Book Two, Letter Six

To Cicero – Death Sentence

Dear Cicero,

What's two thousand years between friends, right?

You can hear me fine can't you, I can certainly hear your voice bright and true, still reverberating outwards from the forum as if yesterday were today. Your voice is full of love and noble striving and hope and some days your voice is more clear than my own thoughts.

I have been re-reading your biography, written by Anthony Trollope, getting swept up chapter after chapter in the adventure and importance of your life, in the value of your deeds and the wisdom of your principles. I could cheer sometimes at your triumphs and also I will admit to feeling your tears wet upon my cheek as again I read of the death of your daughter. I don't know why it effects me so, I have not known such loss, but I can feel your heart beating in my chest, Cicero. Your happiness and agony are alive in my blood.

But approaching the last chapter, my mind rebels against the words I read, as I turn the pages closer each night towards the tragic conclusion of your mortal story. I find myself excited, thrilled at your heroic deeds, and every moment, hoping, that this time the story will end differently. Half believing that this time you will escape! Wishing that I missed a part of the story last time I read this book, and that you didn't really die at Caieta.

But Romeo and Juliet die every time. Their story never changes either.

Yet your tragedy Cicero seemed to have had so many opportunities for a different ending. You contemplated sneaking into Augustus Caesar's house and slaying him on the hearthstone in revenge for his betrayal of you, but your fear of torture persuaded you to run for your life. Having lost everything, you still found reason enough to live, even if the instinct to fear pain was your only motivation. You did not submit to the violence of your desire for revenge, but sought only to live on in the hope, yes HOPE, that some good may yet still come of your life.

You fled, sailing to Caieta, aiming for the shore near a temple to Apollo, wherefrom a flock of crows descended upon your little boat and pecked at the sail ropes. The ill omen was felt by everyone on board, yet for some reason you went ashore to your villa to rest, draping your toga over your face as you collapsed on the couch. But the crows followed you, perching on the window sill and cawing tumultuously, one bird landing beside you and ever so carefully lifting the cloth from your face in an attempt to wake you. Your servants, ashamed that beasts of the wild should try to help you while they only looked on, picked you up and dragged you to your carriage, taking you towards the sea on December seventh, forty three years before the birth of Christ.

It would probably have been a cold day. Your servants took you along a path through the dark shelter of the woods towards the coast. The assassins, following close behind, came to your villa and found it empty. They might have lost your trail, they might have turned away and you might have escaped, had it not been for Phililogus, a freedman of your brother. Your brother Quintus, who had only days prior been slain, along with his son, while they packed what they could before leaving home for the last time.

Philologus betrayed you to your enemies, though I imagine that he was tortured by the men whose duty it was to slay you. I will not recount again the grisly moment of your death. We've talked about that in the past, but for this one last detail.

Of the two assassins, there was one Popilius, a tribune. Popilius, whom you had years before defended in court. Popillius whom you had acquitted of the accusation of parricide, a crime for which he most certainly would have himself, been executed, or at best, exiled.

Popilius whom you had saved, was ordered to stand witness at your assassination.

On a cold day in the woods, near the sea shore at Caieta.

Every time I read the story I hope that it will end differently.

But it doesn't.

*

I apologise old friend, for the gloomy airs I wear. The sun has been gone for days and each morning I find a new white hair has grown in my ever lengthening beard. I will write more when I am feeling better, for I have been reading many books and wish to discuss them with you, even if only briefly. I will not send this letter until I have written something else from a better mood.

Thank you for understanding....

*

A day with a saw in my hand, clearing away the old, crooked branches of a fig tree, cutting away the woody shoots sprouting like spears from the soil all around the trunk, opening the heart of the tree.

Opening the heart.

I cut back the wicked thorn branches of a winter green Bougainvillaea. In summer it is a riot of pink flowers. In winter, it is a thorn ridden tentacle beast disguised in green leaves.

Cutting back the reaching talons of a disguised beast

I haul away the discarded wood.

In the distance a bonfire roars the song of conflagration, but I cannot hear it. My rough hands are cut and bruised, my nails black rimmed with the paint of earth.

I know that the sun is up there, in the sky somewhere, and if I dive deep into my imagination I can feel the warmth of Spring on its way. But it is not here today.

Not here today at all.

...but if I dive deep into my imagination,

dare I say it?

Happiness glimmers at the bottom of the well, a second sun in the earth that mirrors the sun above me that I cannot see and cannot feel and sometimes do not believe is real.

But there it is, happiness looking up at me from the bottom of the well.

*

I am ever grateful, dear Cicero, to know you. It is enough sometimes to know that you lived and strove to be a good man against all odds, and to struggle for what you thought was right. Even though you failed. Even though you were killed for your efforts. There was never any other way for a man such as you to meet his end.

In this, my thirty eighth year upon the earth, I look at pictures of your tomb and weep.

Where have all the good men gone?

Morgan.

Book Two, Letter Five

To Xenophon on the Education of Cyrus

Dear Xenophon,

I'm going to start with Bukowski. Ahh... Bukowski.

The miracle

To work with an art form

does not mean to

screw off like a tapeworm

with his belly full.

Nor does it justify grandeur

or greed, nor at all times

seriousness, but I would guess

that it calls upon the best of men

at their best times,

and when they die

and something else does not,

we have seen the miracle of immortality:

men arrived as men,

departed as gods -

gods we knew were here,

gods that now let us go on

when all else says stop.

Xenophon, I had you all wrong. I thought you were just an old soldier, telling tales of old glory and military custom. You wrote books on history and horsemanship. I thought that's all you were. Then I found out you studied with Socrates, and then I found the Cyropaedia.

Cyropaedia: The Education of Cyrus is a work of such magnificence and inspiring beauty that it....hmm, no that's not how I want to start this. I don't want to just heap praise upon you like a springtime romance. I want to really feel this one out. I want to ask...what is this story really about?

The wisdom of children? Or the fictions that are more important than truths? Cyropaedia is beautiful, inspiring, complex, funny and humbling. The way I could describe it, is that it is a philosophical work woven through a sort of fictional biography of a real king, but most of the things you describe never really happened to him. It is a dream, a utopia. It is a tale of grace and kindness and love and good judgement and the learning of hard lessons, of grandfathers and fathers and sons. It is these fictional truths that really amaze me. “Never was there a king so wise nor subjects so happy in their subjection.” This is a tale painted with the romance of war, royalty, loyalty, nobility and intellect. It is a beautiful lie, and we know it is a lie, but we still want to believe in the ideals the characters live by.

A hero like your Cyrus is a philosophical fairy story, and like all good fiction stories, it is about truth. It is a dream. The wisdom of the boy prince is a glowing coal, a glowing goal in my imagination and I have eagerly awaited the chance to tell some of those stories to my son. So I guess that's what I'll write to you Xenophon. This is how I would tell my eight year old son, one of the stories from the young life of Cyrus, King of the Achaemenid Persian Empire. Of course, I am going to steal without compunction from the H.G. Daykins translation I have, adapting and shortening it to my purpose.

*

                                                               Cyrus: King of Persia

           

There was a boy named Cyrus, a prince who knew how to see the truth, and all his life he used this power to see through to the heart of people and of problems. He knew how to give men what they wanted and rewarded those who served him well. He was both clever and kind, cunning and compassionate, honest and poetic. Such was his spirit that as a man he inspired magnificent service from his friends and allies, who were all willing to stake their lives on his cause and who competed to outdo each other in heroism and generosity towards him.

In his youth, Cyrus lived with his grandfather Astyages, the King of the Medes. The two loved each other very much, and the King would never refuse the boy when he wanted to keep company with him. They would talk about everything, enjoying each other's wit, intellect, sincerity and warmth.

Cyrus loved to ride his horse and to shoot a bow and throw a spear, and he worked hard to be the best among his friends, but also the most humble. He would always encourage his friends on their hunts in the royal parks, cheering their successes and laughing with kindness at their mistakes. But as time went on, Cyrus and his friends grew weary of the poor beasts in the little hunting grounds of the palace, and wanted to hunt wild boar and deer in the forests beyond the palace. His friends begged him to seek permission from the king, for Cyrus was known to have great skill in persuasion, and if the king allowed it, the boy's parents would allow them to go also. But Cyrus was reluctant.

“I cannot think what has come over me,” Cyrus told his friends, “I cannot speak to my grandfather any more; I cannot look him straight in the face. If this fit grows on me I fear I shall become no better than an idiot. And yet, when I was a boy, they tell me, I was sharp enough at talking.”

His friends retorted, “Well, if you can do nothing for us in our hour of need, we must turn elsewhere.” When Cyrus heard that he was stung to the quick. He went away in silence and stirred himself to put on a bold face, and so went to see his grandfather, though not without first planning how he could best bring in the matter.

Cyrus stood before Astyages the King, his grandfather, and asked: “If a slave ran away, and you caught him, what would you do to him?”

The King replied: “I would clap irons on him and force him to work in chains.”

“And if the slave returned of his own free will?” Asked Cyrus.

“Why, I would give him a whipping, as a warning not to do it again, and then treat him as if nothing had happened.” said the King.

“Then you should prepare your birch whips, because I am going to run away and go hunting in the wilds with my friends. When I return you can punish me any way you see fit.”

“Very kind of you to tell me beforehand,” said Astyages, “And now listen, I forbid you to set foot outside the palace grounds. A pretty thing” he added, “if for he sake of a day's hunting I should let my daughter's lamb get lost.”

So Cyrus did as his grandfather ordered and stayed at home, but he spent his days in silence and his brow was clouded. At last Astyages saw how bitterly the lad felt it, and he made up his mind to please him by leading out a hunting party himself.

When out on the hunt, riding together through the forests and hills, the king was overjoyed to see the way that Cyrus would applaud his friends successes and laugh at their mistakes, but all without the slightest touch of jealousy. Their time together was so wonderful that ever after, whenever Astyages would go hunting, he would take Cyrus, and never failed to take his friends as well, “to please Cyrus.”

Thus did Cyrus spend his early life, sharing in and helping towards the happiness of all, and bringing no sorrow to any man.

*

There is something important about the beautiful lie.

Without these romanticised versions of reality, all we have is reality.

I want to believe in a boy Prince who was wise and kind and special. I want to believe in the idea that a noble and virtuous man might exist, or has existed, and that I might strive to be like him. Inspired by his virtue. Inspired by the fantasy.

Is that what this is? Fantasy? Is that what philosophy is? The dream of a better world where we understand ourselves and we understand each other and though life is full of ignorance and suffering, we can be wise enough to make good choices. We can be generous enough to give without expectation.

Thucydides said that history is philosophy taught by example.

Xenophon, I ask you this. Is Cyropaedia a speculative philosophical fantasy novel? A utopian lightning rod? I think that you want me to believe in something. You want me to believe that such a man as your Cyrus could exist, and you want me to believe that this imaginary prince, with his noble virtues and generous spirit, might teach me something about being a man.

Reading The education of Cyrus is an opportunity to re-live my own childhood, and take on all the lessons of this Prince among Princes, this King of Kings, mixing them in with all my own experiences, and from that intermingling, a new wisdom might emerge, through me.

It's not enough to just say that the wisdom of the ancient world is alive through these books.

The wisdom must come to life through me. Today.

Whatever wisdom there be.

Thank you Xenophon.

PS. My father was a hunter, so I suppose that I was drawn in particular to this story, in part, because of that. I remember the wild goat horns above my bed as a child, and the wild boar tusks in the lounge room. There are more stories there, but they are for another time.

                                                                                       
                                                  My Father, with the first wild boar he ever hunted.             

                                               My Father, much later in life, hunting Pheasant.

Book 2, Letter 4, part 5 of 5

To Cicero, on Friends and Enemies.

July 28^th

From Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare

Tybalt (speaking to Romeo) : The love I bear thee can afford no better term than this: thou art a villian.

Romeo: Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain, I am none; Therefore, farewell; I see thou knowest me not.

*

I knowest thee not Cicero. Your life is long and I can see only dimly through windows stained with the dust of centuries. It's time to come to the final stage of this letter, the whole reason I brought all this talk of enemies to such a pitch. I will talk at last, of friendship. Having encircled you with the flanking manoeuvres of flattery and accusation, having driven home the main force of my suspicions about war, and the conspiracies of war, I offer you a treaty of peace, the terms of which are of benefit to us both.

*

July 29^th

In the evening...

Wine is a marvel isn't it? A meal with friends, music in the evening, and conversation that stimulates and challenges, but also comforts and reassures. Old friends, among whom 'plain speaking' is the customary idiom, with whom, mutual trust and respect engender an atmosphere of relaxed intensity, where each of us feels comfortable to be as intense and passionate as is our nature, and to always speak the truth.

Cicero, the darkness of your enmity towards Antony is put in sharp relief by your words regarding friendship, and most importantly I consider, your thoughts on self love. I will paraphrase again before I speak on this, from the Evelyn Shuckburgh translation of your treatise On Friendship.

“All I can do is to urge on you to regard friendship as the greatest thing in the world; for there is nothing which so fits in with our nature, or is so exactly what we want in prosperity or adversity

“Fire and water themselves, to use a common expression, are not of more universal use than friendship.”

“But friendship by it's nature admits of no feigning, no pretence: as far as it goes it is both genuine and spontaneous.”

“Now by 'worthy of friendship' I mean those who have in themselves the qualities which attract affection. This sort of man is rare; and indeed all excellent things are rare; and nothing in this world is so hard to find as a thing entirely and completely perfect of its kind. But most people not only recognise nothing as good in life unless it is profitable, but look upon friends as so much stock, caring most for those by whom they hope to make most profit. Accordingly they never possess that most beautiful and most spontaneous friendship which must be sought solely for itself without any ulterior object. They fail also to learn from their own feelings the nature and strength of friendship. For everyone loves himself, not for any reward which such love may bring, but because he is dear to himself independently of anything else.

But unless this feeling is transferred to another, what a real friend is will never be revealed; for he is, as it were, a second self. But if we find these two instincts shewing themselves in animals – whether of the air or the sea or the land, whether wild or tame – first, a love of self, which in fact is born in everything that lives alike; and secondly an eagerness to find and attach themselves to other creatures of their own kind; and if this natural action is accompanied by desire and by something resembling human love, how much more must this be the case in man by the law of his nature? For man not only loves himself, but seeks another whose spirit he may so blend with his own as almost to make one being of two.”

It is this last section that has moved me the most, for you recognise that the love of another must necessarily spring forth from the fountain of self love, which you assert is a natural instinct of both man and beast.

In my era, many of us suffer from the plagues of depression and self abasing negativity, and it seems that this love, which for you is a self evident nature to be found in all living things, is now often obscured in us, beneath a blanket of heavy doubt. That real friendships are rare no one can dispute, and rarer still in this era where self love is lacking in so many, where the qualities which might attract affection from others are in doubt and conflict with the harmful belief in our own faithless disharmony. But friendship is now, as it ever was in your time, of more universal use than fire and water, for without friendship what warmth may be enjoyed from that fire? Without friendship, what thirst may be truly quenched by water alone? But these three things in unison, friendship, fire and water, or as Omar Khayyam might have put it, “...a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou...” are the founding bed of love and mutual kindness that supply and support all our mortal strivings.

What hope do we have to succeed against the enemies of peace, if it is not through the friendships we may form today? By what other means may we defeat the fear in ourselves if not through the loving kindness of sincere and genuine companionship, fortified by that trustworthiness born of frank and plain speech. We owe it to ourselves to honour that self love which you Cicero, place so much value in, by the application of our hearts and minds to the building of new friendships, and the continued valuing of the old. By what other efforts can we, the common people, prevent the mistrust and anxiety that leads to war, other than by the promotion of the values and qualities of friendship. Friendship between individuals, between communities, between states and even nations. It is by these bonds that we have always valued, but seldom acknowledged, that the means of peace may be achieved, and that the ends may be enjoyed.

“But most people unreasonably, not to speak of modesty, want such a friend as they are unable to be themselves, and expect from their friends what they themselves do not give. The fair course is to be good yourself, and then to look out for another of like character.”

So the burden of effort is upon us all, my dear Cicero, to first be worthy of friendship, and then to seek to share that virtue with those among whom we might find mutual respect, admiration and love. “For if respect is gone, friendship has lost its brightest jewel.”

And respect may be shown even to our enemies.

Thank you Cicero, for everything.

Morgan.

Book Two, Letter Four, part 4 of 5

To Cicero: on Friends and Enemies

June 27th

I have now listened to all fourteen of the Philippics, all the remaining speeches you gave against Marc Antony and I find, as always, more and more parallels between our times, and more reasons still to call you my brother Cicero.

In the eighth Philippic, you speak on the self same issue I raised while writing only days ago, in this very letter to you. I will paraphrase.

“Some men, in delivering their opinion, did not choose to insert the word “war.” They preferred calling it “tumult,” being ignorant not only of the state of affairs, but also of the meaning of words. For there can be a “war” without a “tumult,” but there cannot be a “tumult” without a “war.” For what is a “tumult,” but such a violent disturbance that an unusual alarm is engendered by it? from which indeed the name “tumult” is derived. Therefore, our ancestors spoke of the Italian “tumult,” which was a domestic one; of the Gallic “tumult,” which was on the frontier of Italy; but they never spoke of any other. And that a “tumult” is a more serious thing than a “war” may be seen from this, that during a war exemptions from military service are valid; but in a tumult they are not. So that it is the fact, as I have said, that war can exist without a tumult, but a tumult cannot exist without a war. In truth, as there is no medium between war and peace, it is quite plain that a tumult, if it be not a sort of war, must be a sort of peace; and what more absurd can be said or imagined?”

“But why need I say more? Decimus Brutus is attacked. Is not that war? Mutina is besieged. Is not even that war?”

And here in the same speech you quote from a letter written by Antony regarding his own military actions against Rome:

“I drove out the garrison.” “I got possession of Claterna.” “The cavalry were routed.” “A battle was fought.” “A good many men were slain.”

What peace can be greater than this? Levies of troops are ordered throughout all Italy; all exemptions from service are suspended; the robe of war is to be assumed to-morrow; the consul has said that he shall come down to the senate-house with an armed guard.

Is this not war?”

So you now come full against the main body of my argument. Why is war not declared? In my own time, though soldiers are stationed all throughout Syria and Afghanistan, and though cities and civilians burn like so much kindling, we do not declare ourselves to be at war. Why? I have a theory, and please do not insult me for my ignorance me if I am wrong, or short sighted in my early theories. I am only trying to reason this problem out.

The world is currently experiencing the greatest volume of displaced people in recorded history. That is, war has made refugees of such huge populations of people from the middle east, that western nations are in a storm of confusion and conflict about what to do with them all as they flee the wars we fight in their homelands. But many nations refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of their refugee status, a human rights category that makes allowance for a person to seek asylum in a foreign country, if their homeland is in a state such that their life is in serious risk if they return.

But you see, my country refuses to accept the legitimacy of such refugee claims, and has continually imprisoned and deported those who have come seeking a new homeland in Australia. My government deports them on the ground that their lives are not truly in danger in their home country. My government is able to make this utterly false claim, because there is not an official state of war declared between our countries. If there were a declared war, then the governments of those enemy countries would needs be accepted as not only enemies of my country, but also enemies of their own citizens, citizens who are fleeing across the oceans in their millions to escape the 'war' we are presently fighting in their home. This would legitimise their refugee status claims and make legal their irregular entry to my country, where they would be able to enjoy the benefits of protection under Australian and international human rights laws.

Now, I will admit openly that I am not a student of international law. I am not a student of middle eastern politics (though I did study political philosophy, moral philosophy, poetry, creative writing, library science and drama at university). But I have advocated for the rights of refugees in my country for nearly two decades and have witnessed the most absurd lies being uttered by my government to defend their actions, actions which openly violate international human rights laws, of which my nation is under oath as a treaty signatory to obey.

I keep asking myself why? Governments always have rational motivations for their choices, usually tied to budgets, but often allied with the more insidious causes of racial hatred, religious intolerance and fear. Fear which has always been a successful tool for manipulating the opinions and passions of the masses.

The senators in your time had their own reasons for not wishing to use the word 'war'. You repeatedly declare in your speeches that Antony is the enemy of Rome, the enemy of the Republic, even admitting to a personal mission to forever oppose Antony. You declared your life in service to the Republic, only caring that your death, should it come, would be of service to the Republic. I see how foolish and ignorant the assumption I made about you earlier, was. Against such a foe, who could call himself a man and not stand warrior-like against him? Defying fate.

You, Cicero, could never let it go.

I'm sorry to mention it again, but my ignorance continues to plague me. I have to ask why? Why was Antony your enemy? Why was he the enemy of the republic? Why Antony? Why Caesar?

Why Cataline?

Because it always seems to come back to Cataline, and he leads back to the Gracci brothers, all of them embroiled in the ongoing civil wars of Rome. Before Mark Antony, through all the years leading up to the death of Caesar, is the long story of the ongoing struggle of the people's Tribunes, (the representatives of the people of Rome, Italy and the greater empire), to win better rights for the common folk, land rights, voting rights. A cause supported by Caesar. Yet you, Cicero opposed them all the way. For the Republic.

How strange it seems, that you, the author of treatises on friendship, duty, the nature of good and evil and the nature of the gods, should seem such a villain yourself amidst the bloody years of civil war. Over and over the struggle spilled blood in the streets, blood in the senate house, blood on your hands. You claim Cataline was a demagogue aiming at Kingship and tyranny, a murderous, morally crooked maniac, hell bent on burning Rome. You destroyed him with your speeches in the Senate, drove him from the city and into the waiting embrace of the army he had called to his cause.

They were all killed of course, a paltry few thousand men, poorly organised. Cataline was found among the dead.

                                                                The Discovery of the body of Cataline

You were cheered in the street for saving Rome, a title you proudly claimed ever after: The saviour of Rome. But still the question lingers.

Why? For no one would seek to destroy Rome, other than those who hated Rome.

Hatred is a powerful cause, with a terrible curse.

You, Cicero, were guilty of hatred, just as Cataline hated you, just as Antony hated you, just as Fulvia hated you. Fulvia, wife of Antony. Fulvia who hated you because of the terrible things you said about her husband. Fulvia who, when your severed head was hung upon the rostra in the senate house, stabbed your bloated tongue over and over with her long, piercing hair pins.

                                                                Fulvia with Cicero's head