13 June 58 BCE: From Cicero (at Thessalonica) to Quintus (returning to Rome)

Cicero is a breathing corpse

[This is the first of two letters from June 13th.]

Marcus greets his brother Quintus.

My brother, my brother, my brother—did you really fear that out of some fit of rage I sent the boys to you without a letter, or even that I did not want to see you? Would I be angry at you? Could I be angry at you? Of course; for it was you who brought me down, your enemies, your unpopularity—and not I who have miserably destroyed you! That much-praised consulship of mine has stolen you, my children, my country, and my fortune from me—I hope the only thing it has stolen from you is myself. But really, you have always brought me nothing but honour and joy, while I have brought you grief for my downfall, fear for your own, longing, mourning, loneliness.

Would I not have wanted to see you? No, in truth I did not want to be seen by you. For you would not have seen your brother, not the man you left, not the man you knew, not the man who saw you off when we parted ways¹—both of us in tears—not even a trace of him, not a shade, but only the likeness of someone dead but still breathing.

I even wish you had seen me dead (or heard about it) before this. I wish I could have left you to outlive me, my life over but my dignity intact. But I call all the gods to witness that the one argument that called me back from death was that everyone was telling me that some part of your life depended on mine. Yet I was wrong about this, and I acted terribly. For if I had died, my death would have easily demonstrated how dutifully I love you. Instead, it is my fault that I am alive while you are without me; I am alive while you rely on others; and my voice, which has often defended complete strangers, has died now when my own family is in danger.²

So as for the boys coming to you without a letter, you see now that it was not out of anger; really, it was out of exhaustion and the seemingly infinite flood of tears and sorrow. How much do you think I have cried while writing these very words? I am certain that it is just as much as you have while reading them. Is it possible for me to not think of you at all, or to ever think of you without tears? When I miss you, is it only a brother I miss? I miss you as a charming brother of almost equal age, as a respectful son, and as a prudent parent. What joy did I ever have without you, or you without me?

What to do, when at the same time I miss my daughter? So dutiful, so modest, so clever, just like me in appearance, speech, and soul. What about my loveliest, sweetest son? I was inhuman and hard-hearted when I had to push him from my arms, wiser at his age than I would have wished for.³ The poor boy had already begun to understand what was happening.

And then what about your son, your mirror image, whom my little Cicero loved as a brother, and respected as an older brother? What about how I did not allow my truly miserable wife, my most loyal partner, to follow me, so that there would be someone to protect what remains of the disaster we share, the children we share?

But still, I wrote to you as well as I could, and gave the letter to your freedman Philogonus; I trust that it was later delivered to you. It contains the same message the boys gave you verbally: that I ask and urge you to head straight to Rome, and to hurry. First you all, I wanted you as a defence in case any of my enemies’ cruelty is not yet sated by the disaster we face; secondly, I was very scared of the lamenting our meeting would have caused. Nor in truth could I have borne parting, and I even fear exactly what you wrote in your letter: that it would be impossible to drag you away from me.

For these reasons, the deep hurt of not seeing you, which seems the most bitter and miserable thing that could happen to brothers as loving and closely bound as us two, was less bitter and miserable than it would have been if we met and then parted.

Now, if you can do what I (whom you always considered a brave man) cannot: pull yourself together and stand strong in whatever struggle you must face. I hope (if my hope has any weight) that your integrity and the people’s affection for you—and even some pity for my situation—will defend you. But if you are free from that sort of danger, of course, do whatever you think can be done for me.

Indeed, people write a great deal to me about this and allege that they have reason to hope. But for my part, I cannot tell why I should have any hope when my enemies are at their strongest, and one group of my friends has abandoned me, while another group has even betrayed me—perhaps they fear being criticised for their crime if I were to return.⁴

But please, find out what the situation is in Rome and let me know. For my part, for as long as you need me, if it seems like you will face any danger, I shall stay alive. I cannot stay in this life any longer. For no wisdom nor philosophy is strong enough to help me endure such pain. I know there was a more honourable and advantageous time to die. But I let this and many other chances pass me by. If I want to complain about these missed chances, I would achieve nothing but increasing your grief and pointing out my own stupidity.

Indeed, what I must not do, what cannot be done, is linger in such a miserable and shameful life any longer than your time of crisis or well-grounded hope demand. I used to be perfectly happy, blessed with a brother, children, partner, wealth, even the source of that money;⁵ I was the equal of any distinguished man in rank, authority, reputation, influence. I am now in such a shattered and ruined state that I cannot mourn myself and my family any longer.

So why did you write to me about a bill of exchange? As though your resources are not in fact already sustaining me; and it is this exact matter in which I see and understand what a crime I have committed, since you are about to pay the debts you owe with your own flesh, as well as your son’s, while I uselessly squandered the money I received from the treasury in your name. But still, Marcus Antonius⁶ has been paid the amount you specified in your letter, and Caepio⁷ has been paid the same amount. For myself, what I have now is enough for what I intend. Whether I am restored or given up on, I do not need any more.

If you have any trouble, my view is that you should go to Crassus and Calidius.⁸ I don’t know how much Hortensius can be trusted. He put on a great show of affection and took great care to talk to me daily, and he treated me most criminally and most treacherously, as did Quintus Arrius. It was through their advice, promises, and direction that I was abandoned and fell into this disaster. But keep this a secret so that it doesn’t hurt you.

Beware also (and for this reason I think that through Pomponius, you should appease Hortensius himself) that the poem about Aurelian Law that was attributed to you when you were campaigning for the aedileship⁹ is not ‘confirmed’ as such through false testimony.¹⁰ What I fear most of all is that when people realise how much your entreaties and narrow escape will create pity for me, they will attack you even more violently.

I think Messalla is devoted to you. I think Pompey is still only pretending. But I hope you won’t have to test this! I would pray to the gods—if they hadn’t stopped listening to my prayers. But still, I pray that they will be content with the infinite evils we face, including that, not only are we entirely guiltless of any mistake, but the whole cause of our sorrow is that we have paid the ultimate price for the most noble of actions.

Why should I commend my—and your—daughter and our little Cicero to your care, my brother? In fact, I grieve that their orphanhood will bring you as much pain as it brings me.¹¹ But they will not be orphans as long as you are safe. My tears will not let me write the rest—that I might be granted some safety and the power to die in my own country! Please also protect Terentia and write to me about everything that happens.

Be as brave as the facts of the situation allow.

June 13th, at Thessalonica.

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Latin text of Cic. Qfr. 1.3 | Glossary | Where is Cicero?

1. When Quintus left to govern his province.

2. Cicero worried that Clodius would seek further vengeance by prosecuting Quintus for alleged mismanagement of his province. Cicero was famous for his court oratory, but in exile would be unable to defend his own brother in court.

3. Cicero’s son was 6 years old.

4. Cicero is once again thinking of Hortensius.

5. Footnote borrowed from Shackleton Bailey: ‘Cicero’s wealth came mainly from his patrimony and from the legacies of clients and friends, and not, e.g., from confiscated estates bought cheap (cf. Crassus) or the spoils of office.’

6. Shackleton Bailey’s Onomasticon to Cicero’s Letters identifies this Marcus Antonius as the Mark Antony. I have no idea why Quintus owed him money.

7. ‘Caepio’ is almost certainly Brutus, who was legally called Quintus Servilius Caepio Brutus after being adopted by a relative. Quintus owing Brutus money makes sense, since basically everybody owed Brutus money.

8. Footnote borrowed from Shackleton Bailey: ‘The ‘Triumvir’ was an experienced advocate, but it is surprising that Quintus should be told to seek his services in view of the distrust expressed in Fam. 7 (XIV.2).2. The juncture with Calidius shows that a prosecution is in mind, not a financial difficulty.’

9. In 66 BCE.

10. And another Shackleton Bailey footnote: ‘The one-line epigram ascribed to Quintus attacked [the Aurelian Law] and therefore, probably explicitly, its backers, Pompey and Crassus. Cicero was afraid that Hortensius, an opponent of the law and therefore likely to be believed on such a point, might confirm the report of Quintus’ authorship, thus making mischief with the two dynasts.’

11. It’s not like their mother was still alive or anything…