Book 4, Letter 14, Part 1 of 2 to Cicero - History written by the losers

 Dear Cicero, 

 I'm near the end, only a few letters to go and I will have read every single one, just as Petrarch requested. I must savour these last words, despite their grim subject matter. There are no more letters to Atticus, no more to Tiro, no more to any of your friends – these are letters of war. To Marcus and Decimus Brutus, to Plancus, to Lepidus, and many others, all men of high office, all embroiled in the same civil strife, all of you working day and night to see your ambitions realised. 

To save the Republic 

They say that history is written by the victors, but tonight I understood that with you, Cicero, this is not true. You wrote your own history, and you lost hard. Your whole quest to save the Republic was a failure, yet your immortality is unquestionable. People today squabble over whether or not you complained too much or whether or not you had any real courage or power - and I repeat Petrarch's words to them; do not judge, until you have read all the letters, and read them well, and with careful, slow consideration.

As I near the end, I am scared to finish. Something of the truth of your death looms waiting for me. A truth I do not wish to face: that immortality is paper thin, and that the death which you walked towards with a steady gaze, is the real end of your story. I may read your works and feel you beside me, I may, for a time, sense the presence of your spirit as I read aloud your speeches, but death is forever, while life is short.

I see my own world crumbling, just as you were witness to the final days of your own dear Republic. I see the warning signs of civil war, and of a global systems collapse. If human nature asserts itself as it has in the past, it cannot be long before assassination becomes a commonplace political statement, and the similarities between your time and my own will increase. Nations are once again arming themselves...

But I should not worry. I cannot write the future. I will stand or fall as the wheat in the field, and my time shall be measured by the speed of the blade. I am glad to have known you Cicero. The story of the end of the Republic is written in your letters...

DCCCLX
M Brutus to M Cicero
May 43BCE

Because Antony is still alive and in arms, while in regard to Caesar, what could and was bound to be done, is all over and cannot be undone, Octavius is the man whose decision as to us is awaited by the Roman people ; we are in such a position that one man has to be petitioned to enable us to live. I however – to return to your policy – so far from being the sort of man to supplicate, am one forcibly to coerce those who demand that supplications should be addressed to them. If I can't do that, I will withdraw far from the servile herd and will for myself regard Rome as wherever I am able to be free. I shall feel only pity for men like yourself, if neither age nor honours nor the example of other men's courage has been able to lessen your clinging to life. For myself I shall only think myself happy if I abide with firmness and persistency in the idea that my patriotism has had its reward : for what is there better than the memory of good actions, and for a man – wanting nothing except liberty – to disregard the vicissitudes of human life?

Now, there is some doubt as to the authenticity of this letter from Brutus, and I, an amateur who cannot read Latin, still feel that there is something 'off' about the style of the above letter, especially given Brutus' usual laconic style. However, Shuckburgh, the translator of the 1895 edition, has this to say on the subject of these letters from Brutus:

There seems to be a kind of fashion in criticism. Forty of fifty years ago there was a tendency to throw doubt on the genuineness of ancient writings with a kind of triumphant scepticism; now the pendulum has swung back – for the most part happily so – and the impulse is do defend everything. Neither fashion is wholly in the right.

So, whether or not the letter is fake, I would like to address something about what it says, and how, in light of modern events, it seems a relevant example of political conflict. Brutus claims that Rome is wherever he can be free – but in all civil wars, Freedom, is what both sides always claim they are fighting for. The word is so over-used as to lose all meaning. Brutus also claims 'liberty or death', and as such, knowing something of his conservative political opinions, and yours Cicero, he comes across as a suicidal fanatic. To me, it is the most discreditable facet of your story, and of the actions of the senatorial order, that they refused to be flexible with their opposition.

Of course, that is too simplistic. After 100 years of bloodshed, the political process was little better than open gang warfare, and compromise, concessions and dialogue were utterly futile. Both sides had killed so many of their opposition, the blood grudge on both sides was never to be resolved. Or, Cicero, as you put it:

DCCCXCII
M Tullius Cicero to M Iunius Brutus
June 43BCE

Each man claims to be powerful in the Republic in proportion to his physical force. Reason, moderation, law, custom, duty – all go for nothing : as do the judgement and opinion of their fellow citizens, and their respect for the verdict of posterity. It was because I foresaw all this long ago that I was on the point of flying from Italy at the time when the report of the edicts issued by you and Cassius recalled me.

I love to find the moments in your life when your choices seem to draw you with a purpose towards your grisly fate. There are so many times when, had you chosen differently, you might have outlived the Republic. You might have met with your son in Greece and perhaps even studied with him, you might have turned your skills to philosophy and left the bloody contest for Rome behind. Here in June, 43BCE, not for the first time, some force drew you back into the battle. The wind herself diverted your ship more than once back to Italy.

Fortune had plans for you Cicero, and she played the strings of your heart and mind to the bloody end.

Book 4, Letter 13 To Tacitus, on impostors, and political conspiracies.

 

Dear Tacitus,

It's nothing new to say that the chaos of my own age is mirrored in the chaos of yours, but it always makes me laugh to read your little summaries.

In a state that was distracted by strife, and that from frequent changes in its rulers trembled on the verge between liberty and license, even little matters were attended to with great excitement.

(Histories, Bk 2, Sect. 10)

The world is a mess, and the only thing that keeps me stable is mediating on the notion that it has always been a mess, and likely, always will. I ponder, if it can't be fixed, maybe it isn't broken. This might just be my nihilism talking, and I am fine with admitting that the current state of politics has made me revert to a baseline disregard for all important events and issues, declaring that nothing can be done to fix a world defined by madness. I throw up my hands rather than wring them – though in truth, the stress has ruined my stomach, and I am gobbling antacid pills by the dozen. So, it is in moments like these that I like to read your book, Tacitus, and to laugh at the everyday horror and madness of your era. It makes my own era make sense.

So it was that I came across this little gem: (Histories, Bk II, 8-9)

About this time Achaia and Asia were terrified by a false rumour of Nero's arrival. The reports with regard to his death had been varied, and therefore many people imagined and believed that he was alive. The forces and attempts of other pretenders we shall tell as we proceed; but at this time, a slave from Pontus or, as others have reported, a freedman from Italy, who was skilled in playing on the cithara and in singing, gained the readier belief in his deceit through these accomplishments and his resemblance to Nero. He recruited some deserters, poor tramps whom he had bribed by great promises, and put to sea. A violent storm drove him to the island of Cythnus, where he called to his standard some soldiers who were returning from the East on leave, or ordered them to be killed if they refused. Then he robbed the merchants, and armed all the ablest-bodied of their slaves. A centurion, Sisenna, who was carrying clasped right hands, the symbol of friendship, to the praetorians in the name of the army in Syria, the pretender approached with various artifices, until Sisenna in alarm and fearing violence secretly left the island and made his escape. Then the alarm spread far and wide. Many came eagerly forward at the famous name, prompted by their desire for a change and their hatred of the present situation. The fame of the pretender was increasing from day to day when a chance shattered it.

The provinces of Galatia and Pamphylia had been entrusted by Galba to Calpurnius Asprenas, who had been given as escort two triremes from the fleet at Misenum. With these Calpurnius reached the island of Cythnus, where there were many who tried to win over the captains in Nero's name. The pretender, assuming a look of sorrow and calling on the soldiers, once his own, for protection, begged them to land him in Syria or Egypt. The captains, either hesitating or acting with craft, declared that they must address their soldiers and that they would return after they had prepared the minds of all. But they faithfully reported everything to Asprenas, at whose bidding they captured the pretender's ship and killed him, whoever he was. His body, which was remarkable for its eyes, hair, and grim face, was carried to Asia and from there to Rome.

I began to imagine such a thing happening here, in my own country. If a dead Prime Minister were to reappear through the actions of an ambitious impostor, and what the media reporting would do with such a story. No doubt, it would reach a fever pitch of vicious debate, with supporters of the impostor being fervent in their support of such a leader, supported by the conspiratorial beliefs either in divine resurrection, or of some other black-ops secret that required the temporary faked-death of their saviour.

This is bigger than fake news, a whole fake leader! I imagine if such a look-alike rose to power while their namesake still lived. What would President Trump say if someone who looked just like him, and who claimed to be the real President, was gaining power and raising an army to march against him? Or, since I live in Australia, what would Scott Morrison do if a new Scott Morrison stood up and claimed to be the real Prime Minister? I think a lot of people would believe in the new-comer simply out of hope.

Or, to keep this fantasy closer in line with your tale of a fake Nero, what would happen if Harold Holt reappeared, declaring his own disappearance and reported death to be a secret service operation? How many people would rally around this new Holt? (I'm not trying to compare Nero to Holt in any serious political sense, however Holt's disappearance in 1967 is still the source of some conspiracies... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Holt#Disappearance )

Well, it might not actually be funny, but it made me laugh.

So Tacitus, thank you

with Gratitude and Respect.

Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 12, Part 2 of 2, On Keeping friends in a time of war.

 

Cicero, I find myself shy of words. I feel unqualified to pass comment. I can only say that this reply to your letter to Matius, shows me proof that your feelings towards him were reciprocated. You were not wrong to trust him, to love him, and to have faith in your lifelong friendship.

DCCLXXXII (F XI, 28)

C. MATIUS TO CICERO (AT TUSCULUM) ROME (AUGUST)

Your letter gave me great pleasure by convincing me that your opinion of me was what I had hoped and wished that it should be. And although I had no doubt about that, yet, as I valued it very highly, I was anxious that it should remain intact. I was, moreover, conscious in my own mind of having done nothing calculated to wound the feelings of any good man. Therefore I was all the less inclined to believe that a man of your many splendid qualities could be induced to adopt any opinion inconsiderately, especially as my good feeling towards you had always been, and still was, heartfelt and uninterrupted. As then I know this to be as I wished it to be, I will now answer the charges, which—as was natural from your unparalleled kindness and our friendship-you have often rebutted in my behalf.

Now I am well acquainted with the allegations made against me since Caesar's death. People blame me for shewing grief at the death of a dear friend, and expressing my indignation that the man whom I loved had been killed. For they say that country should be preferred to friendship, as though they had actually proved that his death has been beneficial to the Republic. Well, I will speak frankly. I confess that I have not attained to that height of philosophy. For in the political controversy it was not Caesar that I followed, but it was a friend whom—though disapproving of what was being done—I yet refused to desert. Nor did I ever approve of a civil war, nor of the motive of the quarrel, which in fact I strove my utmost to have nipped in the bud. Accordingly, when my friend was victorious I was not fascinated by the charm either of promotion or of money-rewards upon which others, though less influential with him than I was, seized with such intemperate avidity. In fact, even my own personal property was curtailed by the law of Caesar, thanks to which most of those who now exult in Caesar's death maintained their position in the state. I was as anxious that conquered citizens should be spared as I was for my own safety. Wishing therefore the preservation of all, could I fail to be indignant that the man by whose means that preservation had been secured had perished? Especially when the very same men had caused both the feeling against him. and the death which befell him. "Well then," say they, "you are assailed for venturing to shew your disapprobation of our deed." What unheard—of tyranny! One party are to boast of a crime, others are not to be allowed even to grieve at it with impunity! Why, even slaves have always been free to fear, to rejoice, and to grieve at their own will rather than at the behest of another-emotions of which, to judge from the frequent remarks of your champions of liberty, they are now endeavouring to deprive us by force. But they are throwing away their labour. I shall never be deterred from duty and humanity by the threats of any danger. For I have convinced myself that an honourable death is never to be shunned, is often even to be sought. But why are they angry with me for wishing them to repent of what they have done? For I desire Caesar's death to be regretted by all. 'But," say they, "I ought as a citizen to desire the safety of the Republic." If my past life and future hopes do not prove me—without my saying a word—to desire that, I do not expect to convince them by anything I can say.

Therefore I ask you with more than usual earnestness to regard facts as more convincing than words; and if you think it good for the world that right should prevail, to believe that I can have nothing in common with criminals. The principles which I maintained as a young man, when I might have had some excuse for going wrong, am I now that my life is drawing to its close entirely to change and with my own lips to give the lie to my whole career? I will not do so! Yet I will not act in a way to cause offence farther than by avowing my grief at the hard fate of one so deeply loved, and a man of such extraordinary distinction. But if I were otherwise disposed I would never deny what I was doing, lest I should get the reputation of being at once unscrupulous in committing crime, and timid and false in disavowing it.

"But," say they, "I superintended the games given by the young Caesar in honour of Caesar's victory." That is a matter of private obligation with no constitutional significance. Yet, after all, a service which I was bound to render to the memory of a dear friend even after his death, I could not refuse to the request of a young man of very great promise and in the highest degree worthy of Caesar.

I have also frequently been to the house of the consul Antonius to pay my respects. Yes, and those who now regard me as unpatriotic you will find going there in crowds to prefer some petition or to pocket some bounty. But what insolence is this that, whereas Caesar never interfered with my being intimate with whom I chose, even with those whom he personally disliked, these men who have torn my friend from me should now endeavour by their captious remarks to prevent my loving whom I choose? But I have no fear either of the regularity of my life not being sufficient to protect me hereafter, or of those very men who hate me for my constancy to Caesar not preferring to have friends like me rather than like themselves. For myself, if I get what I like, I shall spend the remainder of my life in retirement at Rhodes: but if some accident intervenes, though I am at Rome I shall always desire the right to prevail. I am very much obliged to our friend Trebatius, for having shewn me your true-hearted and affectionate feeling towards myself, and for having given me additional reasons for being still more bound to cultivate and respect a man for whom I have always felt a spontaneous affection. Good-bye, and do not cease to love me.

Cicero, in a time when brother is turned against brother over political differences, I take courage from your courage. Your belief, shared by Matius, that friendship is more important than political differences, gives me hope that I may borrow from your wisdom, and find a solution to the divisions tearing at my own life.

Now, if you do not mind, I think that I might express myself best through poetry.

Up against the Wall

June 2020

Brother against brother,

cut throat politics,

floors now slippery with

spilled misinformation

Father against son,

slip shod opinions

never fall far from the tree

the earth now slick with their rot

Poor against rich,

the policies of policing

and the policing of the peaceful

makes martyrs of us all

The streets are on fire

all over the world

but in momentary pools of winter sunlight

I sit

in my garden

and forget about the world

and for a brief minute

I

am

happy.

Left against right

like a game of football

we kick each other for the fun of

the screaming crowd

Black against white

and the subtleties of grey

are lost in the smoke

and mirrors

Me against you

and all of us

are up

against

the

wall.

*

Thank you Cicero, for you friendship, and your wisdom.

With gratitude and respect

Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 12, Part 1 of 2 To Cicero, on keeping friends in a time of war.

 

Dear Cicero,

Nothing is so contemptible as habitual contempt ; it is impossible to remain long under its control without being dwarfed by its influence.” Magoon

I come now to the last six months of your letters, that powerful and passionate time in your life when all your energies were directed towards opposing Mark Antony, and to writing the books for which you are now still remembered. I cannot help but feel that your contempt for Antony became a splinter in your eye. You became small in the shadow of your hatred, regardless of whether or not Antony was deserving of your rage. Your trust in Octavian, your love of the Republic, and your hubris in believing yourself capable of leading the Senate, in fact, of leading Rome, all culminate in the dramatic end of your story. Yet, these are part of the legends that have ensured your immortality.

Were you wrong to do as you did? To defend an already decayed Republic and to believe in a system and a society that was long since faded? Here in the future, I perhaps spend too much time trying to 'fix' history. To find solutions to your problems. I do this out of a certain nihilistic despair at ever solving the problems of my own era. I cannot even understand the problems of my own age, and find myself loosing sleep over the conflicts that arise daily to challenge my sense of morality and dignity. The world has become such an undignified place that I find myself withdrawing from it, unwilling to engage in debates that stink of blood-letting even before the participants gather.

I have been reading Tacitus again...(Ch1, Histories)

Rome was wasted by conflagrations, its oldest temples consumed, and the Capitol itself fired by the hands of its citizens. Sacred rites were profaned; there was profligacy in the highest ranks; the sea was crowded with exiles, and the rocks polluted with bloody deeds. In the capital there were yet worse horrors. Nobility, wealth, the refusal or acceptance of office, were grounds for accusation, and virtue ensured destruction. … Slaves were bribed to turn against their masters, and freedmen to betray their patrons; and those who had not an enemy were destroyed by their friends.

This is his description of the period beginning January 60CE, but I quote it to you here because it seems to describe both your era, Cicero, and my own. Riots and protests fill the streets, injustice everywhere is being fought against by the oppressed masses, statues are being torn down and the world seems dominated by violence, disease, misinformation, hired troublemakers and sincere protesters. I find myself even fighting an old friend.

It is this conflict which brings me to your letter to Caius Matius, a close friend of yours with whom you had stumbled into a conflict. Matius had been a lifelong Caesarian, a political opponent of yours, yet you Cicero, maintained a warm friendship with him throughout the civil war. He helped you after the death of Pompey, to find your place in the new Rome, and to befriend Caesar. He believed in the value of your friendship, as much as you believed in it. A belief that crossed the political divide, and built a bridge that is still visible 2000 years later.

DCCLXXXI (F XI, 27)

CICERO TO CAIUS MATIUS (AT ROME) TUSCULUM (END OF AUGUST) 44 BCE

I have not yet been able to make up my mind whether Trebatius—kind man and devoted friend of us both-brought me more pain or pleasure. The fact is that I having reached Tusculum in the evening, early next day he called on me: though he was not fully recovered. I scolded him for not being sufficiently considerate of his weak health: but he said that nothing had been more wearisome to him than waiting to see me. "Nothing fresh happened, has there?" said I. Then he told me of your grievance. But before I answer it I will put before you a few facts. As far back as I can remember I have no older friend than your-self. But after all the length of a friendship is something in which many others share. Not so warmth of affection. I became attached to you the first day I knew you, and formed the opinion that you were attached to me. After that your absence—which was a very prolonged one—my own official career, and the different line we took in life did not allow our inclinations to be cemented by a constant intercourse. Nevertheless, I had proof of your affection for me many years before the civil war, when Caesar was in Gaul. For you secured what you were strongly of opinion was to my advantage and not without advantage to Caesar himself—that the latter should like me, pay me attention, and rate me among his friends. I pass over instances in those times of words, letters, and various communications of the most friendly character passing between us. For a more dangerous crisis followed: and at the beginning of the civil war, when you were on your way to Brundisium to join Caesar, you came to call on me at Formiae. How much that implies in itself, to begin with, especially at such a crisis! And in the next place, do you suppose that I have forgotten your advice, conversation, and kindly interest? And in these I remember that Trebatius took part. Nor, again, have I forgotten the letter you sent me after you had met Caesar in the district, if I remember rightly, of Trebula. Then followed the period in which whether you call it shame or duty or fortune compelled me to go abroad to join Pompey. What service or zeal was wanting on your part, either towards myself when away from town, or my family, who were still there? Whom did all my family regard as more warmly attached either to me or to themselves?

I came to Brundisium : do you suppose that I have forgotten with what speed you flew to me from Tarentum, as soon as you heard of it? Or, of how patiently you sat by my side, talked to me, and strengthened my courage, which had been broken by the dread of the universal ruin? At length our residence at Rome began: could anything be more intimate than we were? In questions of the first importance I consulted you as to my attitude towards Caesar, and in other matters availed myself of your good offices. Setting Caesar aside, whom else but me did you so far distinguish as to visit constantly at home, where you often spent many hours in the most delightful conversation? And it was then too, if you remember, that you instigated me to write these philosophical works. After Caesar's return, was there any object dearer to you than that I should be on the terms of closest friendship with him? And this you had accomplished.

To what end, therefore, is this preamble which has run to greater length than I anticipated? Why, to explain my surprise that you, who were bound to have known all this, should have believed me capable of having done anything incompatible with our friendship. For besides these facts, which are well attested and as clear as the day, I could mention many others of a more secret nature, such as I can hardly express in words. Everything about you gives me pleasure: but above all your surpassing fidelity in friendship, the prudence, trustworthiness and consistency of your character, as well as the charm of your manners, the cultivation of your intellect, and your knowledge of literature.

This being understood, I return to your statement of grievance. That you voted for that law I at first refused to believe. In the next place, if I had believed it, I should never have believed that you did so without some sound reason. Your rank makes it inevitable that whatever you do should be noticed: while the ill-nature of the world causes certain things to be represented in a harsher light

than your actions have really warranted. If you never hear such observations I don't know what to say. For my part, whenever I hear them I defend you, as I know that I am always defended by you against my detractors. Now my line of defence is twofold. There are some statements which I meet with a blank denial, as about that very vote of yours. Others I defend on the ground of the loyalty and kindness of your motives, as in regard to the superintendence of the games. But it does not escape a mind so highly cultivated as yours that, if Caesar was a tyrant—as I think he was-two opposite theories are capable of being maintained in regard to your services. One is mine—when I hold that your loyalty and kindness are to be commended for shewing affection to a friend, even after his death. The opposite theory, advanced by some, is that the liberty of our country is to be preferred to the life of a friend. From such discussions as these I only wish that the arguments I have advanced had come to your ears! Two other points, which above everything else redound to you reputation, no one could put oftener and with more satisfaction than I do: that your voice was the strongest both against beginning the civil war, and for moderation in victory. And in this I have never found anyone who did not agree with me. Therefore I am grateful to our friend Trebatius for giving me an excuse for writing this letter. And if you do not believe in it, you will thereby condemn me as wanting in duty and good feeling: than which nothing can be more discreditable to me or more foreign to your own character.

Cicero, you are famous for your friendships. I have cause every day to reflect on the fidelity of your heart, and the wisdom of your kind words on the importance of friendship. Such wisdom is not only to be found in your book on the subject, but also in letters such as this. Everyone knows about Atticus, and the legend of your kinship with him has grown over the centuries, but he was not your only friend, and the loyalty of your heart towards those whom you felt the warmth of affection is revealed in these private words between two men on opposite sides of politics.