




                           THE ROMAN TRAITOR:

                                   OR

                 THE DAYS OF CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.


                      A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.


                         BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT
        AUTHOR OF "CROMWELL," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," "BROTHERS," ETC.



                       Why not a Borgia or a Catiline?—POPE.





VOLUME II.



          This is one of the most powerful Roman stories  in  the  English
          language,  and  is of itself sufficient to stamp the writer as a
          powerful man. The  dark  intrigues  of  the  days  which  Cæsar,
          Sallust  and  Cicero  made illustrious; when Cataline defied and
          almost defeated the Senate;  when  the  plots  which  ultimately
          overthrew the Roman Republic were being formed, are described in
          a masterly manner. The book deserves a permanent position by the
          side  of  the  great _Bellum Catalinarium_ of Sallust, and if we
          mistake not will not fail to  occupy  a  prominent  place  among
          those produced in America.


Philadelphia:
T. B. Peterson, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET





       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
                             T. B. PETERSON,
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
                for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.




PHILADELPHIA:
STEREOTYPED BY GEORGE CHARLES,
No. 9 Sansom Street.





CONTENTS




VOLUME I.


CHAPTER                    PAGE
     I.   THE MEN             9
    II.   THE MEASURES       25
   III.   THE LOVERS         37
    IV.   THE CONSUL         51
     V.   THE CAMPUS         69
    VI.   THE FALSE LOVE     89
   VII.   THE OATH          108
  VIII.   THE TRUE LOVE     121
    IX.   THE AMBUSH        137
     X.   THE WANTON        146
    XI.   THE RELEASE       166
   XII.   THE FORGE         183
  XIII.   THE DISCLOSURE    197
   XIV.   THE WARNINGS      209
    XV.   THE CONFESSION    223
   XVI.   THE SENATE        235




VOLUME II.


    I.   THE OLD PATRICIAN      3
   II.   THE CONSULAR          12
         COMITIA
  III.   THE PERIL             21
   IV.   THE CRISIS            29
    V.   THE ORATION           38
   VI.   THE FLIGHT            54
  VII.   THE AMBASSADORS       65
 VIII.   THE LATIN VILLA       75
   IX.   THE MULVIAN BRIDGE    88
    X.   THE ARREST           101
   XI.   THE YOUNG            113
         PATRICIAN
  XII.   THE ROMAN FATHER     123
 XIII.   THE DOOM             136
  XIV.   THE TULLIANUM        150
   XV.   THE CAMP IN THE      158
         APPENINES
  XVI.   THE WATCHTOWER OF    168
         USELLA
 XVII.   TIDINGS FROM ROME    185
XVIII.   THE RESCUE           192
  XIX.   THE EVE OF BATTLE    205
   XX.   THE FIELD OF         216
         PISTORIA
  XXI.   THE BATTLE           223
 XXII.   A NIGHT OF HORROR    234






                            THE ROMAN TRAITOR;

                             OR, THE DAYS OF

                        CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.

                       A TRUE TALE OF THE REPUBLIC.





CHAPTER I.


THE OLD PATRICIAN.


        A Roman father of the olden time.
                  MS. PLAY.

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- 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