University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE CAMPUS.

Horace. Od. III. 12.

“What ho! my noble Paullus,” exclaimed a loud and
cheerful voice, “whither afoot so early, and with so grave
a face?”

Arvina started; for so deep was the impression made
on his mind by the last words of Cicero, that he had passed
out into the Sacred Way, and walked some distance
down it, toward the Forum, in deep meditation, from
which he was aroused by the clear accents of the merry
speaker.

Looking up with a smile as he recognised the voice, he
saw two young men of senatorial rank—for both wore the
crimson laticlave on the breast of their tunics—on horseback,
followed by several slaves on foot, who had overtaken
him unnoticed amid the din and bustle which had
drowned the clang of their horses' feet on the pavement.

“Nay, I scarce know, Aurelius!” replied the young
man, laughing; “I thought I was going home, but it seems
that my back is turned to my own house, and I am going
toward the market-place, although the Gods know that I
have no business with the brawling lawyers, with whom it
is alive by this time.”

“Come with us, then,” replied the other; “Aristius.
here, and I, have made a bet upon our coursers' speed.

He fancies his Numidian can outrun my Gallic beauty.
Come with us to the Campus; and after we have settled
this grave matter, we will try the quinquertium,[1] or a foot
race in armor, if you like it better, or a swim in the Tiber,
until it shall be time to go to dinner.”

“How can I go with you, seeing that you are well
mounted, and I afoot, and encumbered with my gown?
You must consider me a second Achilles to keep up with
your fleet coursers, clad in this heavy toga, which is a
worse garb for running than any panoply that Vulcan
ever wrought.”

“We will alight,” cried the other youth, who had not
yet spoken, “and give our horses to the boys to lead behind
us; or, hark you, why not send Geta back to your
house, and let your slaves bring down your horse too? If
they make tolerable speed, coming down by the back of
the Cœlian, and thence beside the Aqua Crabra[2] to the
Carmental gate, they may overtake us easily before we
reach the Campus. Aurelius has some errand to perform
near the Forum, which will detain us a few moments longer.
What say you?”

“He will come, he will come, certainly,” cried the
other, springing down lightly from the back of his beautiful
courser, which indeed merited the eulogium, as well as
the caresses which he now lavished on it, patting his favorite's
high-arched neck, and stroking the soft velvet muzzle,
which was thrust into his hand, with a low whinnying
neigh of recognition, as he stood on the raised foot path,
holding the embroidered rein carelessly in his hand.

“I will,” said Arvina, “gladly; I have nothing to hinder
me this morning; and for some days past I have been
detained with business, so that I have not visited the campus,
or backed a horse, or cast a javelin—by Hercules!
not since the Ides, I fancy. You will all beat me in the
field, that is certain, and in the river likewise. But come,

Fuscus Aristius, if it is to be as you have planned it,
jump down from your Numidian, and let your Geta ride
him up the hill to my house. I would have asked Aurelius,
but he will let no slave back his white Notus.”

“Not I, by the twin horsemen! nor any free man either
—plebeian, knight, or noble. Since first I bought him of
the blue-eyed Celt, who wept in his barbarian fondness
for the colt, no leg save only mine has crossed his back,
nor ever shall, while the light of day smiles on Aurelius
Victor.”

Without a word Fuscus leaped from the back of the
fine blood-bay barb he bestrode, and beckoning to a confidential
slave who followed him, “Here,” he said, “Geta,
take Xanthus, and ride straightway up the Minervium to
the house of Arvina; thou knowest it, beside the Alban
Mansions, and do as he shall command you. Tell him,
my Paullus.”

“Carry this signet, my good Geta,” said the young
man, drawing off the large seal-ring which adorned his
right hand, and giving it to him, “to Thrasea, my trusty
freedman, and let him see that they put the housings and
gallic wolf-bit on the black horse Aufidus, and bring him
thou, with one of my slaves, down the slope of Scaurus,
and past the Great Circus, to the Carmental Gate, where
thou wilt find us. Make good speed, Geta.”

“Ay, do so,” interposed his master, “but see that thou
dost not blow Xanthus; thou wert better be a dead slave,
Geta, than let me find one drop of sweat on his flank.
Nay! never grin, thou hang-dog, or I will have thee given
to my Congers[3] ; the last which came out of the fish pond
were but ill fed; and a fat German, such as thou, would
be a rare meal for them.”

The slave laughed, knowing well that his master was
but jesting, mounted the horse, and rode him at a gentle
trot, up the slope of the Cælian hill, from which Arvina
had but a little while before descended. In the mean
time, Aristius gave the rein of his dappled grey to one of

his followers, desiring him to be very gentle with him, and
the three young men sauntered slowly on along the Sacred
Way toward the Forum, conversing merrily and interchanging
many a smile and salutation with those whom they
met on their road.

Skirting the base of the Palatine hill, they passed the
old circular temple of Remus to the right hand, and the
most venerable relic of Rome's infancy, the Ruminal Fig
tree, beneath which the she-wolf was believed to have
given suck to the twin progeny of Mars and the hapless
Ilia. A little farther on, the mouth of the sacred grotto
called Lupercal, surrounded with its shadowy grove, the
favourite haunt of Pan, lay to their left; and fronting
them, the splendid arch of Fabius, surnamed Allobrox for
his victorious prowess against that savage tribe, gave entrance
to the great Roman Forum.

Immediately at their left hand as they entered the arch-way,
was the superb Comitium, wherein the Senate were
wont to give audience to foreign embassies of suppliant
nations, with the gigantic portico, three columns of which
may still be seen to testify to the splendor of the old city,
in the far days of the republic. Facing them were the
steps of the Asylum, with the Mamertine prison and the
grand facade of the temple of Concord to the right and
left; and higher above these the portico of the gallery of
records, and higher yet the temple of the thundering
Jupiter, and glittering above all, against the dark blue
sky, the golden dome, and white marble columns of the
great capitol itself. Around in all directions were basilicæ,
or halls of justice; porticoes filled with busy lawyers;
bankers' shops glittering with their splendid wares,
and bedecked with the golden shields taken from the
Samnites; statues of the renowned of ages, Accius Næ
vius, who cut the whetstone with the razor; Horatius
Cocles on his thunderstricken pedestal, halting on one knee
from the wound which had not hindered him from swimming
the swollen Tiber; Clælia the hostage on her brazen
steed; and many another, handed down inviolate from the
days of the ancient kings. Here was the rostrum, beaked
with the prows of ships, a fluent orator already haranguing
the assembled people from its platform—there, the seat
of the city Prætor, better known as the Puteal Libonis,

with that officer in session on his curule chair, his six
lictors leaning on their fasces at his back, as he promulgated
his irrevocable edicts.

It was a grand sight, surely, and one to gaze on which
men of the present day would do and suffer much; and
judge theselves most happy if blessed with one momentary
glance of the heart, as it were, of the old world's
mistress. But these young men, proud as they were,
and boastful of the glories of their native Rome, had
looked too often on that busy scene to be attracted by
the gorgeousness of the place, crowded with buildings,
the like of which the modern world knows not, and
thronged with nations of every region of the earth, each
in his proper dress, each seeking justice, pleasure, profit,
fame, as it pleased him, free, and fearless, and secure of
property and person. Casting a brief glance over it, they
turned short to the left, by a branch of the Sacred Way,
which led, skirting the market place, between the Comitium,
or hall of the ambassadors, and the abrupt declivity
of the Palatine, past the end of the Atrium of Liberty,
and the cattle mart, toward the Carmental gate.

“Methought you said, my Fuscus, that our Aurelius had
some errand to perform in the Forum; how is this, is it
a secret?” inquired Paullus, laughing.

“No secret, by the Gods!” said Aurelius, “it is but to
buy a pair of spurs in Volero's shop, hard by Vesta's
shrine.”

“He will need them,” cried Fuscus, “he will need
them, I will swear, in the race.”

“Not to beat Xanthus,” said Aurelius; “but oh!
Jove! walk quickly, I beseech you; how hot a steam of
cooked meats and sodden cabbage, reeks from the door of
you cook-shop. Now, by the Gods! it well nigh sickened
me! Ha! Volero,” he exclaimed, as they reached the
door of a booth, or little shop, with neat leathern curtains
festooned up in front, glittering with polished cutlery
and wares of steel and silver, to a middle aged man, who
was busy burnishing a knife within, “what ho! my
Volero, some spurs—I want some spurs; show me some
of your sharpest and brightest.”

“I have a pair, noble Aurelius, which I got only yesterday
in trade with a turbaned Moor from the deserts

beyond Cyrenaica. By Mulciber, my patron god! the
fairest pair my eyes ever looked upon. Right loath was
the swart barbarian to let me have them, but hunger,
hunger is a great tamer of your savage; and the steam
of good Furbo's cook-shop yonder was suggestive of
savory chops and greasy sausages—and—and—in short,
Aurelius, I got them at a bargain.”

While he was speaking, he produced the articles in
question, from a strong brass-bound chest, and rubbing
them on his leather apron held them up for the inspection
of the youthful noble.

“Truly,” cried Victor, catching them out of his hand,
“truly, they are good spurs.”

“Good spurs! good spurs!” cried the merchant, half
indignantly, “I call them splendid, glorious, inimitable!
Only look you here, it is all virgin silver; and observe,
I beseech you, this dragon's neck and the sibilant head
that holds the rowels; they are wrought to the very life
with horrent scales, and erected crest; beautiful! beautiful!—and
the rowels too of the best Spanish steel that
was ever tempered in the cold Bilbilis. Good spurs indeed!
they are well worth three aurei.[4] But I will
keep them, as I meant to do at first, for Caius Cæsar;
he will know what they are worth, and give it too.”

“Didst ever hear so pestilent a knave?” said Victor,
laughing; “one would suppose I had disparaged the
accursed things! But, as I said before, they are good
spurs, and I will have them; but I will not give thee
three aurei, master Volero; two is enough, in all conscience;
or sixty denarii at the most. Ho! Davus, Davus!
bring my purse, hither, Davus,” he called to his
slaves without; and, as the purse-bearer entered, he continued
without waiting for an answer, “Give Volero two
aurei, and ten denarii, and take these spurs.”

“No! no!” exclaimed Volero, “you shall not—no!
by the Gods! they cost me more than that!”

“Ye Gods! what a lie! cost thee—and to a barbarian!
I dare be sworn thou didst not pay him the ten denarii
alone.”

“By Hercules! I did, though,” said the other, “and
thou shouldst not have them for three aurei either, but that
it is drawing near the Calends of November, and I have
moneys to pay then.”

“Sixty-five I will give thee—sixty-five denarii!”

“Give me my spurs; what, art thou turning miser in
thy youth, Aurelius?”

“There, give him the gold, Davus; he is a regular
usurer. Give him three aurei, and then buckle these to
my heel. Ha! that is well, my Paullus, here come your
fellows with black Aufidus, and our friend Geta on the
Numidian. They have made haste, yet not sweated Xanthus
either. Aristius, your groom is a good one; I never
saw a horse that shewed his keeping or condition better.
Now then, Arvina, doff your toga, you will not surely ride
in that.”

“Indeed I will not,” replied Paullus, “if master Volero
will suffer me to leave it here till my return.”

“Willingly, willingly; but what is this?” exclaimed the
cutler, as Arvina unbuckling his toga and suffering it to
drop on the ground, stood clad in his succinct and snow-white
tunic only, girded about him with a zone of purple
leather, in which was stuck the sheathless dirk of Cataline.
“What is this, noble Paullus, that you carry at your belt,
with no scabbard? If you go armed, you should at least
go safely. See, if you were to bend your body somewhat
quickly, it might well be that the keen point would rend
your groin. Give it me, I can fit it with a sheath in a
moment.”

“I do not know but it were as well to do so,” answered
Paullus, extricating the dagger from his belt, “if you will
not detain us a long time.”

“Not even a short time!” said the cutler, “give it to
me, I can fit it immediately.” And he stretched out his
hand and took it; but hardly had his eye dwelt on it, for
a moment, when he cried, “but this is not yours—this is—
where got you this, Arvina?”

“Nay, it is nought to thee; perhaps I bought it, perhaps
it was given to me; do thou only fit it with a scabbard.”

“Buy it thou didst not, Paullus, I'll be sworn; and I

think it was never given thee; and, see, see here, what is
this?—there has been blood on the blade!”

“Folly!” exclaimed the young man, turning first very
red and then pale, so that his comrades gazed on him with
wonder, “folly, I say. It is not blood, but water that has
dimmed its shine;—and how knowest thou that I did not
buy it?”

“How do I know it?—thus,” answered the artizan,
drawing from a cupboard under his counter, a weapon
precisely the facsimile in every respect of that in his
hand: “There never were but two of these made, and I
made them; the scabbard of this will fit that; see how
the very chased work fits!” I sold this, but not to you,
Arvina; and I do not believe that it was given to you.”

“Filth that thou art, and carrion!” exclaimed the young
man fiercely, striking his hand with violence upon the
counter, “darest thou brave a nobleman? I tell thee, I
doubt not at all that there be twenty such in every cutler's
shop in Rome!—but to whom did'st thou sell this, that
thou art so certain?”

“Paullus Cæcilius,” replied the mechanic gravely but
respectfully, “I brave no man, least of all a patrician;
but mark my words—I did sell this dagger; here is my
own mark on its back; if it was given to thee, thou must
needs know the giver; for the rest, this is blood that has
dimmed it, and not water; you cannot deceive me in the
matter; and I would warn you, youth,—noble as you are,
and plebeian I,—that there are laws in Rome, one of them
called Cornelia de Sicariis, which you were best take
care that you know not more nearly. Meantime, you can
take this scabbard if you will,” handing to him, as he
spoke, the sheath of the second weapon; “the price is
one sestertium; it is the finest silver, chased as you see,
and overlaid with pure gold.”

“Thou hast the money,” returned Paullus, casting
down on the counter several golden coins, stamped with a
helmed head of Mars, and an eagle on the reverse, grasping
a thunderbolt in its talons—“and the sheath is mine.
Then thou wilt not disclose to whom it was sold?”

“Why should I, since thou knowest without telling?”

“Wilt thou, or not?”

“Not to thee, Paullus.”

“Then will I find some one, to whom thou wilt fain disclose
it!” he answered haughtily.

“And who may that be, I beseech you?” asked the
mechanic, half sneeringly. “For my part, I fancy you
will let it rest altogether; some one was hurt with it last
night, as you and he, we both know, can tell if you will!
But I knew not that you were one of his men.”

There was an insolent sneer on the cutler's face that
galled the young nobleman to the quick; and what was
yet more annoying, there was an assumption of mutual intelligence
and equality about him, that almost goaded the
patrician's blood to fury. But by a mighty effort he subdued
his passion to his will; and snatching up the weapon
returned it to his belt, left the shop, and springing to the
saddle of his beautiful black horse, rode furiously away.
It was not till he reached the Carmental Gate, giving
egress from the city through the vast walls of Cyclopean
architecture, immediately at the base of the dread Tarpeian
rock, overlooked and commanded by the outworks
and turrets of the capitol, that he drew in his eager horse,
and looked behind him for his friends. But they were not
in sight; and a moment's reflection told him that, being
about to start their coursers on a trial of speed, they would
doubtless ride gently over the rugged pavement of the
crowded streets.

He doubted for a minute, whether he should turn back
to meet them, or wait for their arrival at the gate, by which
they must pass to gain the campus; but the fear of missing
them, instantly induced him to adopt the latter course, and
he sat for a little space motionless on his well-bitted and
obedient horse beneath the shadow of the deep gate-way.

Here his eye wandered around him for awhile, taking
note indeed of the surrounding objects, the great temple
of Jupiter Stator on the Palatine; the splendid portico of
Catulus, adorned with the uncouth and grisly spoils of the
Cimbric hordes slaughtered on the plains of Vercellæ; the
house of Scaurus, toward which a slow wain tugged by
twelve powerful oxen was even then dragging one of the
pondrous columns which rendered his hall for many years
the boast of Roman luxury; and on the other tall buildings
that stood every where about him; although in truth
he scarce observed what for the time his eye dwelt upon.

At length an impatient motion of his horse caused him
to turn his face toward the black precipice of the huge
rock at whose base he sat, and in a moment it fastened
upon his mind with singular vividness—singular, for he
had paused fifty times upon that spot before, without experiencing
such feelings—that he was on the very pavement,
which had so often been bespattered with the blood
of despairing traitors. The noble Manlius, tumbled from
the very rock, which his single arm had but a little while
before defended, seemed to lie there, even at his feet,
mortally maimed and in the agony of death, yet even so
too proud to mix one groan with the curses he poured
forth against Rome's democratic rabble. Then, by a not
inapt transition, the scene changed, and Caius Marcius was
at hand, with the sword drawn in his right, that won him
the proud name of Coriolanus, and the same rabble that
had hurled Caius Manlius down, yelling and hooting “to
the rock with him! to the rock!” but at a safe and respectful
distance; their factious tribunes goading them to out-rage
and new riot.

It was strange that these thoughts should have occurred
so clearly at this moment to the excited mind of the young
noble; and he felt that it was strange himself; and would
have banished the ideas, but they would not away; and
he continued musing on the inconstant turbulence of the
plebeians, and the unerring doom which had overtaken
every one of their idols, from the hands of their own partizans,
until his companions at length rode slowly up the
street to join him.

There was some coldness in the manner of Aristius
Fuscus, as they met again, and even Aurelius seemed
surprised and not well pleased; for they had in truth been
conversing earnestly about the perturbation of their friend
at the remarks of the artizan, and the singularity of his
conduct in wearing arms at all; and he heard Victor say
just before they joined company—

“No! that is not so odd, Fuscus, in these times. It
was but two nights since, as I was coming home something
later than my wont from Terentia's, that I fell in
with Clodius reeling along, frantically drunk and furious,
with half a dozen torch-bearers before, and half a score
wolfish looking gladiators all armed with blade and buckler,

and all half-drunk, behind him. I do assure you that
I almost swore I would go out no more without weapons.”

“They would have done you no good, man,” said Aristius,
“if some nineteen or twenty had set upon you. But
an they would, I care not; it is against the law, and no
good citizen should carry them at all.”

“Carry arms, I suppose you mean, Aristius,” interrupted
Paullus boldly. “Ye are talking about me, I fancy—
is it not so?”

“Ay, it is,” replied the other gravely. “You were
disturbed not a little at what stout Volero said.”

“I was, I was,” answered Arvina very quickly, “because
I could not tell him; and it is not pleasant to be
suspected. The truth is that the dagger is not mine at all,
and that it is blood that was on it; for last night—but lo!”
he added, interrupting himself, “I was about to speak out,
and tell you all; and yet my lips are sealed.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Aristius, “I do not like
mysteries; and this seems to me a dark one!”

“It is—as dark as Erebus,” said Paullus eagerly, “and
as guilty too; but it is not my mystery, so help me the
god of good faith and honour!”

“That is enough said; surely that is enough for you,
Aristius,” exclaimed the warmer and more excitable Aurelius.

“For you it may be,” replied the noble youth, with a
melancholy smile. “You are a boy in heart, my Aurelius,
and overflow so much with generosity and truth that you
believe all others to be as frank and candid. I alas!
have grown old untimely, and, having seen what I have
seen, hold men's assertions little worth.”

The hot blood mounted fiercely into the cheek of Paullus;
and, striking his horse's flank suddenly with his heel,
he made him passage half across the street, and would
have seized Aristius by the throat, had not their comrade
interposed to hinder him.

“You are both mad, I believe; so mad that all the
hellebore in both the Anticyras could not cure you. Thou,
Fuscus, for insulting him with needless doubts. Thou,
Paullus, for mentioning the thing, or shewing the dagger
at all, if you did not choose to explain.”

“I do choose to explain,” replied Cæcilius, “but I cannot;
I have explained it all to Marcus Tullius.”

“To Cicero,” exclaimed Aristius. “Why did you not
say so before? I was wrong, then, I confess my error;
if Cicero be satisfied, it must needs be all well.”

“That name of Cicero is like the voice of an oracle to
Fuscus ever!” said Aurelius Victor, laughing. “I believe
he thinks the new man from Arpinum a very god, descended
from Olympus!”

“No! not a God,” replied Aristius Fuscus, “only the
greatest work of God, a wise and virtuous man, in an
age which has few such to boast. But come, let us ride
on and conclude our race; and thou, Arvina, forget what
I said; I meant not to wrong thee.”

“I have forgotten,” answered Paullus; and, with the
word, they gave their horses head, and cantered onward
for the field of Mars.

The way for some distance was narrow, lying between
the fortified rock of the Capitol, with its stern lines of immemorial
ramparts on the right hand, and on the left
the long arcades and stately buildings of the vegetable
mart, on the river bank, now filled with sturdy peasants,
from the Sabine country, eager to sell their fresh green
herbs; and blooming girls, from Tibur and the banks of
Anio, with garlands of flowers, and cheeks that outvied
their own brightest roses.

Beyond these, still concealing the green expanse of the
level plain, and the famous river, stood side by side three
temples, sacred to Juno Matuta, Piety, and Hope; each
with its massy colonnade of Doric or Corinthian, or Ionic
pillars; the latter boasting its frieze wrought in bronze;
and that of Piety, its tall equestrian statue, so richly gilt
and burnished that it gleamed in the sunlight as if it
were of solid gold.

Onward they went, still at a merry canter, their generous
and high mettled coursers fretting against the bits which
restrained their speed, and their young hearts elated and
bounding quickly in their bosoms, with the excitement of
the gallant exercise; and now they cleared the last winding
of the suburban street, and clothed in its perennial
verdure, the wide field lay outspread, like one sheet of
emerald verdure, before them, with the bright Tiber flash

ing to the sun in many a reach and ripple, and the gay
slope of the Collis Hortulorum, glowing with all its terraced
gardens in the distance.

A few minutes more brought them to the Flaminian way,
whereon, nearly midway the plain, stood the diribitorium,
or pay-office of the troops; the porticoes of which were
filled with the soldiers of Metellus Creticus, and Quintus
Marcius Rex, who lay with their armies encamped on the
low hills beyond the river, waiting their triumphs, and forbidden
by the laws to come into the city so long as they
remained invested with their military rank. Around this
stately building were many colonnades, and open buildings
adapted to the exercises of the day, when winter
or bad weather should prevent their performance in the
open mead, and stored with all appliances, and instruments
required for the purpose; and to these Paullus and
his friends proceeded, answering merely with a nod or
passing jest the salutations of many a helmed centurion
and gorgeous tribune of the soldiery.

A grand Ionic gateway gave them admittance to the
hippodrome, a vast oval space, adorned with groups of
sculpture and obelisks and columns in the midst; on
some of which were affixed inscriptions commemorative
of great feats of skill or strength or daring; while others
displayed placards announcing games or contests to take
place in future, and challenges of celebrated gymnasts
for the cestus fight, the wrestling match, or the foot-race.

Around the outer circumference were rows of seats,
shaded by plane trees overrun with ivy, and there were
already seated many young men of noble birth, chatting
together, or betting, with their waxed tablets and their
styli[5] in their hands, some waiting the commencement of
the race between Fuscus and Victor, others watching
with interest the progress of a sham fight on horseback
between two young men of the equestrian order, denoted
by the narrow crimson stripes on their tunics, who were
careering to and fro, armed with long staves and circular
bucklers, in all the swift and beautiful movements of the
mimic combat.

Among those most interested in this spectacle, the eye
of Arvina fell instantly on the tall and gaunt form of Catiline,
who stood erect on one of the marble benches, applauding
with his hands, and now and then shouting a
word of encouragement to the combatants, as they wheeled
by him in the mazes of their half angry sport. It was
not long, however, before their strife was brought to a
conclusion; for, almost as the friends entered, the hind-most
horseman of the two made a thrust at the other,
which taking effect merely on the lower rim of his antagonist's
parma, glanced off under his outstretched arm,
and made the striker, in a great measure, lose his balance.
As quick as light, the other wheeled upon him, feinted a
pass at his breast with the point of the staff; and then, as
he lowered his shield to guard himself, reversed the
weapon with a swift turn of the wrist, dealt him a heavy
blow with the trunchon on the head; and then, while the
whole place rang with tumultuous plaudits, circled entirely
round him to the left, and delivered his thrust with such
effect in the side, that it bore his competitor clear out of
the saddle.

“Euge! Euge! well done,” shouted Catiline in ecstacy;
“by Hercules! I never saw in all my life better
skirmishing. It is all over with Titus Varus!”

And in truth it was all over with him; but not in the
sense which the speaker meant: for, as he fell, the horses
came into collision, and it so happened that the charger
of the conqueror, excited by the fury of the contest, laid
hold of the other's neck with his teeth, and almost tore
away a piece of the muscular flesh at the very moment
when the rider's spur, as he fell, cut a long gash in his
flank.

With a wild yelling neigh, the tortured brute yerked
out his heels viciously; and, as ill luck would have it, both
took effect on the person of his fallen master, one striking
him a terrible blow on the chest, the other shattering his
collar bone and shoulder.

A dozen of the spectators sprang down from the seats
and took him up before Paullus could dismount to aid
him; but, as they raised him from the ground, his eyes
were already glazing.

“Marcius has conquered me,” he muttered in tones of

deep mortification, unconscious, as it would seem, of his
agony, and wounded only by the indomitable Roman
pride; and with the words his jaw dropped, and his last
strife was ended.

“The fool!” exclaimed Cataline, with a bitter sneer;
“what had he got to do, that he should ride against Caius
Marcius, when he could not so much as keep his saddle,
the fool!”

“He is gone!” cried another; “game to the last, brave
Varus!”

“He came of a brave race,” said a third; “but he rode
badly!”

“At least not so well as Marcius,” replied yet a fourth;
“but who does? To be foiled by him does not argue bad
riding.”

“Who does? why Paullus, here,” cried Aurelius Victor;
“I'll match him, if he will ride, for a thousand sesterces—ten
thousand, if you will.”

“No! I'll not bet about it. I lost by this cursed chance,”
answered the former speaker; “but Varus did not ride
badly, I maintain it!” he added, with the steadiness of a
discomfited partisan.

“Ay! but he did, most pestilently,” interposed Catiline,
almost fiercely; “but come, come, why don't they
carry him away? we are losing all the morning.”

“I thought he was a friend of yours, Sergius,” said
another of the bystanders, apparently vexed at the heartlessness
of his manner.

“Why, ay! so he was,” replied the conspirator; “but
he is nothing now: nor can my friendship aught avail
him. It was his time and his fate! ours, it may be, will
come to-morrow. Nor do I see at all wherefore our sports
should not proceed, because a man has gone hence. Fifty
men every day die somewhere, while we are dining, drinking,
kissing our mistresses or wives; but do we stop for
that? Ho! bear him hence, we will attend his funeral,
when it shall be soever; and we will drink to his memory
to-day. What comes next, comrades?”

Arvina, it is true, was for a moment both shocked and
disgusted at the heartless and unfeeling tone; but few if
any of the others evinced the like tenderness; for it must
be remembered, in the first place, that the Romans, inured

to sights of blood and torture daily in the gladiatorial fights
of the arena, were callous to human suffering, and careless
of human life at all times; and, in the second, that
Stoicism was the predominant affectation of the day, not
only among the rude and coarse, but among the best and
most virtuous citizens of the republic. Few, therefore,
left the ground, when the corpse, decently enveloped in
the toga he had worn when living, was borne homewards;
except the involuntary homicide, who could not even at
that day in decency remain, and a few of his most intimate
associates, who covering their faces in the lappets of their
gowns, followed the bearers in stern and silent sorrow.

Scarcely then had the sad procession threaded the marble
archway, before Catiline again asked loudly and imperiously,

“What is to be the next, I pray you? are we to sit
here like old women by their firesides, croaking and whimpering
till dinner time?”

“No! by the gods,” cried Aurelius, “we have a race
to come off, which I propose to win. Fuscus Aristius here,
and I—we will start instantly, if no one else has the
ground.”

“Away with you then,” answered the other; “come
sit by me, Arvina, I would say a word with you.”

Giving his horse to one of his grooms, the young man
followed him without answer; for although it is true that
Catiline was at this time a marked man and of no favorable
reputation, yet squeamishness in the choice of associates
was never a characteristic of the Romans; and persons,
the known perpetrators of the most atrocious crimes,
so long as they were unconvicted, mingled on terms of
equality, unshunned by any, except the gravest and most
rigid censors. Arvina, too, was very young; and very
young men are often fascinated, as it were, by great reputations,
even of great criminals, with a passionate desire
to see them more closely, and observe the stuff they are
made of. So that, in fact, Catiline being looked upon in
those days much as a desperate gambler, a celebrated
duellist, or a famous seducer of our own time, whom no
one shuns though every one abuses, it was not perhaps
very wonderful if this rash, ardent, and inexperienced
youth should have conceived himself flattered by such

notice, from one of whom all the world was talking; and
should have followed him to a seat with a sense of gratified
vanity, blended with eager curiosity.

The race, which followed, differed not much from any
other race; except that the riders having no stirrups,
that being a yet undiscovered luxury, much less depended
upon jockeyship—the skill of the riders being limited
to keeping their seats steadily and guiding the animals
they bestrode—and much more upon the native powers,
the speed and endurance of the coursers.

So much, however, was Arvina interested by the manner
and conversation of the singular man by whose side
he sat, and who was indeed laying himself out with deep
art to captivate him, and take his mind, as it were, by
storm, now with the boldest and most daring paradoxes;
now with bursts of eloquent invective against the oppression
and aristocratic insolence of the cabal, which by his
shewing governed Rome; and now with sarcasm and pungent
wit, that he saw but little of the course, which he had
come especially to look at.

“Do you indeed ride so well, my Paullus?” asked his
companion suddenly, as if the thought had been suggested
by some observation he had just made on the competitors,
as they passed in the second circuit. “So well, I mean,
as Aurelius Victor said; and would you undertake the
combat of the horse and spear with Caius Marcius?”

“Truly I would,” said Arvina, blushing slightly; “I
have interchanged many a blow and thrust with young
Varro, whom our master-at-arms holds better with the
spear than Marcius; and I feel myself his equal. I have
been practising a good deal of late,” he added modestly;
“for, though perhaps you know it not, I have been elected
decurio:[6] and, as first chosen, leader of a troop, and am
to take the field with the next reinforcements that go out
to Pontus to our great Pompey.”

“The next reinforcements,” replied Catiline with a
meditative air: “ha! that may be some time distant.”

“Not so, by Jupiter! my Sergius; we are already

ordered to hold ourselves in readiness to march for Brundusium,
where we shall ship for Pontus. I fancy we
shall set forth as soon as the consular comitia have been
held.”

“It may be so,” said the other; “but I do not think it.
There may fall out that which shall rather summon Pompey
homeward, than send more men to join him. That
is a very handsome dagger,” he broke off, interrupting
himself suddenly—“where did you get it? I should like
much to get me such an one to give to my friend Cethegus,
who has a taste for such things. I wonder, however,
at your wearing it so openly.”

Taken completely by surprise, Arvina answered hastily,
“I found it last night; and I wear it, hoping to find the
owner.”

“By Hercules!” said the conspirator laughing; “I
would not take so much pains, were I you. But, do you
hear, I have partly a mind myself to claim it.”

“No! you were better not,” said Paullus, gravely;
“besides, you can get one just like this, without risking
any thing. Volero, the cutler, in the Sacred Way, near
Vesta's temple, has one precisely like to this for sale.
He made this too, he tells me; though he will not tell me
to whom he sold it; but that shall soon be got out of him,
notwithstanding.”

“Ha! are you so anxious in the matter? it would
oblige you, then, if I should confess myself the loser!
Well, I don't want to buy another; I want this very one.
I believe I must claim it.”

He spoke with an emphasis so singular; impressive, and
at the same time half-derisive, and with so strangely-meaning
an expression, that Paullus indeed scarcely knew what
to think; but, in the mean time, he had recovered his own
self-possession, and merely answered—

“I think you had better not; it would perhaps be
dangerous!”

“Dangerous? Ha! that is another motive. I love
danger! verily, I believe I must; yes! I must claim it.”

“What!” exclaimed Paullus, turning pale from excitement;
“Is it yours? Do you say that it is yours?”

“Look! look!” exclaimed Catiline, springing to his
feet; “here they come, here they come now; this is the last

round. By the gods! but they are gallant horses, and
well matched! See how the bay courser stretches himself,
and how quickly he gathers! The bay! the bay has it for
five hundred sesterces!”

“I wager you,” said a dissolute-looking long-haired
youth; “I wager you five hundred, Catiline. I say the
gray horse wins.”

“Be it so, then,” shouted Catiline; “the bay, the bay!
spur, spur, Aristius Fuscus, Aurelius gains on you; spur,
spur!”

“The gray, the gray! There is not a horse in Rome can
touch Aurelius Victor's gray South-wind!” replied the
other.

And in truth, Victor's Gallic courser repaid his master's
vaunts; for he made, though he had seemed beat, so desperate
a rally, that he rushed past the bay Arab almost at
the goal, and won by a clear length amidst the roars of
the glad spectators.

“I have lost, plague on it!” exclaimed Catiline; “and
here is Clodius expects to be paid on the instant, I'll be
sworn.”

And as he spoke, the debauchee with whom he had
betted came up, holding his left hand extended, tapping
its palm with the forefinger of the right.

“I told you so,” he said, “I told you so; where be the
sesterces?”

“You must needs wait a while; I have not my purse
with me,” Catiline began. But Paullus interrupted him—

“I have, I have, my Sergius; permit me to accommodate
you.” And suiting the action to the word, he gave
the conspirator several large gold coins, adding, “you can
repay me when it suits you.”

“That will be never,” said Clodius with a sneer; “you
don't know Lucius Catiline, I see, young man.”

“Ay, but he does!” replied the other, with a sarcastic
grin; “for Catiline never forgets a friend, or forgives a
foe. Can Clodius say the same?”

But Clodius merely smiled, and walked off, clinking the
money he had won tauntingly in his hand.

“What now, I wonder, is the day destined to bring
forth?” said the conspirator, making no more allusion to
the dagger.

“A contest now between myself, Aristius, and Aurelius,
in the five games of the quinquertium, and then a foot
race in the heaviest panoply.”

“Ha! can you beat them?” asked Catiline, regarding
Arvina with an interest that grew every moment keener,
as he saw more of his strength and daring spirit.

“I can try.”

“Shall I bet on you?”

“If you please. I can beat them in some, I think; and,
as I said, I will try in all.”

More words followed, for Paullus hastened away to
strip and anoint himself for the coming struggle; and in
a little while the strife itself succeeded.

To describe this would be tedious; but suffice it, that
while he won decidedly three games of the five, Paullus
was beat in none; and that in the armed foot race, the
most toilsome and arduous exercise of the Campus, he
not only beat his competitors with ease; but ran the
longest course, carrying the most ponderous armature and
shield, in shorter time than had been performed within
many years on the Field of Mars.

Catiline watched him eagerly all the while, inspecting
him as a purchaser would a horse he was about to buy;
and then, muttering to himself, “We must have him!”
walked up to join him as he finished the last exploit.

“Will you dine with me, Paullus,” he said, “to-day,
and meet the loveliest women you can see in Rome, and
no prudes either?”

“Willingly,” he replied; “but I must swim first in the
Tiber!”

“Be it so, there is time enough; I will swim also.”
And they moved down in company toward the river.