Book 2, Letter 14

To Gilgamesh; on the meaning of life

*

Dear Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, Hero of Ancient Legend.

I have been reading the poem of your life, well, more than reading it, I have been living it. You see, poetry for me has always been more than the pretty arrangement of words and sounds, it has been the guiding wisdom of my life. Poets, and poetry are a source of guidance ever fresh, the pure spring of a kind of truth that I have always been able to believe in.

I believe in you, Gilgamesh, you and your brother in arms, Enkidu. I have been reading your story, your epic, and more than that, I have been re-writing your story into my own life and with my friends I have brought your adventure to the stage, re-telling your story for an audience of common people who may or may not have ever heard of you. Like a kaleidoscope, each way I twist and turn your tragic adventure, new facets of the eternal human experience are revealed.

Ok, I'll say it...truth. There is truth in your story, Gilgamesh.

*

“Eat bread, Enkidu

that is a part of living.

And drink beer

as is the custom on earth.

And Enkidu ate bread

to have his fill

and drank seven jugs of beer.

His mind became clear

and he felt merry;

his heart beat,

and his face lit up...”

*

Rehearsals for this dramatic presentation of your story have been accompanied always by that best of all human activities, eating and drinking and sitting at a round table with friends and family, talking and laughing and telling stories and listening.

Listening...

Listening to each other tell the stories of our own lives, as we, Gilgamesh, are lit up from within by the brilliance of your story. We drink beer and eat bread and our minds are clear and we are merry, our hearts beat out the rhythm of our happiness.

Listening to the songs of birds at sunset, listening to the silence of bats rising from their daytime slumber to hunt along the river at dusk. Listening to the music of our lives, to the sound of feet upon floorboards and fingers upon strings and our voices lifted up in pride and …

*

“Make merry each day,

dance and play day and night!

Let your clothes be clean,

let your head be washed, may you bathe in water!

Gaze on the little one who holds your hand,

let a woman enjoy your repeated embrace!

For such is the destiny of mortal men...”

*

For such is the destiny of mortal men.

Death comes for us all, and we shall not see his face, and when we are gone, we are gone forever, and all that remains of us are stories. This day shall never come again, and neither shall we.

Gilgamesh, dear brother, King of Uruk, hero of an ancient land, your story lives on in immortality, and I, a poet and a storyteller, have become you, I wear your mask and reinvent your likeness upon the stage. I learn the lessons you learned and I see in the living, smiling, laughing faces of my friends and family, the greatest treasure that a man can possess.

For such is the destiny of mortal men.

Thank you,

with gratitude and respect

Morgan

Link: Gil and the Kid (The Epic of Gilgamesh as a detective story...)

Book 2, Letter 13

To Cicero, on love and slavery

*

Dear Cicero,

I have been reading your letters, and, just as Petrarch told me I would, I am discovering the human being beneath the glamour of your history, unadorned. You, as you revealed yourself to your closest friend, Atticus. Titus Pomponius Atticus, your second self, as you would have us understand the quality of your friendship to be.

I keep reminding myself what Petrach so wisely said of you.

“...remember that neither you nor anyone else can be in a fit position to judge, until you will have read, and carefully, all the letters of Cicero; for it is these which gave rise to the whole discussion.”

                                Francesco Petrarcha (Petrarch)

Petrarch was the first to discover your letters, (after the collapse of the Roman Empire) in France in the year 1345 CE, I trust his feeling towards the letters. Petrarch had read a great deal of your work and loved you like a brother, claiming that to have a single one of your books was akin to having you at his side, a friend to converse with through day an night.

There are many parallels between the past and the present. I sometimes feel as if Petrarch is a brother of sorts to me, and that we three (you Cicero, Petrarch and myself) might someday meet as ghosts and clasp hands in kinship. The first letter I have of yours, Cicero, you wrote to your best friend Atticus, in 68BCE, aged thirty eight. I am thirty eight years old now, as I begin reading these letters. It is like having you sit at the coffee table with me, a relaxed smile upon your face as you take pleasure in knowing that your immortality is enjoyed by millions who revel in your company likewise.

To Atticus (at Athens)

Rome

68BCE

“We are such intimate friends that more than almost anyone else you can appreciate the grief as well as the actual public and private loss that the death of my cousin Lucius is to me. There is absolutely no gratification which any human being can receive from the kindly character of another that I have not been accustomed to receive from him. I am sure, therefore, that you will share my grief.”

I've been putting it off, reading your letters. There's just so many of them, and I will guiltily admit, that in the edition I have of your letters, as translated by Evelyn S Shuckburgh, the writing looks so dense upon the page that it has felt a chore to even begin reading them.

However, once I began, I discovered that I was excitedly turning page after page, caught up instantly in the colour and humour of your writing. I wonder at the running jokes you seem to share with Atticus, the good natured chiding, and the strange silent echo in the total lack of any of his replies to you. It is a one sided conversation, and with my ear pressed against the stone wall of the earth in which you are entombed, I strain to hear a reply still vibrating in the memory of the planet.

I have heard nothing yet. It is very quiet. Atticus' letters are lost to us, either he did not wish for his letters to survive, or maybe they have burned away in some accident, or rotted in the soil. I truly hope that his letters are yet to be discovered, buried in some basement in Rome.

What's two thousand years between friends? Right?

*

I would like to write about your friends, Cicero. (I'll get back to the Cataline conspiracy soon, I have some more reading to do. I want to read Caesar's book on the Civil war first.) I have heard it said that an individual's personality is an amalgam of their closest friends. So, Atticus, Pompey, Quintus your brother, and Tiro, your servant, may serve as illustrations of your character, along with your family; your son, Marcus, your daughter Tullia and your wife Terentia.

To talk of friends, I will begin as Petrarch advised, with your letters, and specifically those you wrote to Tiro.

From what I understand, Tiro was your slave for many years, a sort of private secretary, a scribe, a research assistant for a man of letters, so to speak. The slave business in your time is complicated, not only in the broader context of, say, the slave revolts and Spartacus, but also in the personal relationships between master and slave.

I read many years ago, in a book on the topic of slavery, that there were two kinds of slave masters, the cruel and the kind. The slave may hate the cruel master, and feel justified in his hatred, for the justice of his yearnings for freedom are only amplified by the violence of his servitude. But the slave who serves a kind master, is burdened with feelings of guilt. His desire for freedom and parallel hatred of slave ownership, is forever contrasted by the kindnesses which he is shown.

Thus, kindness shown to the slave, is another kind of cruelty, a kind of savage manipulation of the slave's emotional bondage, in making the slave love the kind master, despite the inhuman servitude he must endure against his will. It makes the slave feel bad for desiring freedom, binding him in an even deeper slavery: the desire to return kindness with kindness.

I know that the issue is far more complex, and perhaps there are examples and unique stories to be explored in every single master/slave relationship, but you Cicero, seem to be the model of kindnesses and compassion in relation to your slaves, and not just Tiro.

To Atticus, 61BCE

“And indeed, at the moment of writing, I am in considerable distress: for a delightful youth, my reader Sosthenes, has just died, and his death has effected me more than a slave should, I think, do.”

It is hard to see through the grime of centuries to get a clear picture of your life, but this little mention of Sosthenes opens a window to show me something. You must have had many servants over your life, many slaves and freedmen who served you as porters, as readers, as letter carriers and as scribes, who wrote your words down as you strode about your office, dictating speeches or letters, your toga draped dramatically over your forearm.

The slaves of your time were not all considered worthless mules to be whipped until death, many of them earned reputations as men and women of great skill and learning. Some were permitted to earn their own money, or even to own land. Slaves were often the respected teachers of children in the homes of wealthy and powerful senators. Slaves were gardeners, builders, cleaners, kitchen staff...all the myriad of domestic services were performed by slaves, and under a kind master, such servitude offered a stability of lifestyle and security against poverty, and even chance to rise above servitude through legal manumission.

However, the stories about Roman mines are absolutely horrific, and for a great proportion of slaves under Roman yoke, life was probably brutal, painful and short. Slavery could also carry with it the added indignity of sexual 'duties' to the master, and when the kindness or cruelty of a master could vary like the wind, I am sure that your era would have had an equivalent term for what we call “Stockholm Syndrome” today. Perhaps your era would simply describe such a slave as having been 'broken in', like a horse whose will has been tamed.

                         "I'm Spartacus....No, I'm Spartacus...."

Link to an article on Roman slavery

The kindness of a slave master is sometimes the worst cruelty of all, where, by means of kindness, the master makes the slave love his slavery, and feel guilty about his desires for freedom. Can love really exist when one person owns the other? I think perhaps that love is a force that works around all barriers, and is in itself a slavery all its own. This topic is endlessly complex, but I might find some sort of resolution in the letters you wrote to your slave, Tiro, regarding the time of his release from your service, when you granted him his freedom. For it is in your letters to him, that you Cicero, confess your love for him who serves you.

You wrote the following to Tiro during an illness which laid him low for some time, just prior to his manumission.

“I shall consider that I have everything possible from you, if I see you in good health. I am awaiting the arrival of Andricus, (the doctor) whom I sent to you, with the utmost anxiety. Do take pains to recover, if you love me: and as soon as you have thoroughly re-established your health, come to me. Good-bye.”

Then in another letter, written the very next day:

“...I can take pleasure in nothing; can employ myself in no literary work, which I cannot touch till I have seen you. Give orders to promise the doctor any fee he chooses to ask....I am told that your mind is ill at ease, and that the doctor says this is what makes you ill. If you care for me, rouse from their sleep your studies and your culture, which make you the dearest object of my affection.”

Then the next day you sent another letter, along with a servant named Aegypta, and a private cook to serve Tiro and assist him in his recovery from his illness. Seven days later you sent another letter expressing again your desire to see Tiro, but fearing for his health on the seven day journey to reunite with you at Cumae. Then you tell him this:

“...My poor studies, or rather ours, have been in a very poor way owing to your absence...Pompey is staying with me at the moment of writing this, and seems to be cheerful and enjoying himself. He asks me to read him something of ours, but I told him that without you the oracle was dumb. Pray prepare to renew your services to our Muses. My promise shall be performed on the day named....Take care to make a complete recovery. I shall be with you directly. Good-bye.”

Your promise was fulfilled, or so Heironymous tells us, and Tiro, who was about the same age as you, was freed in 59BCE. Tiro lived a further forty six years, dying in 5BCE, in his hundredth year. In granting him his freedom, you also granted him your name, and thereafter Tiro was known as Marcus Tullius Tiro. A high honour indeed.

It was Tiro who preserved your letters Cicero.

A high honour, Cicero. I might even call it an act of love.

I cannot read these letters without feeling the love that must have existed between you and Tiro, a love growing through all his years of slavery to you and blooming in the summer of his freedom. I am softened by the kindness you express to him, your compassion and concern for his health. I am impressed by the honour you paid to Tiro in describing him as an oracle, and refusing to read any of your writing to you friend Pompey, (who was never a man you wished to disappoint). You make it sound almost as if Tiro might be credited as co-author of some of your writing.

                                             Pompey

Every great man, must have need of greater friends, and you Cicero, are famous for your friendships, and for the admiration you had for your many teachers and contemporaries in philosophy, oratory and politics.

There are worse things to be remembered for.

With gratitude and respect,

Morgan.

Book 2, Letter 12

Dear Herodotus,

Thank you for writing so much about the Scythians. Their primal and wild ways are exciting to read about, their customs and history are an endless source of fascination for me. From the Caspian Sea in the west, reaching as far as China in the east, the Scythian lands are a womb of nations, a colossal expanse of tribal peoples, united by the horse, the bow, and the endless steppe. It's very romantic. So today Herodotus, I will tell you another story I found inside the labyrinth of my mind.

In Scythia, there is a legend of the origin of hermaphroditism among the Scythian people, involving the Goddess Aphrodite. This is not that story, you already told that one Herodotus.

This is a story I have written about the Enarees, the seers who could foretell the future by means of twining grass around their fingers and entering a trance. The Enarees were hermaphrodites. Some translators of your work Herodotus, do not use that word, and there is some debate among modern scholars about the specifics, but this myth is about two Enarees who were neither male nor female, but were somehow both, and neither.

Introducing the Scythians - British Museum

*

The Secret Scythian Wedding

Once upon an endless land, there were two Enarees, Yhasa and Zill. These two didn't know each other, in fact they came from such distant parts of their people's land, that neither had ever heard the name of the other's tribe.

One moonlit night, they both dreamed the same dream, of two trees with roots entwining. Both Yhasa and Zill knew what it did portend, and so, without saying goodbye, they each mounted their horse and left their tribe in search of this dream.

Yhasa travelled east, their face towards the sun every morning, finding roads and crossing them, meeting kinfolk and waving as they rode past. For a month of travel they met no-one who was entwined with their dream, and saw no omens or signs to encourage them. On the way Yhasa practised the flute, and continued hunting the wild animals they knew to hunt. Finding the journey comfortable but lonely, Yhasa travelled east, their face towards the sun every morning.

Zill travelled west, the sun on their back and their long shadow leading them on through the morning. Zill travelled for two weeks, crossing many rivers, before being ambushed by a raiding tribe and taken prisoner. The neighbouring tribe did not believe in the power of the Enarees, Scythian society was wildly varied and Zill's esteemed cultural position at home was not recognised among the raiders' people. Zill was raped many times before escaping captivity, cutting many throats and creeping barefoot through the clouded gloom of evening. Stealing a horse, a bow, arrows and a knife, Zill continued riding west, their long shadow leading them on.

Far away, Yhasa dreamed of a river running dry, the trees and grasses and fish all dying, until all that was left was the faded stain of water long since withdrawn into the earth.

But the water was still there, deep inside.

Yhasa, tiring of loneliness, joined caravans and travelled with other families, careful always to keep her magic hidden. Learning stories, songs and meeting other flute players, Yhasa grew ever more aware of the essential entwining of all interactions, whether with humans, animals, or the natural world, and they found great kindness present in the hearts of many others in the endless Scythian lands. The grasses grew tall as a horse upon the bountiful steppe, and eagles hunted on the wind. Yhasa wandered with the caravans for a long time, always dreaming of a river running dry.

Zill began to travel by night and hide by day, avoiding the world, making arrows, hunting eagles, sleeping in creek beds. Their body became painted with the ochre of the earth that hid them from predators, and Zill was safe, for a time. Zill didn't dream at all. Tracing the passing nights by the slivers of the moon, Zill became empty. Zill left humanity behind, and attended instead only upon instinctual reactions, learning all that nature could teach of survival.

And Zill was safe, for a time.

Yhasa, leading a life crowded with the society of her kinfolk, became entangled in a series of bloody battles, fighting foreign invaders who wore metal armour, marched in formation, and plundered the land in search of cities to destroy and kings to slay.

They never stood a chance. Within a year there was no foreign army left, and all that metal armour and fine weaponry was in the hands of the Scythians.

Yhasa rode on, facing the sun every day.

The dreams of the river had passed, war interrupts everything, and for a time, Yhasa did not dream either. Instead they found greater security in their instincts. Having lived through a year of war, the value of the present moment became paramount. The sense of universal entwining seemed to contract, and Yhasa was not sure what that might mean. So, finding a solitary hill, Yhasa began to twine grasses around their fingers, and singing a song, let the visions come rolling in.

Yhasa saw an eagle with one wing.

Yhasa saw two trees with roots entwining.

Far away, Zill slept alone in the tall grass, but woke one morning to find another Enaree watching over them. Zill quietened the urge to run away, and instead accepted the healing of a foreign tribe. The foreigner took Zill to a steam bath hut, where green herbs were thrown upon glowing hot rocks and the smoke and steam and powerful magic of nature entered them and for a time, Zill was healed. Zill stayed with this foreign tribe for a long time, forgetting the two trees entwining, instead remaining with these people who treated them well and who helped abort the unwanted, unborn child of rape, burying all the pain and fear along with the tiny part-formed body in the All-Mother earth. The friendly tribe washed the clay from Zill's skin, and Zill took a new name. Kesu.

Kesu found happiness, but in time, the dream of two trees entwining returned, and they knew that their journey must continue. So, giving thanks to those who gave assistance, and packing arrows, knives, food and water, Kesu once again travelled west, rising each morning with the sun on their back and their long shadow stretching out before them across the endless earth of Scythia.

Some say that a man meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it.

But the Enarees are not men.

Some say a woman's fate is the fate of the whole world.

But the Enarees are not women either.

So the day came when Yhasa met Kesu and the dream came true. Their hands bound together with grasses, they made love beneath the open sky and said to each other, We are Married.

This was the Secret Scythian Wedding, for the Enarees did not normally marry, and both Yhasa and Kesu had learned the value of secrets. So together they lived, hidden away from the tribes, hidden away from the wars. Together they hunted and rode free and content across the steppe, and for a time they were safe, with their horses and their arrows and the eagles upon the wind.

There are no limits to the mysteries of Scythia, and though both Kesu and Yhasa were able to see the future, neither of them predicted the outcome of their secret wedding, for they both fell pregnant, and in time Yhasa gave birth to a girl, and Kesu, to a boy.

...this story has no ending.

Yasa begat Nim, Kesu begat Daf, and the generations that passed down from them were lived unrecorded through the centuries.

*

Herodotus, I am amazed at how you came to know so much of the Scythians. Your travels across the ancient world brought you into contact with thousands of storytellers, historians, priests, priestesses, kings, queens, fishermen and sailors, and your book is a collation of all that you learned. I have read your book over and again, and now I'm telling you my stories.

The new myths, for a new destiny.

Is it a lie, if we know these things never happened, but we believe the message anyway?

Or is it all happening now?

Thank you Herodotus.

With gratitude and awe.

Morgan.

*

P.S.

The potential for 'true hermaphroditism' in humans seems very, very rare, but possible. People tend to use the term 'intersex' these days to describe humans with both male and female genitals, since true hermaphroditism is most commonly known in fish, frogs, snails and plants. I think, considering the vast history of the human animal, and the potential for genetic diversity in any species, that almost anything is possible. I recently read a story of an intersex person in modern Australia who had themselves artificially impregnated with their own sperm, and had two children through this process...so...yeah, almost anything is possible.

Especially in mythology.

https://www.quora.com/Can-an-intersex-person-hermaphrodite-get-pregnant

Book 2, Letter 11

Part 2 of 2

To Cicero, on the Gracchus brothers.

*

so, continuing on....

With growing senatorial opposition to Gaius Gracchus, life was about to get much worse for Rome. It strikes me as a sort of, burned in the frying pan, thrown in the fire, sort of situation.

At a public vote to repeal some of Gaius' laws, one of Opimius' (the new Consul) servants was stabbed to death with bronze styluses, which the people had come armed with for this very purpose. This outburst of violence was the very thing the senate had been waiting for, and Opimius declared Martial Law, to put down the tyrants, thereby suspending the constitution and putting all real power in the hands of the Consul.

That night, the city slept with great tension, with armed men gathered around each of the political leaders homes, each expecting violence to break out the next day. Plutarch describes the scene very well, when in the morning, Gaius dressed himself in his toga, and carrying only a short dagger, made to leave home and go down to the senate house.

“As he was leaving his door, his wife threw herself at his feet and placing one arm around her husband and the other around their little son, said to him, 'When you leave me today, Gaius, I know you are not setting out for the rostra to speak as a tribune or a lawgiver, nor for some glorious campaign, where if you should die, as all men must some day, you would leave me with honour to console my grief. No, you are going to expose yourself to the men who murdered Tiberius, and you are right to go unarmed and to suffer wrong rather than inflict it on others. And yet our country will be none the better for taking your life, for injustice has triumphed in Rome, and it is violence and the sword which settle all disputes. If your brother had fallen before Numantia, his body would have been given back to us under the truce, but, as it is, I too may have to pray to some river or sea to yield up yours. What faith can we put in the gods or in the laws of men, when we have seen Tiberius murdered?'

While Licinia was pouring out her sorrow, Gaius gently freed himself from her embrace and walked away with his friends without uttering a word. Licinia clutched vainly at his toga, then sank to the ground and lay for a long time speechless. At last her servants lifted her up unconscious and carried her to her brother Crassus's house.”

Gaius didn't go directly to the senate house, but met with his friend and fellow politician, Fulvius, and they decided to send Fulvius' son as an intermediary, carrying a Herald's Wand, to offer terms for an agreement. The Consul, Opimius, refused the boy, saying that no negotiations could take place without Gaius present, and sent the boy away demanding that Gaius give himself up and be put to trial. The boy returned to his father with this message, and was sent back to Opimius to plead once more for a peaceful treaty, but Opimius refused and, arresting the boy, sent archers to attack Fulvius' men. In the bloody chaos that ensued, Fulvius was found hiding with his other, eldest son, and the two of them were killed. Gaius escaped, and ran through the city, begging help from the citizens whom he had fought on behalf of for so long, but none would help him, instead they only cheered him on as one would a runner in a race, but none offered him sanctuary, or a horse, though he begged for one.

                                         A Herald's wand

Eventually, Gaius was run down, and with his one remaining faithful slave, Philocrates, the two of them were murdered in a small grove of trees, sacred to the Furies. Gaius' head was severed and brought back to Opimius, who had promised to pay the head's weight in gold, to whomever brought it. A man named Septimulius, who stole the head from the man who had actually killed Gaius, scooped out the brain and filled the bloody head with lead, to inflate the value, but in the end was paid nothing for his treachery and lies.

                                The Death of Gaius Gracchus

Gaius, Fulvius, and the rest of their followers were all put to death, three thousand in all, and their bodies were dumped in the Tiber river. Their property was confiscated and sold, the proceeds all taken by the public treasury, and the wives of the dead were forbidden to dress themselves in mourning, while Licinia, Gaius's widow, was even deprived of her dowry. Fulvius' youngest son, the boy who had played no part in the violence, but had only acted as an emissary of peace, was also murdered by Opimius' men.

Opimius then further insulted the people by building a temple of Concord. The people were disgusted that he should claim honour and exalt himself in the slaughter of Roman citizens, and so at night, someone carved the following inscription on the temple.

This temple of Concord is the work of mad Discord

Afterwards, the people declared the ground on which both the Gracchus brothers had died to be sacred ground, and the first fruits of the season were offered up there throughout the year. Statues of the brothers were also set up in prominent parts of the city, and the people sacrificed to the brothers as if they were visiting the shrines of the gods.

*

So, again Cicero, is this the Republic you loved? Is this the Rome whose old virtues you defended? In your treatise, On Duties (Book 1), you make occasional reference to Tiberius and his “nefarious undertakings”, and make it plain that you thought him an evil politician whose removal (and murder) was beneficial to the state. I'm trying to understand what you fought for. I'm trying to understand what motivated you, and what true feelings and sentiments lay behind your passionate writing and speaking, passions which continue to inspire and motivate people even two thousand years after your death.

People often describe you as a political conservative, a member of the aristocracy whose defence of Republican virtue amounted to little more than a bolstering of the rights of the upper classes to rule by whichever means they cared, regardless of the suffering it caused. That assessment might sound extreme, but your hatred of the Gracchus brothers does cast a shadow over the remainder of your philosophical writings, from my modern viewpoint.

I have started here with the Gracchus brothers, but my goal is still to talk about the Catiline conspiracy, however, before I get there, I want to talk about some of the other people in your life, your friends and allies, your fellow politicians and the philosophers who influenced your world view. I have a lot to read before I can start on such a series of letters, so I will leave you today with this fragment of a poem called Horatius, by Thomas Babington Macaulay, published in 1842, in a book called “The Lays of Rome”. It's a pretty famous poem in my era, Winston Churchill memorised the whole thing and used sections of it in his speeches during the second world war.

When the oldest cask is opened,

and the largest lamp is lit

When the chestnuts glow in the embers,

and the kid turns on the spit;

When young and old in circle

around the firebrands close;

When the girls are weaving baskets,

and the lads are weaving bows;

When the goodman mends his armour

and trims his helmet's plume;

When the goodwife's shuttle merrily

goes flashing through the loom;

With sweeping and with laughter

still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge

in the brave days of old.

Thank you Cicero, for the journey is long, and the road is dark, and through the gloom of centuries passed and passing, I seek wisdom.

I seek wisdom, and in its place, I find only stories.

With respect and admiration,

Morgan.

Book two, Letter eleven

Part 1 of 2

To Cicero, on Gaius Gracchus

*

Dear Cicero,

Before I get started with the letter, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday (for yesterday).  When I told my kids about it, they ran to get party poppers and we all sang a few bars of 'Happy Birthday'.  I wonder if there was a popular birthday song in your time, Cicero...

*

Everything in history is connected. The books on my bedside table prove to me that the thoughts and actions of the long dead continue to press their influence upon the future, and that through those of us who study them, their influence is somehow magnified, concentrated. I am not the only one with these books well thumbed and with notes scribbled in the margins. Generations have studied these works, schools have been founded upon the principles of learning described by writers such as yourself, Cicero.

Your success against the Catiline conspiracy was not an isolated event in the history of Rome. The conditions that preceded his rise to power and the societal pressures that made his rebellion possible have their roots reaching generations back before your birth. So I will continue to explore the lives of the Gracchus brothers in an effort to understand what your Consular triumph over Catiline really means.

As I so frequently do, I will draw much of my story from Plutarch's biographies.

Gaius Gracchus was twenty years old when his brother Tiberius was murdered, and it seems as if Gaius had spent his youth in preparation for the moment of his calling. 'He was not inclined to idleness, nor amusements, or pleasures of the table, or in making money, but by developing his powers of oratory' he meant to make himself a force in public life. After the death of his brother, however, he hid himself away for a time, perhaps wishing to avoid the ire of the senate. However, Plutarch mentions you, Cicero, in his biography of Gaius Gracchus. Plutarch-claims-that-you-said-that-Gaius-had-a-dream in which his brother Tiberius appeared to him and said, “Why do you hesitate Gaius? There is no escape. Fate has decreed the same destiny for us both, to live and die in the service of the people.”

It sounds a bit like a joke really - Plutarch said that Cicero said that Tiberius said something to his brother Gaius in a dream....it's not exactly what we'd call verifiable history these days, but between us, Cicero, it'll have to do.

The convoluted political struggles Gaius engaged in are fascinating, but difficult to summarise, so I will mention only a few things. Gaius tried to introduce a law his brother had died trying to introduce. Namely, the inclusion of equal numbers of the Equestrian Order (the land owning, business class) on the juries, on which presently only members of the Senatorial class were permitted. This time, the law was passed, and not only that, but the Senate voted to have Gaius personally select these new jurors for the lists. Gaius also passed laws concerning the founding of new colonies, (which took pressure off the poor, by granting them land in foreign territories), the building of new roads, and the establishment of public granaries. Gaius personally managed each of these projects, and people were generally amazed at the speed and efficiency with which he handled everything.

It seems that for a time Gaius was very popular, and in his dealings with the contractors, business men, workmen, magistrates, soldiers and men of letters he was kind and dignified, courteous and considerate, giving every man that which was his due. Those who slandered Gaius as a tyrant, or a violent man, were silenced by the greatness of his true character as a leader.

It seems that his roads, in particular, were praised for their beauty and usefulness. The roads were planned to run in straight lines across the country, bridging rivers and streams, and wherever the land was sloped, embankments would be built up, and the hillside levelled out on both sides of the road, making the symmetry of the whole project wondrous in appearance. He measured every road in miles, marking the distances with stone pillars, and also set up extra stones on either side of the road, to assist riders in mounting their horses without strain.

Enjoying his popularity with the people, Gaius tried to introduce two new proposals. Firstly, the founding of two new colonies to relieve the pressure of the unemployed urban poor in Rome, and secondly, the granting of citizenship rights to the Italian allies of Rome.

At this time in Rome, only Roman landowners could be soldiers in a Roman legion, and so, the greatest proportion of soldiers serving the military needs of the Roman Republic, came from the allies, both in Italy and further abroad. These subject nations bore the brunt of the military burden of the growing empire, but enjoyed none of the rights of Roman citizens. The Senate knew full well that granting citizenship to the Italian allies would result in significant changes to the established power they enjoyed over their empire, and so opposed this measure. However they had learned from their struggle against Tiberius, and used more cynical, insidious tactics to defeat his younger brother Gaius.

Livius Drusus, a fellow Tribune (a people's representative), was selected by the Senate to oppose Gaius, but instead of outright opposition, Drusus simply outbid Gaius in his efforts to please the people. When Gaius proposed the founding of two colonies, the Senate denied him, but when Drusus proposed the founding of twelve colonies, the Senate approved. When Gaius proposed the granting of lands to the poorest citizens, in return for a modest rent, the Senate accused Gaius of currying favour with the people and playing politics, yet when Drusus proposed the same land grant, but without asking the poor to pay any rent at all, the Senate wholeheartedly approved the proposal. In this way, the Senate made Gaius look like a shabby and ineffectual politician, while Drusus seemed to be the people's champion.

Some time later, the Senate voted in a new Consul, Lucius Opimius, an extreme oligarch (a member of the rich boy's club and opponent of the plebeian mob), who set about immediately repealing many of the laws Gaius had put through, and generally undoing all the good Gaius had achieved for the people.

I think, Cicero, that you might by now see where I am headed with all this talk of the people and their struggles against the senate. The more I read about the world you lived in, about Rome and Italy and the Republic you so fervently defended until your final breath, the more it tars you with the same black stain of corruption and greed that the oligarchy and senate are accused of.

Is this the Republic you so proudly defended? Is this what you fought for? You write of truth and honour and dignity and virtue, but the more I read, the more it seems that those virtues you defended, those dignities you so proudly claimed were your honour to defend, were nothing more than illusions. They were the double-speak (to use Orwell's term) of the establishment, used to confuse, confound and ultimately defeat the efforts of the poor and disenfranchised to gain ground in a civil rights movement and to establish democratic reform.

But the story of Gaius doesn't end there. Things got worse, didn't they?

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