. Lentulus, and Cethegus,
Gabinius, Statilius, and Cæparius! They have confessed
their letters—the Gaulish ambassadors, and Titus Volturcius
have given evidence against them. The senate is debating
even now on their doom.”

“Indeed! indeed! when did all this fall out?” enquired
the other evidently in great astonishment.

“Yesterday morning they were taken. The previous
night, in the third watch, the ambassadors were stopped on
the Mulvian bridge, and the treasonable papers found on
Volturcius.”

“Ha! this is indeed news!” cried Caius. “What will
befall Lentulus and the rest? Do men know anything!”

“Death!” answered Arvina gravely.

“Death! art thou certain? A Prætor, a consular of
Rome! and all the others Senators! Death! Paullus?”

“Death!” replied the other still more solemnly, than
before. “Yet methinks! that rather should be a boon, than
the fit penalty of such guilt! But where have you been,
that you are ignorant of all this, and whom have you
there?”

Caius Fulvius shook his head sorrowfully, and a deep
groan burst from the lips of the muffled man, a groan of
rage mingled with hate and terror.

“I will tell thee, Arvina,” said the young man, after a
moment's pause, during which Paullus had been gazing
with a singular, and even to himself incomprehensible, emotion
at the captive horseman. “We have been sent to
fetch him back,” and he pointed to his wretched cousin,
“as he fled to join Catiline. We overtook him nigh to
Volsinii.”

“Who—who—” exclaimed Arvina in a terrible hoarse
voice—“By all the Gods! who is he?—”

“Aulus—”

“Ha! villain! villain! He shall die by my hand!

burst from Arvina's lips with a stified cry, and drawing his
sword as he spoke, he made toward him.

But Caius Fulvius, and several others of the clients
threw themselves into the way, and the former said quietly
but very firmly, “No—no, my Paullus, that must not be.
His life is devoted to a baser doom; nor must his blood be
shed by a hand so noble! But wherefore—Ha!” he exclaimed,
interrupting himself in mid speech. “Ha! Julia,
I remember—I remember—would to the Gods I could
have rescued her.”

For one second's space Paullus Arvina glared upon
the speaker, as if he would have stabbed him where he sat
on his horse motionless and unresisting; then, shaking his
head with an abrupt impatient motion as if to rid himself
of some fixed image or impression, he said,

“You are right, Caius. But tell me! by the Gods! was
she with him? saw you aught of her, as you took him?”

“She was in his power, my poor Paullus, as we were
told at Sutrium; but when we overtook him, he had sent
forward all his band but a small party, who fought so hard
and handled us so roughly, that, he once taken, we dared
not set on them again. But, be of good cheer, my Paullus.
There is a gallant youth on the track of them; the same
youth who went to save her at the Latin villa but arrived
too late; the same who brought us the tidings of yon villain's
flight, who led us in pursuit of them. He follows still, and
swears that he will save her! The Gods grant it?”

“A youth, ha! who is he?”

“I know not. He refused to tell us, still saying that he
was nameless. A slight slender black-eyed youth. Exceeding
dark-complexioned, but handsome withal. You
would have said, to look on him, he would lack strength
to ride an hour; yet, by the God of Faith! he was in the
saddle incessantly for nearly forty hours, and shewed less
weariness than our sturdiest men. Never saw I such fiery
will, and resolute endurance, in one so young and feeble.”

“Strange!” muttered Paullus—“strange! why came he
not to me?”

“He did go to your mansion, but found you not. You
were absent on state business—then came he to the father
of this demon, who sent us in pursuit, and we have, as I

tell you, succeeded. May you do so likewise! He charged
me to say to you `there was one on her track who would
die to save her.”'

“'Tis passing strange! I may not even guess who it
should be,” he added musing, “the Gods give him strength.
But tell me, Caius, can I, by any speed, overtake them?”

“I fear me not, Paullus, ere they have reached the camp.
They were nigh to Volsinii at noon yesterday; of course
they will not loiter on the way.”

“Alas!” replied the unhappy youth. “Curses! curses!
ten thousand curses on his head!” and he glanced savagely
upon Aulus as he spoke—“to what doom do ye lead him?”

“To an indignant father's pitiless revenge!”

“May he perish ill!—may his unburied spirit wander
and wail forever upon the banks of Acheron, unpardoned
and despairing!”

And turning suddenly away, as if afraid to trust himself
longer in sight of his mortal enemy, he plunged his spurs
deep into his charger's flank, and gallopped away in order
to overtake his troop, with which he was proceeding to
join the army which Antonius the consul and Petreius his
lieutenant were collecting on the sea-coast of Errulla in
order to act against Catiline.

Meanwhil the others rode forward on their gloomy errand
toward the Fulvian House.

They reached its doors, and at the trampling of their
horses' feet, before any summons had been given, with a
brow dark as night and a cold determined eye, the aged
Senator came forth to meet his faithful clients.

At the first glance he cast upon the party, the old man
saw that they had succeeded; and a strange expression of
satisfaction mixed with agony crossed his stern face.

“It is well!” he said gravely. “Ye have preserved the
honor of my house. I give ye thanks, my friends. Well
have ye done your duty! It remains only that I do my
own. Bring in your prisoner, Caius, and ye, my friends,
leave us, I pray you, to our destiny.”

The young man to whom he addressed himself, leaped
down from his horse with one or two of the clients, and,
unbuckling the thong which fastened his cousin's legs under
the belly of the beast he rode, lifted him to the ground;
for in a sort of sullen spite, although unable to resist, he

moved neither hand nor foot, more than a marble statue
would have done; and when he stood on the pavement, he
made no step toward the door, and it was necessary to carry
him bodily up the steps of the colonnade, and through
the vestibule into the atrium.

In that vast hall a fearful group was assembled. On a
large arm chair at the upper end sat an aged matron, perfectly
blind, with hair as white as snow, and a face furrowed
with wrinkles, the work of above a century. She was the
mother of the Senator, the grandmother of the young culprit.
At her right hand stood another large chair vacant,
the seat of the master of the house; and at her left sat another
lady, already far advanced in years, yet stately, firm,
and unflinching—the wretched, but proud mother. Behiend
her stood three girls of various ages, the youngest not
counting above sixteen years, all beautiful, and finely
made, but pale as death, with their superb dark eyes dilated
and their white lips mute with strange horror.

Lower down the hall toward the door, and not far re
moved from the altar of the household gods, near the impluvium,
stood a black wooden block, with a huge broad
axe lying on it, and a grim-visaged slave leaning against
the wall with folded arms in a sort of stoical indifference
—the butcher of the family. By his trade, he little cared
whether he practised it on beasts or men; and perhaps he
looked forward with some pleasurable feelings to the dealing
of a blow against one of the proud lords of Empire.

No one could look upon that mute and sad assemblage
without perceiving that some dread domestic tragedy was
in process; but how dreadful no one could conceive, who
was not thoroughly acquainted with the strange and tremendous
rigor of the old Roman Law.

The face of the mother was terribly convulsed, as she
heard the clanging hoof tramps at the door; and in an agony
of unendurable suspense she laid her hand upon her
heart, as if to still its wild throbbing.

Roman although she was, and trained from her childhood
upward in the strictest school of Stoicism, he, on
whom they were gathered there to sit in judgment, was still
her first-born, her only son; and she could not but remember
in this hour of wo the unutterable pleasure with which
she had listened to the first small cry of him, then so innocent

and weak and gentle, who now so strong in manhood
and so fierce in sin, stood living on the verge of death.

But now as the clanging of the horse hoofs ceased, different
sounds succeeded; and in a moment the anxious
ears of the wife and mother could discern the footsteps of
the proud husband, and the fallen child.

They entered the hall, old Aulus Fulvius striding with
martial steps and a resolute yet solemn brow toward the
chair of judgment, like to some warlike Flamen about to
execute the wrath of the Gods upon his fated victim; the
son shuffling along, with downcast eyes and an irregular
pace, supported on one hand by his detested cousin, and
on the other by an aged freedman of the house.

The head of the younger Aulus was yet veiled with the
lappet of his gown; so that he had seen none of those who
were then assembled, none of the fatal apparatus of his
fore-ordered doom.

But now, as the old man took his seat, he made a movement
with his hand, and Caius, obedient to the gesture,
lifted the woollen covering from the son's brow, and released
his hold of his arm. At a second wafture, the
nephew and the freedman both departed, glad to be spared
the witnessing a scene so awful as that which was about to
ensue.

The sound of their departing footsteps fell with an icy
chill on the stout heart of the young conspirator; and although
he hated the man, who had just left the room, more
than any living being, he would yet willingly have detained
him at that crisis.

He felt that even hatred was less to be apprehended
than the cold hard decision of the impassive unrelenting
father, in whose heart every sentiment was dead but those
of justice and of rigorous honor.

“Aulus, lift up your eyes!”

And, for the first time since he had entered the hall, the
culprit looked up, and gazed with a wild and haggard eye
on the familiar objects which met his glance on every side;
and yet, familiar as they were, all seemed to be strange, altered,
and unusual.

The statues of his dead ancestors, as they stood, grim
and uncouth in their antique sculpture, between the pillars
of the wall, seemed to dilate in size, and become gigantic,

to frown stern contempt on their degenerate descendant.
The grotesque forms of the Etruscan household Gods appeared
to gibber at him; the very flames upon the altar,
before them, cast lurid gleams and ominous to his distempered
fancy.

It was singular, that the last thing which he observed
was that, which would have been the first to attract the notice
of a stranger—the block, the axe, and the sullen headsman.

A quick shudder ran through every limb and artery of
his body, and he turned white and livid. His spirit was
utterly appalled and broken; his aspect was that of a sneaking
culprit, a mean craven.

“Aulus, lift up your eyes!”

And he did lift them, with a strong effort, to meet the
fixed and searching gaze of his father; but so cold, so penetrating
was that gaze, that his glance fell abashed, and he
trembled from head to foot, and came well nigh to falling
on the earth in his great terror.

“Aulus, art thou afraid to die?—thou, who hast sworn
so deeply to dye thine hands in my gore, in the gore of all
who loved their country? Art thou afraid to die, stabber,
adulterer, poisoner, ravisher, parricide, Catilinarian? Art
thou afraid to die? I should have thought, when thou
didst put on such resolves, thou wouldst have cast aside all
that is human! Once more, I say, art thou afraid to die?”

“To die!” he exclaimed in husky tones, which seemed
to stick in his parched throat—“to die! to be nothing!”

And again the convulsive shudder ran through his whole
frame.

But ere the Senator could open his lips to reply, the
blind old grandam asked, in a voice so clear and shrill that
its accents seemed to pierce the very souls of all who
heard it—

“Is he a coward, Aulus Fulvius? Is he a coward, too,
as well as a villain? The first of our race, is he a coward?”

“I fear it,” answered the old man gloomily. “But,
cowardly or brave, he must disgrace our house no farther.
His time is come! his fate cries out for him! Aulus must
die! happy to die without the taint of public and detected

infamy—happy to die unseen in his father's house, not in
the base and sordid Tullianum.”

“Mother! mother!” exclaimed the wretched youth in
a paroxysm of agony. “Sisters, speak for me—plead for
me! I am young, oh, too young to die!”

“The mother, whom thou hast sworn to murder—the
sisters, whose virgin youth thou hast agreed to yield to the
licentious arms of thy foul confederates!” answered the old
man sternly; while the women, with blanched visages,
convulsed with agony, were silent, even to that appeal.

“Speak, speak! will you not speak for me, for your
first-born son, my mother?”

“Farewell!”—the cold word came forth from her pallid
lips, with a mighty effort—“Farewell, unhappy!” And,
unable to endure the dreadful scene any longer, she arose
from her seat, and laid her hand on the blind woman's
arm. “Come,” she said, “mother of my lord! our task is
ended! his doom spoken! Let us go hence!”

But the youngest sister, overcoming her fear of the stern
father, her modesty of youth, and her sense of high-strained
honor, cast herself at the old man's feet, and clung
about his knees, crying with a shrill painful cry—

“Oh, father! by your right hand! by your gray head!
by all the Gods! I implore you, pardon, spare him!”

“Up! up! base girl!” cried the old man; “wouldst
have the infamy of our house made public? and thou, most
miserable ooy, spare ner, thou, this disgrace, and me this
anguish—veil thy head! bow thee o the block! bid the
slave do his office! At least, Aulus, if thou hast not lived,
at least die, a Roman!”

The second of the girls, while her sister had made that
fruitless appeal to the father's mercy, walked steadily to
her brother, kissed his brow with a tearless eye, and in a
low voice bade him “Farewell for ever!” then turned
away, impassive as her father, and followed her mother
and the blind grandam from the fatal hall.

But the third daughter stepped up to the faltering youth
with a hectic flush on her cheek, and a fitful fire in her
eye, and whispered in his ear,

“Aulus, my brother! unhappy one, it is vain! Thou
must die, for our house's honor! Die, then, my brother,
as it becomes a Fulvius, bravely, and by a free hand!

Which of our house perished ever by a base weapon, or a
slavish blow? Thou wert brave ever,—be brave now,
oh! my brother!”

And at her words, his courage, his pride, rallied to his
aid; and he met her eye with a flashing glance, and answered
in a firm tone, “I will, sister. I will die as becomes
a Roman, as becomes a Fulvius! But how shall I die by
a free hand, bound as I am, and weaponless?”

“Thus, brother,” she replied, drawing a short keen
knife from the bosom of her linen stola; and severing the
bonds which confined his elbows, she placed it in his hands.
“It is keen! it will not fail you! it is the last gift of the
last who loves you, Aulus!”

“The best gift! Farewell, sister!”

“Farewell, Aulus, for ever!” And she too kissed him
on the brow; and as she kissed him, a hot tear fell upon
his cheek. Then, turning toward her sister who was still
clinging to the old man's knees, embarrassing him with
useless prayers, so that he had observed none of that by-play,
she said to her firmly,

“Come, little girl, come! It is fruitless! Bid him farewell!
he is prepared to die! he cannot survive his honor!”

And she drew her away, screaming and struggling, with
eyes deluged in tears, from the apartment wherein the
Senator now stood face to face with his first born, the slave
alone present as a witness of the last struggle.

But Aulus had by this time recovered all the courage of
his race, all his own natural audacity; and waving his
hand with a proud gesture toward the slave, he exclaimed
in tones of severe authority:

“Dismiss that wretched slave, Aulus Fulvius. Ready
I am to die—nay! I wish not to live! But it becomes
not thee to doom me to such a death, nor me so to die!
Noble I am, and free; and by a free hand will I die, and
a noble weapon!”

There was so much command, so much high pride, and
spirit, in his tone, his expression, and his gesture, that an
answering chord was struck in the mind of the old man;
so that without reply, and without evincing any surprise at
seeing the youth's arms unbound, he waved a signal to the
slave to depart from the atrium

Then the youth knelt down on one knee before the
altar, and cried aloud in a solemn voice—

“Pardon me, ye Gods of our house, for this dishonor
which I have brought upon you; absolve me, ye grand ancestors;
mine eyes are open now, and I perceive the sin,
the shame, the sorrow of my deeds! Absolve me, ye
great Gods, and ye glorious men; and thou, my father,
think sometimes of the son, whom it repented of his guilt,
but whom it pained not”—he raised his arm aloft, and the
bright knife-blade glittered in the rays of the altar-fire,
when the old Senator sprang forward, with all his features
working strangely, and cried “Hold!”

It might be that he had relented; but if it were so, it
was too late; for, finishing his interrupted sentence with
these words—

—“to die for his house's honor!”—

the young man struck himself one quick blow on the
breast, with a hand so sure and steady, that the knife
pierced through his ribs as if they had been paper, and
clove his heart asunder, standing fixed hilt-deep in his
chest; while, without word, or groan, or sigh or struggle,
he dropped flat on his back beside the impluvium, and was
dead in less time than it has taken to describe the deed.

The father looked on for a moment calmly; and then
said in a cool hard voice, “It is well! it is well! The
Gods be thanked! he died as a Roman should!”

Then he composed his limbs, and threw a white cloth
which lay nigh the block, over the face and body of the
wretched youth.

But, as he turned to leave the atrium, nature was too
strong for his philosophy, for his pride; and crying out,
“My son! my son! He was yet mine own son! mine
own Aulus!” and burying his face in his toga, he burst
into a paroxysm of loud grief, and threw himself at length
on the dead body: father and son victims alike to the inexorable
Roman honor!