Book 3, letter 8 Part 2 of 3 To Cicero, on his brother Quintus

Dear Cicero,

If you, Cicero, were the Orator, then your brother was the Soldier. Though you both held important government leadership positions at various times in your lives, Quintus was acquainted with the weight of a sword in his hand, while your weapon of choice was the quill. You wrote this following letter to your brother while he was serving under Caesar in Gaul, fighting in a war that lasted many years, and resulted in gigantic casualties for both sides.

CXXXVIII (Q FR II, 12 [14])

TO HIS BROTHER QUINTUS (IN GAUL)

Cumæ(May)

bc 54, aet 52

“...I am writing the treatise of which I spoke to you, "On the Republic," a very bulky and laborious work. But if it turns out as I wish, it will be labour well bestowed, and if not I shall toss it into the very sea which I have before my eyes as I write, and set to work on something else; since to do nothing is beyond my power. I will carefully observe your instruction both as to attaching certain persons to myself and not alienating certain others. But my chief care will be to see your son, or rather our son, if possible, every day at any rate, and to watch the progress of his education as often as possible; and, unless he declines my help, I will even offer to be his instructor, a practice to which I have become habituated in the leisure of these days while bringing my own boy, the younger Cicero, on.”

I read Caesar's account of your brother's time in Gaul. It seems he was quite the war hero. I'm going to quote extensively from Caesar here, since the story is so colourful and Caesar's writing style is so different from your own. I will quote from 'The Conquest of Gaul', the W.A MacDevitt translation of 1915.

XL

During the night as many as 120 towers are raised with incredible despatch out of the timber which they had collected for the purpose of fortification: the things which seemed necessary to the work are completed. The following day the enemy, having collected far greater forces, attack the camp [and] fill up the ditch. Resistance is made by our men in the same manner as the day before: this same thing is done afterwards during the remaining days. The work is carried on incessantly in the night: not even to the sick, or wounded, is opportunity given for rest: whatever things are required for resisting the assault of the next day are provided during the night: many stakes burnt at the end, and a large number of mural pikes are procured: towers are built up, battlements and parapets are formed of interwoven hurdles. Cicero himself, though he was in very weak health, did not leave himself the night-time for repose, so that he was forced to spare himself by the spontaneous movement and entreaties of the soldiers.

When the enemy had surrounded Quintus' camp, trapping him with all his soldiers inside, the Gauls then sent emissaries offering a peace deal to the Romans, telling them that if they wanted to, they could pack up and leave, and nobody would have to die. This was Quintus' reply:

XLI

To these Cicero made only one reply: "that it is not the custom of the Roman people to accept any condition from an armed enemy: if they are willing to lay down their arms, they may employ him as their advocate and send ambassadors to Caesar: that he believed, from his [Caesar's] justice, they would obtain the things which they might request."

So when Quintus was totally surrounded, when his soldiers were wounded and exhausted already, the siege having not yet really begun, instead of taking the rather gracious offer of a formal retreat, Quintus told his enemies that he would not negotiate with an armed enemy, but that if they (the Gauls) wanted to surrender, then he would speak to Caesar on their behalf.

It seems that Quintus was either crazy, or brave, or perhaps he was just Roman. Either way, the real fight was about to begin...

XLII.—Disappointed in this hope, the Nervii surround the winter-quarters with a rampart eleven feet high, and a ditch thirteen feet in depth. These military works they had learnt from our men in the intercourse of former years, and, having taken some of our army prisoners, were instructed by them: but, as they had no supply of iron tools which are requisite for this service, they were forced to cut the turf with their swords, and to empty out the earth with their hands and cloaks, from which circumstance the vast number of the men could be inferred; for in less than three hours they completed a fortification of ten miles in circumference; and during the rest of the days they began to prepare and construct towers of the height of the ramparts, and grappling irons, and mantlets, which the same prisoners had taught them.

XLIII.—On the seventh day of the attack, a very high wind having sprung up, they began to discharge by their slings hot balls made of burnt or hardened clay, and heated javelins, upon the huts, which, after the Gallic custom, were thatched with straw. These quickly took fire, and by the violence of the wind, scattered their flames in every part of the camp. The enemy following up their success with a very loud shout, as if victory were already obtained and secured, began to advance their towers and mantlets, and climb the rampart with ladders. But so great was the courage of our soldiers, and such their presence of mind, that though they were scorched on all sides, and harassed by a vast number of weapons, and were aware that their baggage and their possessions were burning, not only did no one quit the rampart for the purpose of withdrawing from the scene, but scarcely did any one even then look behind; and they all fought most vigorously and most valiantly. This day was by far the most calamitous to our men; it had this result, however, that on that day the largest number of the enemy was wounded and slain, since they had crowded beneath the very rampart, and the hindmost did not afford the foremost a retreat. The flame having abated a little, and a tower having been brought up in a particular place and touching the rampart, the centurions of the third cohort retired from the place in which they were standing, and drew off all their men: they began to call on the enemy by gestures and by words, to enter if they wished; but none of them dared to advance. Then stones having been cast from every quarter, the enemy were dislodged, and their tower set on fire.

It's quite exciting to read this sort of war story, especially with two thousand or so years separating me from Gallic hordes, but it must have been a terrifying and horrific experience. Caesar recounts that his own forces eventually came to relieve Quintus and break the siege, but for days on end, Quintus was trapped in that burning, blood stained and filthy war camp, thousands of miles from home. Your letters to him (however they managed to reach him), must have been of great solace during this campaign. Some historians go so far as to describe Caesar's war against the Gauls and Germans as nothing short of genocide, and your brother was right there in the middle of it. Other writers say that 'Rome conquered the world in self defence', which sounds ridiculous, but on the other hand, considering the prior history of conflict between the many nations bordering on Rome, it's not entirely untrue.

Book 3, letter 8 To Cicero, on his brother Quintus. Part 1 of 3

Dear Cicero,

I don't have a brother, but it is clear to see that if I did, I could do a lot worse than Quintus. I have three sisters, and perhaps I will tell you about them some day, but this morning I want to talk to you about Quintus.

It is Saturday morning, in the late days of March, 2019CE. I am seated in bed, my hands cast shadows on the keyboard as I type, illuminated by the beautiful soft morning light. We have had mist overnight and the air smells fresh and damp and despite the ever lengthening drought, today feels like Autumn. It makes me very happy.

Your brother made you happy, Cicero. Oh I know that you quarrelled, and historians may focus on the schism between you during the dictatorship of Caesar, but I wanted to write to you about love. I have been reading Ovid, and Plato, so love has been on my mind a lot, but in your letters to Quintus I found some startling and beautiful examples of the affection that you felt for your brother. I have just finished reading the first volume of your collected letters, it has taken me the better part of a year to read them. Sometimes funny, sometimes incredibly sad, your letters serve us in the present world as a glowing example of the unchanging nature of humanity. The names of the politicians may change, but the games they play do not. The circumstances of your life may be unique to your time, but the emotions you felt, and the passions you express are a common ground between us.

I cannot hope to describe the whole nature of Quintus' character, or of your relationship with him. As I said, I have only read one volume of your five volume set of letters. What I can, and will do in this letter is share with you the delightful evidence of your brotherly kindness and love, which has had a peculiarly powerful effect on me.

As always, I will quote from the Shuckburgh translation of 1899.

CXXII (q fr ii, 8)

CICERO TO HIS BROTHER QUINTUS (AT ROME)

Cumæ(April)

bc55 aet. 51

Afraid that you will interrupt me—you? In the first place, if I were as busy as you think, do you know what interruption means? Have you taken a lesson from Ateius? So help me heaven, in my eyes you give me a lesson in a kind of learning which I never enjoy unless you are with me. Why, that you should talk to me, interrupt me, argue against me, or converse with me, is just what I should like. Nothing could be more delightful! Never, by Hercules, did any crazy poet read with greater zest his last composition than I listen to you, no matter what business is in hand, public or private, rural or urban. But it was all owing to my foolish scrupulousness that I did not carry you off with me when I was leaving town. You confronted me the first time with an unanswerable excuse—the health of my son: I was silenced. The second time it was both boys, yours and mine: I acquiesced. Now comes a delightful letter, but with this drop of gall in it—that you seem to have been afraid, and still to be afraid, that you might bore me. I would go to law with you if it were decent to do so; but, by heaven! if ever I have a suspicion of such a feeling on your part, I can only say that I shall begin to be afraid of boring you at times, when in your company.

It would be so delightful to have Quintus' letters to you. We have only one, and its authenticity is disputed. Having read the letter reportedly written by Quintus to you, giving his advice regarding your efforts to secure the office of Consul, I do feel that it is authentic. There is a similarity in style to your own manner of writing, but at the same time, I have a feeling of Quintus having learned this style from you, and put it to good effect in giving your some sound advice on the political tactics to be used to secure your desired goal. I might quote from that letter later on, but for now, I wanted to quote from a few more personal exchanges.

CXXXI (q fr ii, 9)

CICERO TO HIS BROTHER QUINTUS (IN THE COUNTRY)

Rome (February)

Your note by its strong language has drawn out this letter. For as to what actually occurred on the day of your start, it supplied me with absolutely no subject for writing. But as when we are together we are never at a loss for something to say, so ought our letters at times to digress into loose chat. Well then, to begin, the liberty of the Tenedians has received short shrift, no one speaking for them except myself, Bibulus, Calidius, and Favonius. A complimentary reference to you was made by the legates from Magnesia and Sipylum, they saying that you were the man who alone had resisted the demand of L. Sestius Pansa. On the remaining days of this business in the senate, if anything occurs which you ought to know, or even if there is nothing, I will write you something every day. On the 12th I will not fail you or Pomponius. The poems of Lucretius are as you say—with many flashes of genius, yet very technical. But when you return, ... if you succeed in reading the Empedoclea of Sallustius, I shall regard you as a hero, yet scarcely human.

A lot of your letters contain this kind of political name dropping and minutiae that makes my head spin. The translation of your letters that I have comes with extensive footnotes that help me make sense of some of it, but that's not the part that I wanted to highlight. It is the 'loose chat' that grabbed my attention. A lot of what I have read from your era has been historical/political, a very top-down sort of description of events and persons, often written a long time after the events described. You, Cicero, are writing letters almost daily describing the people and events of your own life, a fact which makes even the dull seeming political details of this letter above, pique my curiosity.

But it is with Lucretius that I would like to digress now, since I have had his book on my shelf longer than any other. I have read about half of it, and found it beautiful, if difficult to describe. I agree with your assessment, it flashes with genius, despite its technical subject matter. I will quote a single line here, which, even taken on its own, stands out.

“There can be no centre in infinity” Bk 1, line 1070

Book 3, letter 7, To Cicero: on the Nature of the Gods Part 2 of 2

Being proved wrong happens to me every day...

Marcus Aurelius has a lot to say about how important it is, that, when your ideas are proved wrong, one must graciously accept this new knowledge, and change one's mind to suit the new revealed truth. That seems like a very good attitude. We are not perfect, therefore our ideas and opinions are not perfect.

Therefore, while I can trust my senses to reveal the truth, I am still capable of being misled. This whole problem is quite central to the differences between the different philosophical schools of your epoch, Cicero. I've read M. Aurelius' book, I've read a few books by Plato, a little bit of Epictetus, Seneca and Epicurus, but it is Lucretius, the Roman poet who wrote the following that I think explains the situation rather well.

From: On the nature of the Universe – Book IV, 470 - 480

“Now here's another thing: if someone thinks

that nothing is known, he does not even know

whether that can be known, since he declares

that he knows nothing. Therefore I will spare

to argue a case against a man like this

who has put his head where his feet ought to be.

And yet, if I were to grant that he does know, then

I ask him this: since you could see no truth

in anything before, how do you know

what it is to know, and what again not to know?

What gave you the idea of true and false,

what proves to you that there's a difference,

that the doubtful and the certain are not the same?

You will find that it is from the senses

in the first place that the concept of truth has come,

and that the senses cannot be refuted.

For some standard must be found of greater credit

able of itself to refute false things with true...”

Or, to put it more succinctly: Accordingly, whatever at any time has seemed to the senses to be true is true. (Bk IV, 499).

I know that you liked Lucretius, Cicero, you considered him a genius and you praised his book to your friend Atticus (though I cannot find the exact letter just now). I think that I share your opinion of him, and while some of his theories have long been debunked, the earnest passion with which he applied himself to the search for truth is admirable, particularly in regards to the Epicurean atomic theory.

I think that it is also possible that the nature of truth can change. What we believe to be right and wrong is often a product of societal norms, and these, as we know, are often derived from traditions whose truth is lost and warped by the passage of time. Scientific theory seems to claim that truth is eternal, it is only our imperfect understanding that changes, and that might be true as well. However, I think that I am conflating two separate issues, that being moral truth and scientific truth, and that if I were to start now to explore the weird ways that one influences the other, I should have to put this letter down and return to my books for a long time.

Therefore, keep an open mind. You might be right, I might be right. I think that it's possible that even if our ideas oppose each other, that we might both be right.

We might both be wrong.

This is the nature of the Gods, and of people, in my opinion.

Two thousand years on, the debate is far from over.

Thanks Cicero, it's a great book.

With gratitude and respect.

Morgan.

PS. Regarding the Evolution vs Intelligent Design debate, (a modern manifestation of the same discussion your book describes): I don't understand why an intelligent God couldn't have invented evolution. I mean, why not? We're doing the same thing with evolutionary algorithms in computing. It's easier than making every calculation yourself. Just set it up and watch it go. This way, The Gods remains beyond the reach of scientific enquiry, (which is the traditional realm of the Gods) and scientific inquiry gets to go about its very important business of accurately describing all observable phenomena. The Gods will happily continue to move out beyond the realm of our understanding, which is ever expanding into an infinite universe.

I don't see why the debate between science and divinity must be an either/or problem.

And for the record, Inanna is who I pray to. My personal favourite divinity. Half-sister of Gilgamesh. The Sumerian Goddess of Light, Love, Civilisation and a lot of other things. I have stood at the crossroads and made midnight pacts with the North Wind. I have waded out into the dark water at the stroke of New Years Eve and bound myself with promises to the Southern Ocean, and the Moon. I have bent my knee before a Eucalyptus tree that was at least four centuries old, and that tree spoke to me.

I was also raised Catholic, and have sat and prayed and sang in many churches, and yet amidst all that gold and reverence and community and tradition, I have felt nothing of the divine presence.

Or, if the Gods are not real, (at least not real like the earth and the ocean and my skin), they are the highest idea I have for myself. They represent the best ideals and aspirations of my life. When I am deep in my mantra of depression, reciting the litany of my failures as proof of my own worthlessness, it is Inanna who comes to me in a golden form, a warmth over my shoulder whispering the truth of my virtues, gently asking me to consider that instead, I might be better than my worst ideas about myself.

Divinity is a personal experience.

Or at least, that's my opinion.

Thank you Cicero, you're a good friend.

Book 3, letter 7 To Cicero: on the nature of the gods Part 1 of 2

*

Dear Cicero,

Smoke signals on the horizon this morning. A stormy night has passed, and in the drenched floodplain farmland along the Meechi River, bonfires are lit, signalling the last chance of winter, before the big spring bloom. Already the almonds are in full flower, the roads are awash with wind-scattered petals. It's easy to forget that I live in the modern world.

But, Cicero, I've been reading “On the Nature of the Gods”, and my first impression is how modern it all seems. The debate you describe is basically continuing unchanged after two thousand years, an observation that is both depressing, and exciting. There are some ideas in your book that we moderns have put to rest with the advances of scientific observations, but there are a lot of theological and philosophical questions that seem very relevant, and actually form the basis of contemporary debate, particularly regarding evolution versus intelligent design.

You say something in the preface which I must address, and I confess that my letter may be nothing more than my response to this one idea. I have read most of the book now, (as I begin writing my letter to you) but this opening statement seems to underlie the whole debate, and the problems of the manner in which the debate is carried on, seem to rest upon this one, fragile idea.

Book 1: preface

There is no subject on which there is so much difference of opinion among both the learned and the ignorant. But in this medley of opinions, one thing is certain. Though it is possible that they are all of them are false, it is impossible that more than one of them is true.

I've also been reading Plato, and as such, of course I have been making friends with Socrates. So, in the spirit of Socratic inquiry I will ask you, why? Why is it impossible that more than one opinion can be true? In my opinion, the nature of divinity is, by its very nature, pluralistic. The modern author Hunter S. Thompson said “Man is the only creature to imagine there is a God, and the only creature who behaves as if there is none.” It seems to me, that there is every possibility that the many, diverse, differing, and even opposing opinions and experiences regarding the nature of the Gods, could be simultaneously true.

Though I do agree that all opinions could be equally false.

When speaking to someone today about your book, my friend said that there is no proof that the Gods even exist. I responded, that while I can offer no proof that the Gods I have met do exist, nonetheless, I have met them. I do not seek to prove anything, but I do believe that my senses can be trusted to provide me with the truth. (Which I think puts me in the Stoic camp...I'm still a little cloudy about the differing opinions between the Epicureans, Stoics and Academics on the subject of the reliability of the senses...)

Can my senses be trusted to reveal the truth? That is a core question that was present in your day Cicero, and which today is still discussed by philosophers and laypeople alike. It seems akin to the same question regarding dreams. Are dreams real? Do they show us anything real, or are they just random noise in the brain, playing memories across the sleeping consciousness of the dreamer?

I think that when I have a dream, I have really had a dream. It was a real dream. I cannot deny that I have dreamed, therefore the dream was real. Was the message real? Were the images meaningful? These may be separate questions, but somehow they are related the question about whether or not the senses can be trusted to reveal the truth.

I have perceived my dream, I am aware that in my sleep I dreamed. I believe that my senses can be trusted to reveal the truth. Therefore, the things that my dreams reveal to me are real reflections of the truth of my inner (or subconscious) nature, and my relationships to the outer world.

I also believe that my inner nature is both a reflection and an expression of the nature of the Gods.

I exist in the world. My dreams exist inside me. Therefore my dreams exist in the world. Therefore, the Gods who I dream of, also exist in the world. The world is real and I am real. Therefore the Gods are real.

However, it is possible that my opinions on this subject are false. Equally, it is possible that they are true. I do not believe in my opinions, nor do I believe in my beliefs. I experience my opinions and my beliefs, I consider them, I ponder them, I discuss them, I write about them. I form ideas about my experiences, and about my opinions which I try to observe with an open mind. I try to always be ready to be proved wrong.

Being proved wrong happens every day.

I will write more next week....

*

Book 3, Letter 6, part 2 of 2. To Herodotus: The Scythian Sun Devil

To Herodotus: The Scythian Sun Devil

(Part 2 of 2)

*

For ten years his name was whispered only in private, for our people considered him an exile and they felt betrayed by his sudden departure in the wake of their calamity. But the Scythian people are strong, we are survivors, and even without out our blessed Weather Maker, we continued to live, and found a way to thrive again in the land made new and strange by the rupturing of the earth.

When at last Soguda returned, he was not welcomed as he had been, despite the fair weather he brought with him. The wounded never forgot their wounds, and though everywhere Soguda rode, the rains ended droughts and the sunshine melted the snow, the people did not shower him with praise and gifts as they had done. Some began to suspect that Soguda had made sacrilegious pacts with foreign gods, and others began to ask where his mother had disappeared to, all those years ago.

Soguda went to see one of the Enarees, vexed as he was with his life which now seemed cursed with powerlessness. Where once he had brought happiness to all who saw him, now their faces were marred with suspicion and fear and the maidens who once sang love songs for him, stayed silent in their tents, or rode out hunting whenever he approached.

The Enaree shaman he went to see was named Gelon Dur, a northerner whose skin and hair and eyes were pale white. As Soguda approached, he saw that the weather did not change, but rather the snow fell exactly as it had upon his approach. He felt a magic at work equal to his own.

Where have you been Soguda? The shaman asked. Where have you been and what foreign sun now rises in your eyes? For the shaman looked deep and saw, within the glimmering green of Soguda's eyes, a pale white sun rising over a snow capped mountain.

I have been to the plateau of the sun. I worship no foreign gods, but rather, I have spoken with the origin, the God who made the gods of our land. Soguda spoke the truth, revealing part of a secret he had kept his entire life.

What did you learn, Weather Maker?

Soguda was reluctant to say more. He had kept his secret for decades, and feared that speaking it would somehow dissipate his power.

The Sun gave me the power to see into other people's dreams, and in doing so, to know how to give them exactly what they want. When I first returned from the Plateau of the Sun, I was welcomed and hailed as a blessing. But when the earthquakes came, all my insight was for nothing, for I could not bring the dead back, nor restore severed limbs or smooth burned flesh.

Soguda wept.

So I returned to the Plateau and lived another ten years in darkness and light, absorbing the power of the sun, but when I returned home, the people only dreamed of my destruction, and every night I have exhausted myself with the effort of confusing and confounding the dreams of assassins who would murder me. I bring spring flowers to end the winter, and I bring winter rains to end the drought, but the people will not forgive me for my failure to heal them when they needed healing the most.

Tell me Gelon Dur, what am I to do?

The Enaree shaman replied:

Tell me Soguda, what did you do to your mother?

Soguda hung his head in shame.

I showed her the truth of what she wanted. I stained her hands with my dream blood, I showed her the vengeance and justice she craved, and in the morning, when she saw that I had command over her dreams, she left, exiling herself. I have not seen her in thirty years.

The shaman, weaving and unravelling strands of grass around their fingers, instructed Soguda what he must do.

You must find her, Soguda. She gave you the gift of weather making. She gave you the gift of your life. You sought power from beyond the gods of our ancestors and you have insulted the laws of our people in doing so. In wishing for your death, she obeyed the laws of our people, and you punished her for wishing to see justice done. You deserve to die Soguda. Now leave me, and do not return until you have restored your mother to her place at the family hearth.

Soguda left the shaman named Gelon Dur and went into the wilderness where he made himself a mask of wood and bone, and covering his face for shame of his sins, he began to search for the mother he had exiled. For many years he journeyed, hiding his face and his name, but still bringing fair weather everywhere he went in his search. He grew old, wearied by his failure and when his beard grew long to cover the pommel of his saddle, and still he had not found her, he took his horse to the edge of our lands, and he kept riding.

He rode to the frozen north, where the land is a painting shaded white.

He climbed the furthest peaks of the ice mountains, where the land flattens into a tabletop of stone and snow.

He struggled through the wasteland where the sun shines ceaselessly half of the year, and, grows darker every night thereafter.

In the frozen north, in the furthest peaks, upon the Plateau of the Sun, in the wasteland of ice and stone, Soguda pitched his tent, and sought the wisdom of his ancient God.

Where is my mother? He cried to the wind.

The wind did not reply.

Where is my mother? He wept upon the frozen earth.

The frozen earth did not reply.

Where is my mother? He screamed to the sun, source of all power, maker of the gods of earth and sky.

The Sun spoke to him, as it always had, in an untranslatable poetry of sounds both animal and human, and Soguda submitted to the will of madness, all his intelligence subverted into a useless corruption of noise and disorder.

Soguda did not return from the plateau. Soguda did not ever again take off his mask. Soguda's howling cries joined forever with the Arctic winds. The Sun granted him the power to rule over the dreams of mortals, and to know their true desires, and to grant them what was good and what was of benefit and to always bring fair weather with him wherever he went.

A man cannot be always a servant to others, he must also be a servant to himself. The Sun, however, has no desire, has no self, seeks only to lay its power upon the earth and to drive all the forces of nature before it, as a herdsman drives his horses upon the steppe. A man, however, is not a god, and he must submit to the laws of his people. The sun is a law unto itself, and a man cannot serve two masters.

These truths are contrary to one another, and Soguda who sought to grasp the immortal power of his own name, ended his mortal journey in banishment, madness and shame.

Soguda never found his mother, for she had long departed from this life, and her bones lay rotting in foreign soil, her ghost wandering lost in foreign skies.

In the frozen north, where the land is a painting shaded white.

In the furthest peaks of the ice mountains, where the land flattens into a tabletop of stone and snow.

In the wasteland where the sun shines ceaselessly half of the year, and, grows darker every night thereafter.

In the frozen north, in the furthest peaks, upon the plateau of the sun, in the wasteland of ice and stone.

In that place dwells the Sun Devil.

*

So Herodotus, we must believe in the legends of the ancients, even if they are not true.

Thank you again, for all you have given me. I, and all who write and read and tell stories, owe you a debt which cannot be paid, though we might live a thousand, thousand generations.

Still, I try.

With admiration and respect,

Morgan.