University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE CAMP IN THE APPENNINES.

Henry IV.

There is a wild gorge in the very summit of the Appennines,
not quite midway between Florence and Pistoia, the
waters of which, shed in different directions, flow on the
one hand tributaries to the Po, and on the other to the Arno,
swelling the Adriatic, and the Mediterranean seas.

The mountains rise abruptly in bare crags, covered here
and there by a low growth of myrtle and wild olives, on
either hand this gorge, quite inaccessible to any large array
of armed men, though capable of being traversed by solitary
foresters or shepherds. Below, the hills fall downward
in a succession of vast broken ridges, in places rocky
and almost perpendicular, in places swelling into rounded
knolls, feathered with dark rich forests of holm oak and
chesnut.

In the highest part of this gorge, where it spreads out
into a little plain, perched like the eyry of some ravenous
bird of prey, the camp of Catiline was pitched, on the second
evening after the execution of his comrades.

Selected with rare judgment, commanding all the lower
country, and the descent on one hand into the Val d'Arno
and thence to Rome, on the other into the plain of the Po
and thence into Cisalpine Gaul, the whole of which was
ripe for insurrection, that camp secured to him an advance

upon the city, should his friends prove successful, or a retreat
into regions where he could raise new levies in case
of their failure.

A Roman camp was little less than a regular fortification,
being formed mostly in an oblong square, with a broad
ditch and earthen ramparts garnished by a stockade, with
wooden towers at the gates, one of which pierced each side
of the intrenchment.

And to such a degree of perfection and celerity had long
experience and the most rigid discipline brought the legions,
that it required an incredibly short time to prepare
such a camp for any number of men; a thing which never
was omitted to be done nightly even during the most arduous
marches and in the face of an enemy.

Catiline was too able and too old a soldier to neglect such
precaution under any circumstances; and assuredly he
would not have done so now, when the consul Antonius
lay with two veteran legions within twenty miles distance
in the low country east of Florence, while Quintus Metellus
Celer, at the head of a yet larger force, was in the Picene
district on his rear, and not so far off but he might
have attempted to strike a blow at him.

His camp, capable of containing two full legions, the
number of which he had completed, all free-born men and
Roman citizens, for he had refused the slaves who flocked
at first to his standard in great force, was perfectly defended,
and provided with all the usual tents and divisions; so
that every cohort, manipule, and century, nay every man,
knew his own station.

The sun had just sunk beneath the horizon and the night
watches had been set by sound of trumpets, the horsemen
had been appointed for the rounds, and an outpost of light-armed
soldiers pushed forward in front of all the gates.

There was a rosy tinge still lingering in the sky, and a
few slant rays were shot through the gaps in the mountain
ridge, gilding the evergreen foliage of the holm-oaks with
bright lustre, and warming the cold grey stones which
cumbered the sides and summits of the giant hills; but all
the level country at their feet was covered with deep purple
shadow.

Catiline sat alone in his prætorium, as the general's pavilion
was entitled, situated on a little knoll nearly in the

centre of the camp between the tents of the tribunes, and
the quarters of the extraordinary horse.

He was completely armed, all but his head, and wore a
rich scarlet cloak above his panoply, his helmet and buckler
lying upon the ground beside him in easy reach of his
hand. A pen was in his fingers, and a sheet of parchment
was stretched on the board before him; but he was not
writing, although there were several lines scrawled on it
in a bold coarse hand.

His face was paler and more livid than usual, and his
frame thinner, almost indeed emaciated, yet every sinew
and muscle was hard as tempered steel.

But now there was a strange expression in his features;
it was not doubt nor hesitation, much less fear; and consisted
perhaps rather in the absence of his wonted characteristics,
the unquiet and quick changes, the passionate restlessness,
the fell deadly sneer, and the blighting flash of
the dark eye, than in any token of peculiar meaning.—
There was a cold and almost vacant expression in his gaze;
and an impassive calmness in all his lineaments, that were
in singular contrast with the character of the man; and he
sat, a thing most unusual for him, perfectly motionless, buried
in deep thought.

The night was very cold, and, without, a heavy hoar
frost was falling; so that a fire of charcoal had keen kindled
in a bronze brazier, and as the light of the sky died
away strange lurid gleams and fantastic shadows rose and
fell, upon the walls of the large tent, rendered more fickle
and grotesque by the wavering of the canvass in the gusty
night air. There was wine with several goblets upon the
board, at which he sat, with his eyes fixed straight before
him; and at his elbow there stood a tall brazen tripod supporting
a large lamp with several burners; but none of
these were lighted, and, but for the fitful glare of the char-coal,
the tent would have been completely dark.

Still he called not to any slave, nor appeared to observe
the growing obscurity, but sat gloomily pondering—on
what?

Once or twice he drew his hand across his eyes, and
then glared still more fixedly upon the dark and waving
shadows as if he saw something more than common in
their uncertain outlines.

Suddenly he spoke, in a hoarse altered voice—“This is
strange,” he said, “very strange! Now, were I one of these
weak fools who believe in omens, I should shake. But
tush! tush! how should there be omens? for who should
send them? there must be Gods, to have omens! and that
is too absurd for credence! Gods! Gods!” he repeated
half dubiously—“Yet, if there should—ha! ha! art thou
turned dotard, Catiline? There are no Gods, or why sleep
their thunders? Aye! there it is again,” he added, gazing
on vacancy. “By my right hand! it is very strange! three
times last night, the first time when the watch was set, and
twice afterward I saw him! And three times again to-night,
since the trumpet was blown. Lentulus, with his
lips distorted, his face black and full of blood, his eyes
starting from their sockets, like a man strangled! and he
beckoned me with his pale hand! I saw him, yet so shadowy
and so transparent, that I might mark the waving of
the canvass through his figure!—But tush! tush! it is but
a trick of the fancy. I am worn out with this daily marching;
and the body's fatigue hath made the mind weak and
weary. And it is dull here too, no dice, no women, and
no revelling. I will take some wine,” he added, starting
up and quaffing two or three goblets' full in quick succession,
“my blood is thin and cold, and wants warming. Ha!
that is better—It is right old Setinian too; I marvel whence
Manlius had it.” Then he rose from his seat, and began
to stride about the room impatiently. After a moment or
two he dashed his hand fiercely against his brow, and cried
in a voice full of anguish and perturbation, “Tidings! tidings!
I would give half the world for tidings! Curses!
curses upon it! that I began this game at all, or had not
brave colleagues! It is time! can it be that their hearts
have failed them? that they have feared or delayed to
strike, or have been overthrown, detected?—Tidings, tidings!
By Hades! I must have tidings! What ho!” he exclaimed,
raising his voice to a higher pitch, “Ho, I say, ho!
Chærea!”

And from an outer compartment of the tent the Greek
freedman entered, bearing a lighted lamp in his hand.

“Chærea, summon Manlius hither, and leave the lamp,
have been long in the darkness!”

“Wert sleeping, Catiline?”

“Sleeping!” exclaimed the traitor, with a savage cry,
hoarse as the roar of a wounded lion—“sleeping, thou
idiot! Do men sleep on volcanoes? Do men sleep in the
crisis of their fortunes? I have not slept these six nights.
Get thee gone! summon Manlius!” and then, as the freedman
left the room, he added; “perchance I shall sleep no
more until—I sleep for ever! I would I could sleep, and
not see those faces; they never troubled me till now. I
would I knew if that sleep is dreamless. If it were so—
perhaps, perhaps! but no! no! By all the Furies! no!
until my foot hath trodden on the neck of Cicero.”

As he spoke, Manlius entered the room, a tall dark sinister-looking
scar-seamed veteran, equipped in splendid armor,
of which the helmet alone was visible, so closely was
he wrapped against the cold in a huge shaggy watch-cloak.

As his subordinate appeared, every trace of the conflict
which had been in progress within him vanished, and his
brow became as impassive, his eye as hard and keen as its
wont.

“Welcome, my Caius,” he exclaimed. “Look you, we
have present need of council. The blow must be stricken
before this in Rome, or must have failed altogether. If it
have been stricken, we should be nearer Rome to profit by
it—if it have failed, we must destroy Antonius' army, before
Metellus join him. I doubt not he is marching hitherward
even now. Besides, we must, we must have tidings
—we must know all, and all truly!”

Then, seeing that Manlius doubted, “Look you,” he
continued. “Let us march at daybreak to-morrow upon
Fæsulæ, leaving Antonius in the plain on our right. Marching
along the crest of the hills, he cannot assail our flank.
We can outstrip him too, and reach Arretium ere the second
sunset. He, thinking we have surely tidings from
our friends in the city, will follow in disordered haste; and
should we have bad news, doubling upon him on a sudden
we may overpower him at one blow. It is a sure scheme
either way—think'st thou not so, good friend? nay more,
it is the only one.”

“I think so, Sergius,” he replied. “In very deed I think
so. Forage too is becoming scarce in the camp, and the
baggage horses are dying. The men are murmuring also

for want of the pleasures, the carouses, and the women
of the cities. They will regain their spirits in an hour,
when they shall hear of the march upon Rome.”

“I prithee, let them hear it, then, my Caius; and that
presently. Give orders to the tribunes and centurions to
have the tents struck, and the baggage loaded in the first
hour of the last night-watch. We will advance at—ha!”
he exclaimed, interrupting himself suddenly, and listening
with eager attention. “There is a horse tramp crossing
from the gates. By the Gods! news from Rome! Tarry
with me, until we hear it.”

Within five minutes, Chærea re-entered the tent, introducing
a man dressed and armed as a light-horseman, covered
with mudstains, travelworn, bending with fatigue,
and shivering with cold, the hoar-frost hanging white upon
his eyebrows and beard.

“From Rome, good fellow?” Catiline inquired quickly.
“From Rome, Catiline!” replied the other, “bearing a
letter from the noble Lentulus.”

“Give—give it quick!” and with the word he snatched
the scroll from the man's hand, tore it violently open, and
read aloud as follows.

“Who I may be, you will learn from the bearer. All
things go bravely. The ambassadors have lost their suit,
but we have won ours. They return home to-morrow, by
the Flaminian way, one Titus of Crotona guiding them, who
shall explain to you our thoughts and hopes—but, of this
doubt not, thoughts shall be deeds, and hopes success, before
this hour to-morrow.”

“By all the Gods!” cried Catiline with a shout of joy.
“Ere this time all is won! Cicero, Cicero, I have triumphed,
and thou, mine enemy, art nothing;” then turning
to the messenger, he asked, “When didst leave Rome,
with these joyous tidings? when sawest the noble Lentulus?”

“On the fourth[1] day before the nones, at sunset.”

“And we are now in the sixth[2] before the Ides. Thou
hast loitered on the way, Sirrah.”

“I was compelled to quit my road, Catiline, and to lie
hid four days among the hills to avoid a troop of horse

which pursued me, seeing that I was armed; an advanced
guard, I think, of Antonius' army.”

“Thou didst well. Get thee gone, and bid them supply
thy wants. Eat, drink, and sleep—we march upon Rome
at day-break to-morrow.”

The man left the apartment, and looking to Manlius
with a flushed cheek and exulting aspect, Catiline exclaimed.

“Murmuring for pleasure, and for women, are they?
Tell them, good friend, they shall have all the gold of
Rome for their pleasure, and all its patrician dames for
their women. Stir up their souls, my Manlius, kindle their
blood with it matters not what fire! See to it, my good
comrade, I am aweary, and will lay me down, I can sleep
after these good tidings.”

But it was not destined that he should sleep so soon.

He had thrown himself again into a chair, and filled
himself a brimming goblet of the rich wine, when he repeated
to himself in a half musing tone—

“Murmuring for their women? ha!—By Venus! I cannot
blame the knaves. It is dull work enough without the
darlings. By Hercules! I would Aurelia were here; or
that jade Lucia! Pestilent handsome was she, and then
so furious and so fiery! By the Gods! were she here, I
would bestow one caress on her at the least, before she died,
as die she shall, in torture by my hand! Curses on her, she
has thwarted, defied, foiled me! By every fiend and Fury!
ill shall she perish, were she ten times my daughter!”

Again there was a bustle without the entrance of the
pavilion, and again Chærea introduced a messenger.

It was Niger, one of the swordsmith's men. Catiline
recognized him in an instant.

“Ha! Niger, my good lad, from Caius Crispus, ha?”—

“From Caius Crispus, praying succor, and that swift,
lest it be too late.”

“Succor against whom? succor where, and wherefore?”

“Against a century of Antonius' foot. They came
upon us unawares, killed forty of our men, and drove the
stout smith for shelter into a ruined watch-tower, on the
hill above the cataract, near to Usella, which happily afforded
him a shelter. They have besieged us there these
two days; but cannot storm us until our arrows fail, or

they bring up engines. But our food is finished, and our
wine wakes low, and Julia”—

“Who? Julia?” shouted Catiline, scarce able to believe
his ears, and springing from his chair in rapturous agitation—“By
your life! speak! what Julia?”—

“Hortensia's daughter, whom”—

“Enough! enough! Chærea”—he scrawled a few words
on a strip of parchment—“this to Terentius the captain
of my guard. Three hundred select horsemen to be in
arms and mounted within half an hour. Let them take
torches, and a guide for Usella. Saddle the black horse
Erebus. Get me some food and a watch-cloak. Get thee
away. Now tell me all, good fellow.”

The man stated rapidly, but circumstantially, all that
he knew of the occurrences of Julia's seizure, of the capture
of Aulus, and of their journey; and then, his eyes
gleaming with the fierce blaze of excited passion and triumphant
hatred, Catiline cross-questioned him concerning
the unhappy girl. Had she been brought thus far safely
and with unblemished honor? Had she suffered from
hunger or fatigue? Had her beauty been impaired by
privation?

And, having received satisfactory replies to all his
queries, he gave himself up to transports of exultation,
such as his own most confidential freedman never before
had witnessed.

Dismissing the messenger, he strode to and fro the hut,
tossing his arms aloft and bursting into paroxysms of fierce
laughter.

“Ha! ha! too much!—it is too much for one night!
Ha! ha! ha! ha! Love, hatred, passion, triumph, rage,
revenge, ambition, all, all gratified! Ha! ha! Soft, gentle
Julia—proud, virtuous one that did despise me, thou shalt
writhe for it—from thy soul shalt thou bleed for it! Ha!
ha! Arvina—liar! fool! perjurer! but this will wring
thee worse than Ixion's wheel, or whips of scorpions!—
Ha! ha! Cicero! Cicero!—No! no! Chærea. There are
no Gods! no Gods who guard the innocent! no Gods
who smile on virtue! no gods! I say, no Gods! no Gods,
Chærea!”—

But, as he spoke, there burst close over head an appaling

crash of thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning so
vivid and pervading that the whole tent seemed to be on
fire. The terrified Greek fell to the earth, stunned and
dazzled; but the audacious and insane blasphemer, tossing
his arms and lifting his front proudly, exclaimed with
his cynical sneer, “If ye be Gods! strike! strike! I defy
your vain noise! your harmless thunder!”

For ten minutes or more, blaze succeeded blaze, and
crash followed crash, with such tremendous rapidity, that
the whole heavens, nay, the whole atmosphere, appeared
incandescent with white, sulphureous, omnipresent fire;
and that the roar of the volleyed thunder was continuous
and incessant.

Still the fierce traitor blenched not. Crime and success
had maddened him. His heart was hardened, his head
frenzied, to his own destruction.

But the winter storm in the mountains was as brief as
it was sudden, and tremendous; and it ceased as abruptly
as it broke out unexpectedly. A tempest of hail came
pelting down, the grape-shot as it were of that heavenly
artillery, scourging the earth with furious force during ten
minutes more; and then the night was as serene and tranquil
as it had been before that elemental uproar.

As the last flash of lightning flickered faintly away, and
the last thunder roll died out in the sky, Catiline stirred the
freedman with his foot.

“Get up, thou coward fool. Did I not tell thee that
there are no Gods? lo! you now! for what should they
have roused this trumpery pother, if not to strike me?
Tush, man, I say, get up!”

“Is it thou, Sergius Catiline?” asked the Greek, scarce
daring to raise his head from the ground. “Did not the
bolt annihilate thee? art thou not indeed dead?”—

“Judge if I be dead, fool, by this, and this, and this!”—

And, with each word, he kicked and trampled on the
grovelling wretch with such savage violence and fury, that
he bellowed and howled for mercy, and was scarce able
to creep out of the apartment, when he ceased stamping
upon him, and ordered him to begone speedily and bring
his charger.

Ere many minutes had elapsed, the traitor was on horse-back.

And issuing from the gates of his camp into the calm
and starry night, he drove, with his escort at his heels,
with the impetuosity and din of a whirlwind, waking the
mountain echoes by the clang of the thundering hoofs, and
the clash of the brazen armor and steel scabbards, down
the steep defile toward Usella.