The Roman traitor :: :: University of Virginia Library

In a small street, not far from the Sacred Way and the
Roman Forum, there was a large house, occupying the
whole of one insula, as the space contained between four
intersecting streets was called by the ancients.

But, although by its great size and a certain rude magnificence,
arising from the massy stone-work of its walls,
and the solemn antiquity of the old Oscan columns which
adorned its entrance, it might be recognised at once as the
abode of some Patrician family; it was as different in
many respects from the abodes of the aristocracy of that
day, as if it had been erected in a different age and country.

It had no stately colonnades of foreign marbles, no tesselated
pavement to the vestibule, no glowing frescoes on
the walls, no long lines of exterior windows, glittering
with the new luxury of glass. All was decorous, it is true;
but all, at the same time, was stern, and grave, and singular
for its antique simplicity.

On either hand of the entrance, there was, in accordance
with the custom of centuries long past, when Rome's
Consulars were tillers of the ground, a large shop with an
open front, devoted to the sale of the produce of the owner's

farm. And, strange to say, although the custom had
been long disused in these degenerate times, it seemed
that the owner of this time-honored mansion adhered sturdily
to the ancient usage of his race.

For, in one of these large cold unadorned vaults, a tall
grayheaded slave, a rural laborer, as it required no second
glance to perceive, was presiding over piles of cheese,
stone-jars of honey, baskets of autumn fruits, and sacks of
grain, by the red light of a large smoky flambeau; while a
younger man, who from his resemblance to the other
might safely be pronounced his son, was keeping an account
of the sales by a somewhat complicated system of
tallies.

In the other apartment, two youths, slaves likewise
from the suburban or rustic farm, were giving samples, to
such as wished to buy, of different qualities of wine from
several amphora or earthen pitchers, which stood on a
stone counter forming the sill of the low-browed window.

It was late in the evening already, and the streets were
rapidly growing dark; yet there were many passengers
abroad, more perhaps than was usual at that hour; and
now and then, a little group would form about one or the
other of the windows, cheapening and purchasing provisions,
and chatting for a few minutes, after their business
was finished, with their gossips.

These groups were composed altogether of the lowest
order of the free citizens of Rome, artizans, and small
shop keepers, and here and there a woman of low origin,
or perhaps a slave, the house steward of some noble family,
mingling half reluctantly with his superiors. For the
time had not arrived, when the soft eunuchs of the East,
and the bold bravoes of the heroic North, favorites and
tools of some licentious lord, dared to insult the freeborn
men of Rome, or gloried in the badges of their servitude.

The conversation ran, as it was natural to expect, on
the probable results of the next day's election; and it was
a little remarkable, that among these, who should have
been the supporters of the democratic faction, there appeared
to be far more of alarm and of suspicion, concerning
the objects of Catiline, than of enthusiasm for the popular
cause.

“He a man of the people, or the people's friend!” said
an old grave-looking mechanic; “No, by the Gods! no
more than the wolf is the friend of the sheepfold!”

“He may hate the nobles,” said another, “or envy the
great rich houses; but he loves nothing of the people, unless
it be their purses, if he can get a chance to squeeze
them”—

“Or their daughters,” interrupted a third, “if they be
fair and willing”—

“Little cares he for their good-will,” cried yet a fourth,
“so they are young and handsome. It is but eight days
since, that some of his gang carried off Marcus', the butcher's,
bride, Icilia, on the night of her bridal. They
kept her three days; and on the fourth sent her home dishonored,
with a scroll, `that she was now a fit wife for a
butcher'!”

“By the Gods!” exclaimed one or two of the younger
men, “who was it did this thing?”

“One of the people's friends!” answered the other,
with a sneer.

“The people have no friends, since Caius Marius died,”
said the deep voice of Fulvius Flaccus, as he passed casually
through the crowd.

“But what befel the poor Icilia?” asked an old matron,
who had been listening with greedy sympathy to the dark
tale.

“Why, Marcus would yet have taken her to his bosom,
seeing she had no share in the guilt; but she bore a heart
too Roman to bring disgrace upon one she loved, or to
survive her honor. Icilia is no longer.”

“She died like Lucretia!” said an old man, who stood
near, with a clouded brow, which flashed into stormy
light, as the same deep voice asked aloud,

“Shall she be so avenged?”

“But the transient gleam faded instantly away, and the
sad face was again blank and rayless, as he replied—

“No—for who should avenge her?”

“The people! the people!” shouted several voices, for
the mob was gathering, and growing angry—

“The Roman People should avenge her!”

“Tush!” answered Fulvius Flaccus. “There is no
Roman people!”

“And who are you,” exclaimed two or three of the
younger men, “that dare tell us so?”

“The grandson,” answered the republican, “of one,
who, while there yet was a people, loved it”—

“His name? his name?” shouted many voices.

“He hath no name”—replied Fulvius. “He lost that,
and his life together.”

“Lost them for the people?” inquired the old man,
whom he had first addressed, and who had been scrutinizing
him narrowly.

“And by the people,” answered the other. “For the
people's cause; and by the people's treason! — as is the
case,” he added, half scornfully, half sadly, “with all who
love the people.”

“Hear him, my countrymen,” said the old man. “Hear
him. If there be any one can save you, it is he. It is Fulvius,
the son of Caius, the son of Marcus—Flaccus. Hear
him, I say, if he will only lead you.”

“Lead us! speak to us! lead us!” shouted the fickle
crowd. “Love us, good Fulvius, as your fathers did of
old.”

“And die, for you, as they died!” replied the other, in
a tone of melancholy sarcasm. “Hark you, my masters,”
he added, “there are none now against whom to lead you;
and if there were, I think there would be none to follow.
Keep your palms unsoiled by the base bribes of the nobles!
Keep your ears closed to the base lies of the demagogues!
Keep your hearts true and honest! Keep your eyes open
and watchful! Brawl not, one with the other; but be
faithful, as brethren should. Be grave, laborious, sober,
and above all things humble, as men who once were free
and great, and now, by their own fault, are fallen and degraded.
Make yourselves fit to be led gloriously; and,
when the time shall come, there will be no lack of glorious
leaders!”

“But to-morrow? what shall we do to-morrow?” cried
several voices; but this time it was the elder men, who
asked the question, “for whom shall we vote to-morrow?”

“For the friend of the people!” answered Flaccus.

“Where shall we find him?” was the cry; “who is the
friend of the people?”

“Not he who would arm them, one against the other,”

he replied. “Not he, who would burn their workshops,
and destroy their means of daily sustenance! Not he, by
all the Gods! who sports with the honor of their wives,
the virtue”—

But he was interrupted here, by a stern sullen hum
among his audience, increasing gradually to a fierce savage
outcry. The mob swayed to and fro; and it was
evident that something was occurring in the midst, by
which it was tremendously excited.

Breaking off suddenly in his speech, the democrat
leaped on a large block of stone, standing at the corner of
the large house in front of which the multitude was gathered,
and looked out anxiously, if he might descry the cause
of the tumult.

Nor was it long ere he succeeded.

A young man, tall and of a slender frame, with features
singularly handsome, was making his way, as best he
could, with unsteady steps, and a face haggard and pale
with debauchery, through the tumultuous and angry concourse.

His head, which had no other covering than its long
curled and perfumed locks, was crowned with a myrtle
wreath; he wore a long loose saffron-colored tunic richly
embroidered, but ungirt, and flowing nearly to his
ankles; and from the dress, and the torch-bearers, who
preceded him, as well as from his wild eye and reeling
gait, it was evident that he was returning from some
riotous banquet.

Fulvius instantly recognised him. It was a kinsman of
his own, Aulus, the son of Aulus Fulvius, the noblest of
the survivors of his house, a senator of the old school, a
man of stern and rigid virtue, the owner of that grand
simple mansion, beside the door of which he stood.

But, though he recognised his cousin, he was at a loss
for a while to discover the cause of the tumult; 'till,
suddenly, a word, a female name, angrily murmured
through the crowd, gave a clue to its meaning.

“Icilia! Icilia!”

Still, though the crowd swayed to and fro, and jostled,
and shouted, becoming evidently more angry every moment,
it made way for the young noble, who advanced
fearlessly, with a sort of calm and scornful insolence,

contemning the rage which his own vile deed had
awakened.

At length one of the mob, bolder than the rest, thrust
himself in between the torch bearers and their lord, and
meeting the latter face to face, cried out, so that all the
crowd might hear,

“Lo! Aulus Fulvius! the violator of Icilia! the friend
of the people!”

A loud roar of savage laughter followed; and then,
encouraged by the applause of his fellows, the man
added,

“Vote for Aulus Fulvius, the friend of the people!
vote for good Aulus, and his virtuous friend Catiline!”

The hot blood flashed to the brow of the young noble,
at the undisguised scorn of the plebeian's speech. Insolence
he could have borne, but contempt!—and contempt
from a plebeian!

He raised his hand; and slight and unmuscular as he
appeared, indignation lent such vigor to that effeminate
arm, that the blow which he dealt him on the face, cast
the burly mechanic headlong, with the blood spouting
from his mouth and nostrils.

A fearful roar of the mob, and a furious rush against
the oppressor, followed.

The torch-bearers fought for their master gallantly,
with their tough oaken staves; and the young man showed
his patrician blood by his patrician courage in the fray.
Flaccus, too, wished and endeavored to interpose, not so
much that he cared to shield his unworthy kinsman, as
that he sought to preserve the energies of the people for
a more noble trial. The multitude, moreover, impeded
one another by their own violent impetuosity; and to this
it was owing, more than to the defence of his followers,
or the intercession of the popular Flaccus, that the young
libertine was not torn to pieces, on the threshold of his
own father's house.

The matter, however, was growing very serious—
stones, staves, and torches flew fast through the air—the
crash of windows in the neighboring houses was answered
by the roar of the increasing mob, and every
thing seemed to portend a very dangerous tumult; when,
at the same moment, the door of the Fulvian House was

thrown open, and the high-crested helmets of a cohort
were seen approaching, in a serried line, above the bare
heads of the multitude.

Order was restored very rapidly; for a pacific party
had been rallying around Fulvius Flaccus, and their
efforts, added to the advance of the levelled pila of the
cohort, were almost instantly successful.

Nor did the sight, which was presented by the opening
door of the Fulvian mansion, lack its peculiar influence
on the people.

An old man issued forth, alone, from the unfolded
portals.

He was indeed extremely old; with hair as white as
snow, and a long venerable beard falling in waves of
silver far down upon his chest. Yet his eyebrows were
black as night, and these, with the proud arch of his
Roman nose, and the glance of his eagle eyes, untamed
by time or hardship, almost denied the inference drawn
from the white head and reverend chin.

His frame, which must once have been unusually
powerful and athletic, was now lean and emaciated;
yet he held himself erect as a centennial pine on Mount
Algidus, and stood as firmly on his threshold, looking
down on the tumultuous concourse, which waved and
flunctuated, like the smaller trees of the mountain side,
beneath him.

His dress was of the plain and narrow cut, peculiar to
the good olden time; yet it had the distinctive marks of
the senatorial rank.

It was the virtuous, severe, old senator—the noblest,
alas! soon to be the last, of his noble race.

“What means this tumult?” he said in a deep firm
sonorous voice, “Wherefore is it, that ye shout thus,
and hurl stones about a friendly door! For shame! for
shame! What is it that ye lack? Bread? Ye have
had it ever at my hands, without seeking it thus rudely.”

“It is not bread, most noble Aulus, that we would
have,” cried the old man, who had made himself somewhat
conspicuous before, “but vengeance!”

“Venegeance, on whom, and for what?” exclaimed the
noble Roman.

But ere his question could be answered, the crowd

opened before him, and his son stood revealed, sobered
indeed by the danger he had run, but pale, haggard,
bleeding, covered with mud and filth, and supported by
one of his wounded slaves.

“Ah!” cried the old man, starting back aghast,
“What is this? What fresh crime? What recent infamy?
What new pollution of our name?”

“Icilia! Icilia! vengeance for poor Icilia!” cried the
mob once again; but they now made no effort to inflict
the punishment, for which they clamored; so perfect was
their confidence in the old man's justice, even against his
own flesh and blood.

At the next moment a voice was heard, loud and clear
as a silver trumpet, calling upon the people to disperse.

It was the voice of Paullus, who now strode into the
gap, left by the opening concourse, glittering in the full
panoply of a decurion of the horse, thirty dismounted
troopers arranging themselves in a glittering line behind
him.

At the sight of the soldiery, led by one whose face was
familiar to him, the audacity of the young man revived;
and turning round with a light laugh toward Arvina,

“Here is a precious coil,” he said, “my Paullus, about
a poor plebeian harlot!”

“I never heard that Icilia was such,” replied the young
soldier sternly, for the dark tale was but too well known;
“nor must you look to me, Aulus Fulvius, for countenance
in deeds like these, although it be my duty to protect
you from violence! Come my friends,” he continued,
turning to the multitude, “You must disperse, at
once, to your several homes; if any have been wronged
by this man, he can have justice at the tribunal of the
Prætor! But there must be no violence!”

“Is this thing true, Aulus?” asked the old man, in
tones so stern and solemn, that the youth hung his head
and was silent.

“Is this thing true?” the Senator repeated.

“Why, hath he not confessed it?” asked the old man,
who had spoken so many times before; and who had
lingered with Fulvius Flaccus, and a few others of the
crowd. “It is true.”

“Who art thou?” asked the old Patrician, a terrible
suspicion crossing his mind.

“The father of that daughter, whom thy son forcibly
dishonored!”

“Enter!” replied the senator, throwing the door, in
front of which he stood, wide open, “thou shalt have
justice!”

Then, casting a glance full of sad but resolute determination
upon the culprit, all whose audacity had passed
away, he said in a graver tone,

“Enter thou likewise; thou shalt have punishment!”

“Punishment!” answered the proud youth, his eye
flashing, “Punishment! and from whom?”

“Punishment from thy father! wilt thou question it?
Punishment, even unto death, if thou shalt be found worthy
to die!—the law is not dead, if it have slept awhile!
Enter!”

He dared not to reply—he dared not to refuse. Slow,
sullen, and crest-fallen, he crossed his father's threshhold;
but, as he did so, he glared terribly on Paullus,
and shook his hand at him, and cried in tones of deadly
hatred,

“This is thy doing! curses—curses upon thee! thou
shalt rue it!”

Arvina smiled in calm contempt of his impotent resentment.

The culprit, the accuser, and the judge passed inward;
the door closed heavily behind them; the crowd dispersed;
the soldiery marched onward; and the street,
in front of the Fulvian House, was left dark and silent.

An hour perhaps had passed, when the door was again
opened, and the aged plebeian, Icilia's father, issued into
the dark street.

“Scourged!” he cried, with a wild triumphant laugh,
“Scourged, like a slave, at his own father's bidding!
Rejoice, exult, Julia! thy shame is half avenged!”