LXIV (a iii, 9)
TO ATTICUS (AT ROME)
Thessalonica, 13 June
b.c. 58, æt. 48
My brother Quintus having quitted Asia before the 1st of May, and arrived at Athens on the 15th, he would have to make great haste to prevent proceedings being commenced against him in his absence, supposing there to be some one who was not content with the misfortunes we have already sustained. Accordingly, I preferred that he should hurry on to Rome rather than come to me; and at the same time—for I will tell you the truth, and it will give you a notion of the extent of my wretchedness—I could not make up my mind to see him, devotedly attached to me as he is, and a man of most tender feelings, or to obtrude upon him my miseries and ruin in all their wretchedness, or to endure their being seen by him. And I was besides afraid of what certainly would have happened—that he would not have had the resolution to leave me. I had ever before my eyes the time when he would either have to dismiss his lictors,322 or be violently torn from my arms. The prospect of this bitter pain I have avoided by the other bitter pain of not seeing my brother. It is all you, who advised me to continue living, that have forced me into this distressful position. Accordingly, I am paying the penalty of my error. However, I am sustained by your letter, from which I easily perceive how high your own hopes are. This did give me some consolation, but only, after all, till you passed from the mention of Pompey to the passage beginning "Now try and win over Hortensius and men of that sort." In heaven's name, my dear Pomponius, don't you yet perceive by whose means, by whose treachery, by whose dishonest advice, I have been ruined? But all this I will discuss with you when we meet. I will only say this much, which I think you know: it is not my enemies, but my jealous rivals, that have ruined me. Now, however, if things are really as you hope, I will keep up my spirits, and will rely upon the hope on which you bid me rely. But if, as I myself think, this proves illusory, what I was not allowed to do at the best time shall be done at a worse.323 Terentia often expresses her gratitude to you. For myself one of my miseries also consists in fear—the business of my unhappy brother. If I could only know how it stands, I should know what I ought to do. Personally, the hope of the advantages and of the letters you mention keeps me still, as you advise, at Thessalonica. If I get any news, I shall know what I ought to do about the rest. Yes, if, as you say in your letter, you left Rome on the 1st of June, you will soon see us. I have sent you a letter which I wrote to Pompey.
Thessalonica, 15 June.
LXV (q fr i, 3)
TO HIS BROTHER QUINTUS (ON HIS WAY TO ROME)
Thessalonica, 15 June
b.c. 58, æt. 48
Brother! Brother! Brother! did you really fear that I had been induced by some angry feeling to send slaves to you without a letter? Or even that I did not wish to see you? I to be angry with you! Is it possible for me to be angry with you? Why, one would think that it was you that brought me low! Your enemies, your unpopularity, that miserably ruined me, and not I that unhappily ruined you! The fact is, the much-praised consulate of mine has deprived me of you, of children, country, fortune; from you I should hope it will have taken nothing but myself. Certainly on your side I have experienced nothing but what was honourable and gratifying: on mine you have grief for my fall and fear for your own, regret, mourning, desertion. I not wish to see you? The truth is rather that I was unwilling to be seen by you. For you would not have seen your brother—not the brother you had left, not the brother you knew, not him to whom you had with mutual tears bidden farewell as he followed you on your departure for your province: not a trace even or faint image of him, but rather what I may call the likeness of a living corpse. And oh that you had sooner seen me or heard of me as a corpse! Oh that I could have left you to survive, not my life merely, but my undiminished rank! But I call all the gods to witness that the one argument which recalled me from death was, that all declared that to some extent your life depended upon mine. In which matter I made an error and acted culpably. For if I had died, that death itself would have given clear evidence of my fidelity and love to you. As it is, I have allowed you to be deprived of my aid, though I am alive, and with me still living to need the help of others; and my voice, of all others, to fail when dangers threatened my family, which had so often been successfully used in the defence of the merest strangers. For as to the slaves coming to you without a letter, the real reason (for you see that it was not anger) was a deadness of my faculties, and a seemingly endless deluge of tears and sorrows. How many tears do you suppose these very words have cost me? As many as I know they will cost you to read them! Can I ever refrain from thinking of you or ever think of you without tears? For when I miss you, is it only a brother that I miss? Rather it is a brother of almost my own age in the charm of his companionship, a son in his consideration for my wishes, a father in the wisdom of his advice! What pleasure did I ever have without you, or you without me? And what must my case be when at the same time I miss a daughter: How affectionate! how modest! how clever! The express image of my face, of my speech, of my very soul! Or again a son, the prettiest boy, the very joy of my heart? Cruel inhuman monster that I am, I dismissed him from my arms better schooled in the world than I could have wished: for the poor child began to understand what was going on. So, too, your own son, your own image, whom my little Cicero loved as a brother, and was now beginning to respect as an elder brother! Need I mention also how I refused to allow my unhappy wife—the truest of helpmates—to accompany me, that there might be some one to protect the wrecks of the calamity which had fallen on us both, and guard our common children? Nevertheless, to the best of my ability, I did write a letter to you, and gave it to your freedman Philogonus, which, I believe, was delivered to you later on; and in this I repeated the advice and entreaty, which had been already transmitted to you as a message from me by my slaves, that you should go on with your journey and hasten to Rome. For, in the first place, I desired your protection, in case there were any of my enemies whose cruelty was not yet satisfied by my fall. In the next place, I dreaded the renewed lamentation which our meeting would cause: while I could not have borne your departure, and was afraid of the very thing you mention in your letter—that you would be unable to tear yourself away. For these reasons the supreme pain of not seeing you—and nothing more painful or more wretched could, I think, have happened to the most affectionate and united of brothers—was a less misery than would have been such a meeting followed by such a parting. Now, if you can, though I, whom you always regarded as a brave man, cannot do so, rouse yourself and collect your energies in view of any contest you may have to confront. I hope, if my hope has anything to go upon, that your own spotless character and the love of your fellow citizens, and even remorse for my treatment, may prove a certain protection to you. But if it turns out that you are free from personal danger, you will doubtless do whatever you think can be done for me. In that matter, indeed, many write to me at great length and declare that they have hopes; but I personally cannot see what hope there is, since my enemies have the greatest influence, while my friends have in some cases deserted, in others even betrayed me, fearing perhaps in my restoration a censure on their own treacherous conduct. But how matters stand with you I would have you ascertain and report to me. In any case I shall continue to live as long as you shall need me, in view of any danger you may have to undergo: longer than that I cannot go on in this kind of life. For there is neither wisdom nor philosophy with sufficient strength to sustain such a weight of grief. I know that there has been a time for dying, more honourable and more advantageous; and this is not the only one of my many omissions, which, if I should choose to bewail, I should merely be increasing your sorrow and emphasizing my own stupidity. But one thing I am not bound to do, and it is in fact impossible—remain in a life so wretched and so dishonoured any longer than your necessities, or some well-grounded hope, shall demand. For I, who was lately supremely blessed in brother, children, wife, wealth, and in the very nature of that wealth, while in position, influence, reputation, and popularity, I was inferior to none, however distinguished—I cannot, I repeat, go on longer lamenting over myself and those dear to me in a life of such humiliation as this, and in a state of such utter ruin. Wherefore, what do you mean by writing to me about negotiating a bill of exchange? As though I were not now wholly dependent on your means! And that is just the very thing in which I see and feel, to my misery, of what a culpable act I have been guilty in squandering to no purpose the money which I received from the treasury in your name,324 while you have to satisfy your creditors out of the very vitals of yourself and your son. However, the sum mentioned in your letter has been paid to M. Antonius, and the same amount to Cæpio. For me the sum at present in my hands is sufficient for what I contemplate doing. For in either case—whether I am restored or given up in despair—I shall not want any more money. For yourself, if you are molested, I think you should apply to Crassus and Calidius. I don't know how far Hortensius is to be trusted. Myself, with the most elaborate pretence of affection and the closest daily intimacy, he treated with the most utter want of principle and the most consummate treachery, and Q. Arrius helped him in it: acting under whose advice, promises, and injunctions, I was left helpless to fall into this disaster. But this you will keep dark for fear they might injure you. Take care also—and it is on this account that I think you should cultivate Hortensius himself by means of Pomponius—that the epigram on the lex Aurelia325 attributed to you when candidate for the ædileship is not proved by false testimony to be yours. For there is nothing that I am so afraid of as that, when people understand how much pity for me your prayers and your acquittal will rouse, they may attack you with all the greater violence. Messalla I reckon as really attached to you: Pompey I regard as still pretending only. But may you never have to put these things to the test! And that prayer I would have offered to the gods had they not ceased to listen to prayers of mine. However, I do pray that they may be content with these endless miseries of ours; among which, after all, there is no discredit for any wrong thing done—sorrow is the beginning and end, sorrow that punishment is most severe when our conduct has been most unexceptionable. As to my daughter and yours and my young Cicero, why should I recommend them to you, my dear brother? Rather I grieve that their orphan state will cause you no less sorrow than it does me. Yet as long as you are uncondemned they will not be fatherless. The rest, by my hopes of restoration and the privilege of dying in my fatherland, my tears will not allow me to write! Terentia also I would ask you to protect, and to write me word on every subject. Be as brave as the nature of the case admits.
Thessalonica, 13 June.
LXVI (a iii, 10)
TO ATTICUS (AT ROME)
Thessalonica, 17 June
b.c. 58, æt. 48
The public transactions up to the 25th of May I have learnt from your letter. I am waiting for the rest, as you advised, at Thessalonica; and when they arrive I shall be better able to decide where to be. For if there is any reason, if any action is being taken, if I shall see any hopes, I shall either wait in the same place or go to your house; but if, as you say, these hopes have vanished into air, I shall look out for something else. At present you do not give me any indication except the disagreement of those friends of yours, which, however, arises between them on every kind of subject rather than myself. Therefore I don't see what good it is to me. However, as long as you all will have me hope, I shall obey you. For as to your scoldings so frequent and so severe, and your saying that I am faint-hearted, I would ask you what misery is there so heavy as not to be included in my disfranchisement? Did anyone ever fall from such a high position, in so good a cause, with such endowments of genius, wisdom and popularity, with such powerful supports from all loyalists? Can I forget what I was, and not feel what I am? Of what honour, of what glory, of what children, of what means, of what a brother I am deprived? This last, indeed, to draw your attention to a new kind of disaster—though I valued him, and always had done so, more than myself—I have avoided seeing, lest I should behold his grief and mourning, or lest I—whom he had left in the highest prosperity—should obtrude myself upon him in a state of ruin and humiliation. I pass over the other particulars that are past bearing: for I am prevented by my tears. And here, let me ask, am I to be blamed for my grief, or for the unfortunate mistake of not retaining these advantages (and I could easily have done so, had not a plot for my destruction been hatched within my own walls), or at least of not losing them without losing my life at the same time? My purpose in writing these words is that you should rather console me, as you do, than think me deserving of correction or chiding; and the reason of the comparative brevity of my letters is, in the first place, that I am hindered by outbursts of sorrow, and, in the second place, that I have news to expect from Rome rather than any to communicate myself. But when that news arrives I will let you know my plans. Pray, as you have done hitherto, write to me on as many subjects as possible, that I may not be ignorant of any possible thing there is to know.
Thessalonica, 17 June.
LXVII (a iii, 11)
TO ATTICUS (AT ROME)
Thessalonica, 27 June
b.c. 58, æt. 48
I have been kept at Thessalonica up to this time as well by your letter and some good news (which, however, did not rest on the best authority), and the expectation of hearing from you all at Rome, as by the fact that you advised my doing so. When I receive the letters which I expect, if there turns out to be the hope which rumour brings me, I shall go to your house;326 if otherwise, I will inform you of what I have done. Pray go on, as you are doing, and help me by your exertions, advice, and influence. Cease now consoling me, but yet don't chide me; for when you do that, I fail to recognize your affection and regret! Yet I believe you to be so distressed yourself at my wretchedness, that it is not within anyone's power to console you. Give your support to Quintus, my best and kindest of brothers. Pray write to me fully on everything.
27 June.
LXVIII (a iii, 12)
TO ATTICUS (AT ROME)
Thessalonica, 17 July
b.c. 58, æt. 48
Well, you argue earnestly as to what hope is to be entertained, and especially through the action of the senate, and yet you mention that the clause of the bill is being posted up, in virtue of which the subject is forbidden to be mentioned in the senate. Accordingly, not a word is said about it. In these circumstances you find fault with me for distressing myself, when the fact is I am already more distressed than anybody ever was, as you know very well. You hold out hope as a consequence of the elections. What hope can there be with the same man tribune, and a consul-designate who is my enemy?327 But you have dealt me a blow in what you say about my speech having got abroad.328 Pray do your best to heal that wound, as you express it. I did indeed write one some time ago, in a fit of anger at what he had first composed against me; but I had taken such pains to suppress it, that I thought it would never get into circulation. How it has leaked out I cannot think. But since the occasion never arose for my having a word of dispute with him, and since it appears to me to be more carelessly written than my other speeches, I think it might be maintained not to be by me. Pray look after this if you think I can do anything to remedy the mischief; but if my ruin is inevitable, I don't so much care about it. I am still lying idle in the same place, without conversation, without being able to think. Though, as you say, I have "intimated" to you my desire that you should come to me, yet it is now clear to me329 that you are doing me useful service where you are, but could not give me even a word of relief here. I cannot write any more, nor have I anything to say: I am rather waiting to hear from you all.
Thessalonica, 17 July.
LXIX (a iii, 14)
TO ATTICUS (AT ROME)
Thessalonica, 21 July
b.c. 58, æt. 48
From your letter I am full of anxiety to hear what Pompey's view is of my case, or what he professes to be his view. The elections, I presume, are over; and when they were over you say that he was of opinion that my case should be mooted. If I seem foolish to you for entertaining hopes, it is at your bidding that I do so: yet I know that you have in your letters been usually inclined rather to check me and my hopes. Now pray write distinctly what your view is. I know that I have fallen into this distress from numerous errors of my own. If certain accidents have in any degree corrected those errors, I shall be less sorry that I preserved my life then and am still living. Owing to the constant traffic along the road330 and the daily expectation of political change, I have as yet not removed from Thessalonica. But now I am being forced away, not by Plancius—for he, indeed, wishes to keep me here—but by the nature of the place, which is not at all calculated for the residence of a disfranchised man in such a state of sorrow. I have not gone to Epirus, as I had said I would, because all of a sudden the messages and letters that arrived have all indicated it to be unnecessary for me to be in the immediate neighbourhood of Italy. From this place, as soon as I have heard something about the elections, I shall set my face towards Asia, but to what particular part I am not yet certain: however, you shall know.
Thessalonica, 21 July.
LXX (a iii, 13)
TO ATTICUS (AT ROME)
Thessalonica, 5 August
b.c. 58, æt. 48
As to my having written you word that I meant to go to Epirus, I changed my plan when I saw that my hope was vanishing and fading away, and did not remove from Thessalonica. I resolved to remain there until I heard from you on the subject mentioned in your last letter, namely, that there was going to be some motion made in the senate on my case immediately after the elections, and that Pompey had told you so. Wherefore, as the elections are over and I have no letter from you, I shall consider it as though you had written to say that nothing has come of it, and I shall not feel annoyed at having been buoyed up by a hope which did not keep me long in suspense. But the movement, which you said in your letter that you foresaw as likely to be to my advantage, people arriving here tell me will not occur.331 My sole remaining hope is in the tribunes-designate: and if I wait to see how that turns out, you will have no reason to think of me as having been wanting to my own cause or the wishes of my friends. As to your constantly finding fault with me for being so overwhelmed by my misfortune, you ought to pardon me when you see that I have sustained a more crushing blow than anyone you have ever seen or heard of. As to your saying that you are told that my intellect in even affected by grief, that is not so; my intellect is quite sound. Oh that it had been as much so in the hour of danger! when I found those, to whom I thought my safety was the dearest object of their life, most bitterly and unfeelingly hostile: who, when they saw that I had somewhat lost my balance from fear, left nothing undone which malice and treachery could suggest in giving me the final push, to my utter ruin. Now, as I must go to Cyzicus, where I shall get letters more rarely, I beg you to write me word all the more carefully of everything you may think I ought to know. Be sure you are affectionate to my brother Quintus: if in all my misery I still leave him with rights undiminished, I shall not consider myself utterly ruined.
5 August.