University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
A NIGHT OF HORROR.

Childe Harold.

The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and
silvery moon was sailing through the azure skies; as
peaceful as though her pure light shone upon sights of
happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the commonwealth
had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness,
not triumph.

Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that
morning from the Prætorian gate, scarce two-thirds had
returned at sun-set.

And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most
noble of the host; for all the most gallant had fallen dead
in that desperate struggle, or had sunk down faint, with
wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their conquered
foemen.

Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped
from that dread route; and of that mighty power,
which at the close of day was utterly exterminated, it is on
record that neither in the combat, while it lasted, nor in the
slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen taken
—a living captive.

For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable
that never in the annals of the world was there the like
carnage; nor is this wonderful, when the nature of the

ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to the
vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered
almost every wound surely mortal, and the nature of the
strife, which rendered the men of either party pitiless and
desperate, are all taken into consideration.

In long ranks, like grass in the mower's swathes, the
rebel warriors lay, with their grim faces, and glazed eyes,
set in that terrible expression of ferocity which is always
observed on the lineaments of those who have died from
wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them,
or near them, in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in
number, the corpses of their slaughtered conquerors. So
equal was the havoc; so equal the value which the men
had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.

Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution.
They who had taken to the sword had perished by
the sword, not figuratively but in the literal meaning of
the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen stabbed, by
the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.

With the exception of the five chiefs who had already
wrestled out their dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly
strangled, there was no traitor slain save by the steel
blade's edge.

The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword
the judge and executioner, by which to a man the conspirators
expiated their atrocious crimes.

No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field.
None had survived on whom to wreak the vengeance of
the state. Never was victory so complete or final.

But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no
glory to the victors.

So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously
contested the series of single combats into which it
was resolved, after the final and decisive charge of the
Prætorian cohort, that the shades of the early winter night
were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak
and shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was
recalled by the wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from
that tremendous butchery.

The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled;
but no shouts of the exulting soldiers were to be

heard hailing their general “Imperator;” no songs of triumph
pealed to the skies in honor of the great deeds done,
the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed;
no triumph—not an oration even—was to be hoped
for by the victorious leader of that victorious host, which
had conquered indeed for the liberties of Rome, but had
conquered, not on foreign earth, in no legitimate warfare,
against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the republic,
at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against
Romans, citizens, and brothers.

The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends,
the shrieks of women, went up the livelong night from that
woful camp. To hear that grievous discord, one would
have judged it rather the consequences of defeat than of
victory, however sad and bloody.

No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with
whom the camp was crowded, as rushing forth to meet the
returning legions, they missed the known faces altogether,
or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps to die
after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had
so boldly striven.

Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his
next neighbor, save in so much as this, that few of those
who went down in such a meleè, could be expected ever
again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of
morning.

Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies
that met the wives, the mothers, the betrothed maidens,
widowed ere wedded, as with rent garments, and dishevelled
hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the sorrowful
ranks, shrieking, “Where are they,” and were answered
only by the short echo, “Where.”

Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught
of her Arvina; until at a late hour of the night, remembering
her solitary situation and high birth, and taking a deep
interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself visited her, not to
instil false hope, but to console if possible her wounded
spirit by praises of her lost lover's conduct.

“He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the
whole of that deadly struggle; and none with more valor,
or more glory. He led the last bloody onset, and was the
first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia, you

must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory.
Julia, he was a hero.”

“Was!” replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and
streaming eyes—“then he is no longer?”

“I do not know, but fear it,” said the stout soldier;
“He had vowed himself to slay Catiline with his own
hands. Such vows are not easy, Julia, nor safe of performance.”

“And Catiline?” asked Julia,—“the parricide—the
monster?”

“Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have
survived it,” replied Petreius. “But how he fell, or where,
as yet we know not.”

“Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus.”

“I think so, Julia,” answered the general.

“I know it,” she said slowly—“but what availeth that
to me—to me who had rather hear one accent of his noble
voice, meet one glance of his glorious eye—alas! alas!
my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive
him!”

“Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false
hopes, but he may yet be living; many are wounded doubtless,
who shall be saved to-morrow—”

“To-morrow?” she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting
upon her soul like the dayspring. “Why not to-night?—
Petreius, I say, why not to-night?”

“It is impossible. The men are all worn out with
wounds and weariness, and must have daylight to the task.
Dear girl, it is impossible.”

“I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him.”

“You must not, Julia.”

“Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed
maiden from her true lover,—true, alas! in death! in
death!”

“I will,” replied Petreius firmly. “You know not the
perils of such a night as this. The gaunt wolves from the
Appennines; the foul and carrion vultures; the plundering
disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who roam
the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more
sordid than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you,
Julia. But with the earliest dawn to-morrow I will myself

go with you. Fare you well, try to sleep, and hope,
hope for the best, poor Julia.”

And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation,
the noble Roman left the tent, giving strict orders to the
peasant girls who had been pressed into her service, and
to Arvina's freedmen who were devoted to her, on no account
to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even,
if need were, to use force to prevent her.

Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting
over the field of blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the
flow of blood and fanning the brow of many a maimed and
gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of life, as to
be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing
shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might be heard now
on all sides, where, before the wind rose, there had been
but feeble wailings and half-unconscious lamentations.

Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side,
another, and another, and then the snarling fiendish cry of
the fell wolf-pack.

Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each
helpless sufferer, unanimous, as that accursed sound fell
on their palsied ears, and tortured them back into life.

But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles,
nor even the shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the
legionaries from the camp, who hoped thus to scare the
bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of friend and foe,
leal comrade and false traitor.

It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls
and fierce snarls of the hungry wolves, battening upon their
horrid meal, were added the flapping wings and croaking
cries of innumerable night birds flocking to the carnage;
and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and
faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword
were the beak and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild
beast and the carrion fowl.

Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!

That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to
new life, and new horrors. Though gashed and weak from
loss of blood, none of his wounds were mortal, and yet he
felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt, even if
spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.

As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was
feeling about for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp
as he fainted, he heard his name called feebly by some one
near him.

“Who calls Arvina?” he replied faintly. “I am here.”

“I, Caius Pansa,” answered the voice; it was that of the
old legionary horseman, who had predicted so confidently
the fall of Catiline by the hand of Paullus. “I feared thou
wert dead.”

“We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa,” replied the
young man. “Hark! to those wolves! It makes my
very flesh creep on my bones! They are sweeping this
way, too.”

“No! no! cheer up, brave heart,” replied the veteran.
“We will not die this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to
me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I cannot stir. I have
wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather bottle.
Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough
in me to beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus;
come, brave youth. We will share the wine! You shall
not die this time. I saw you kill that dog—I knew that
you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward.”

Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept
feebly and with sore anguish to the old trooper's side, and
shared his generously proffered cup; and, animated by the
draught, and deriving fresh courage from his praises, endured
the horrors of that awful night, until the day breaking
in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to
their obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.

Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them,
and the fierce wolf-howls had come within ten feet of
where they sat, half recumbent, propped on a pile of dead,
but still their united voices and the defensive show which
they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and
new hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and
certain.

Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and
the shouts of the soldiers, as they discerned some friend
living, or some leader of the rebels dead or dying, came
swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on the fresh
morning air.

At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly

acute and bitter, from a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina
and the old trooper, that after calling several times in
vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,

“It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè
as this, and such a night as the last, any poor fellow
should die now. Cannot you crawl to him with the flask,
and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus.”

“I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my
hurts shoot terribly, but I will try.”

And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his
teeth, he crawled painfully and wearily toward the spot
whence the sounds proceeded; but ere he reached it,
creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed
a corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly
distorted in the death pang, that involuntarily he paused to
gaze upon it.

It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not,
so frightfully was his face altered, his nether lip literally
gnawed half-through, by his own teeth in the death agony,
and his other features lacerated by the beak and talons of
some half-gorged vulture.

But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed
eyes stared upon him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew
him at the same moment, and started back a little, drawing
a deep breath through his set teeth, and murmuring,
“Ah! Catiline!”

The dying traitor's lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic
grin, and he strove hard to speak, but the words rattled
in his throat inarticulate, and a sharp ruckling groan
was the only sound that he uttered.

But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the
ground, and drove his sword, which he still clasped in his
convulsed fingers, by a last desperate exertion through
Paullus' massive corslet, and deep into his bosom.

With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two
or three struggles to arise, lay on his face motionless, and
senseless.

Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes
rolling in a strange mixed expression of agony and triumph;
while old Pansa, after crying, twice or thrice, “Paullus,
ho! noble Paullus!' exclaimed mournfully, “Alas! He is
dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him.”

Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several
mounted officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came
riding slowly toward the fatal spot, pausing from time to
time to examine every pile of carcasses, and after causing
his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the hope
of finding him they sought.

Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded
even by the discovery of any wounded friends or comrades,
for this was the place in which the battle had been
most desperately contested, and few had fallen here but
to die almost on the instant.

But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general.

“Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!”

“The immortal Gods be praised!” cried Julia, interpreting
the casual words at once to signify Arvina, and
giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped to the spot, followed
by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was
not so deceived.

“Who? who is here?” exclaimed the general. “Ha!
my stout Pansa, right glad am I to find you living. See
to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But whom do you
mean? Who is here?”

“Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!”—

“By all the Gods!” exclaimed Petreius, leaping down
from his horse and gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase,
still breathing a little, and retaining in its face that ferocity
of soul which had distinguished it while living!

But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle,
and rushed heedless and unconscious, through pools of
blood, ancle deep, treading on human corpses, in her wild
haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor, the
casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate
hands, which could alone be distinguished of her
lover's prostrate form.

“Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!”

“Alas! alas!”—cried Petreius, “Raise her up; raise
them both, this is most lamentable!”—

“Never heed me!” said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to
the officers who were busy raising him from the ground.
“Help the poor girl! Help the brave youth! He may be

living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas! that
he is not living now!”

“Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend?—
who slew him?”

Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a
horrid smile, the glaring eyes again opened, and starting
half upright he shook his hand aloft, and with a frightful
effort, half laugh, half groan, half words articulate, sneered
fiendishly—“I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha!
ha!”—

But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the
officers who had lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek
from Julia.

“He is not dead!”

“His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood.”

“He lives! he lives!”—

“Curses! cur—cur—ha! ha!—this—this is—Hades!”

The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror
glared from the savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a
quick spasm shook the strong frame, and in a paroxysm of
frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the dark spirit,
which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting
home.

It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion
was thus quenched in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul.
But it was blithesome springtide, and the great orator
had long since sworn THAT HE HAD SAVED HIS COUNTRY,
among the acclamations of a people for once grateful;
had long since retired into the calm serenity of private life
and literary leisure, when Paullus was sufficiently recov
ered from his wounds to receive the thanks of his friend
and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and
great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet
Julia. It was balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was
peace and prosperity, most suitable to the delicious season,
when on the sacred day of Venus,[1] clad in her snow-white
bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes, her
blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil,
the lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold
of her noble husband's mansion, amid the merry

blaze of waxen torches, and the soft swell of hymeneal
music, and the congratulations of such a train of consuls,
consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen
collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though
soft and gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula—

“Where thou art Caius, I am Caia.”

Thenceforth their trials ceased, their happiness began;
and thenceforth, they two were one for ever. And, for
years afterward, when Roman maidens called blessings
down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to wish
her than to be happy as Arvina's Julia.

And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory
life, if not by the love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship
of such a man as Cicero, the fame of such a deed, as the
death of THE Roman Traitor.