Letter 3: Cicero writes to Quintus on his way to Rome from Thessalonica in 15 June 58 BC.

[Written at Thessalonica on the Ides of June, 696 from the founding of the city (13 June 58 BC).] Marcus to his brother Quintus, greetings. 1. My brother, my brother, my brother! Did you really fear that I, driven by some fit of anger, had sent the slaves to you without a letter? Or even that I did not wish to see you? I, angry with you? Could I possibly be angry with you? As if, indeed, it were you who had brought me low; as if it were your enemies, your unpopularity, that ruined me, and not I who wretchedly destroyed you! That much-praised consulship of mine has torn you from me, and my children, my country, my fortunes; from you I only hope it has snatched nothing except myself. Yet from you, certainly, everything that ever came to me was honorable and a delight; while from me there have come to you the grief of my disaster, the dread of your own, longing, mourning, desolation. "That I did not wish to see you"? No, rather it was that I did not wish to be seen by you. For you would not have seen your brother, not the man you had left behind, not the man you knew, not the man whom, weeping yourself, you had sent on his way weeping as you set out and he escorted you, not even a trace of him nor an image, but a kind of likeness of a breathing corpse. And would that you had sooner seen me dead, or heard that I was dead! Would that I had left you to survive not only my life but my undiminished standing as well! 2. But I call all the gods to witness that I was recalled from death by this one argument alone: that all men kept saying some part of your life was bound up in mine. In that matter I sinned and acted wickedly; for if I had died, my very death would easily have defended my devotion and love toward you. As it is, I have brought it about that, while I live, you go without me, that while I live you need the help of others, that my voice should fail above all in the dangers of my own household, the voice that had so often been a protection to utter strangers. As for the slaves coming to you without a letter, since you see that anger was not the cause, it was assuredly sluggishness, and a certain boundless flood of tears and sorrows. 3. With what weeping do you suppose I have written these very words? With the same, I am quite sure, with which you read them. Can I ever fail to think of you at times, or ever think of you without tears? For when I long for you, is it only a brother that I long for? No, rather one almost my equal in the sweetness of his company, a son in his deference to me, a parent in his counsel. What was ever a delight to me without you, or to you without me? And then, at the same time, I long for my daughter: such devotion, such modesty, such talent! The very image of my face, my speech, my soul! And my most charming son, the dearest thing to me, whom I, savage and made of iron, dismissed from my embrace, a boy wiser than I could have wished, for the poor child already understood, to his sorrow, what was being done. And your own son, your image, whom my Cicero both loved as a brother and was now beginning to revere as an elder brother? And then, that I did not allow that most wretched woman, my most faithful wife, to escort me on my way, so that there might be someone to watch over the remnants of our common calamity, our common children? 4. But nevertheless, in whatever way I could, I wrote and gave a letter to you to Philogonus, your freedman, which I believe was afterward delivered to you, in which I urge and beg of you the same thing that the slaves announced to you in my words: that you should go straight on to Rome and make haste. For in the first place I wished you to be a protection, in case there were any enemies whose cruelty was not yet glutted by our disaster; and in the second place I dreaded the lamenting of our meeting; and the parting, indeed, I could not have borne; and I feared too that very thing you write of, that you would not be able to tear yourself away from me. For these reasons this greatest of evils, that I did not see you, than which nothing more bitter or more miserable could seem to have befallen the most loving and closely united of brothers, was less bitter, less miserable than would have been first our meeting and then our parting. 5. Now, if you can do what I, who always seemed brave to you, cannot, raise and steady yourself, in case some struggle must be undergone. I hope, if my hope carries any authority, that your own integrity, and the affection of the citizenry toward you, and even some measure of pity for me, will bring you protection; but if you are free of that danger, you will of course act, if you think anything can be done about my case. About that, many men write many things to me and show that they themselves are hopeful; but I do not see what I am to hope for, since my enemies have the greatest power, while my friends have in part deserted me, in part even betrayed me, men who in the event of my return perhaps dread reproach for their own crime. But whatever the state of these things may be, I would have you see clearly and make it plain to me. Yet I shall go on living for as long as you have need of me, if you see that some danger must be undergone: longer than that I cannot remain in this life; for no prudence or learning has strength enough to be able to bear so great a grief. 6. I know there was both a more honorable and a more useful time for dying; but this is not the only thing, I have let many other opportunities slip by, and if I should wish to complain of what is past, I would accomplish nothing except to increase your grief and point out my own folly. This much, indeed, must not and cannot be done: that I should linger longer than either your situation or firm hope shall demand in a life so wretched and so disgraceful, so that I, who but lately was most blessed in a brother, in children, in a wife, in resources, in the very nature of my wealth, and in dignity, authority, reputation, and influence inferior to none of those who have ever been most eminent, should now in this so afflicted and ruined fortune be able to mourn neither myself nor my own people any longer. 7. Why then did you write to me about an exchange of money? As if my circumstances were not now sustained by your resources, in which very matter I see and feel, to my misery, what a crime I have committed, since you are about to satisfy your creditors out of your own vitals and your son's, while I have squandered to no purpose the money received from the treasury in your name. But nevertheless, both Antonius has been paid the amount you had written of, and Caepio the same sum; for what I have in mind, what I have is enough for me; for whether we are restored or whether we despair, nothing more is needed. As for you, if perchance there should be any trouble, I think you should turn to Crassus and to Calidius; how far Hortensius is to be trusted, I do not know. 8. With the utmost pretense of affection and the utmost daily assiduity he treated me in the most wicked and most treacherous way, with Quintus Arrius joined to him; deprived of their counsels, promises, and instructions, I fell into this calamity. But you will keep these things hidden, lest they do any harm. Beware of this, and on that account I think Hortensius himself must be cultivated by you through Pomponius [Atticus], that the verse which was directed against you when you were seeking the aedileship, concerning the Aurelian law, may not be confirmed by false testimony; for there is nothing I fear so much as that, when men understand how much pity for me your prayers and your safety will bring, they may assail you more violently. 9. Messalla I think is devoted to you; Pompey, I suspect, is only a pretender. But may you never have to put these things to the test! That is what I would pray of the gods, had they not ceased to hear my prayers; nevertheless I do pray that they may be content with these endless evils of ours, in which, after all, there is no infamy of any wrongdoing, but all is sorrow, since the greatest punishment has been appointed for the best of deeds. 10. As for my daughter and yours and our Cicero, why should I commend them to you, my brother? Rather, I grieve at this, that their being orphaned will bring you no less grief than it does me; but while you are safe they will not be orphans. The rest, as I hope for some deliverance and the power to die in my homeland, my tears do not allow me to write! Terentia too I would have you protect, and write back to me on every matter; be brave, as far as the nature of things will allow. On the Ides of June, Thessalonica.

Brother! Brother! Brother! did you really fear that I had been induced by some angry feeling to send slaves to you without a letter? Or even that I did not wish to see you? I to be angry with you! Is it possible for me to be angry with you? Why, one would think that it was you that brought me low! Your enemies, your unpopularity, that miserably ruined me, and not I that unhappily ruined you! The fact is, the much-praised consulate of mine has deprived me of you, of children, country, fortune; from you I should hope it will have taken nothing but myself. Certainly on your side I have experienced nothing but what was honourable and gratifying: on mine you have grief for my fall and fear for your own, regret, mourning, desertion. Not wish to see you? The truth is rather that I was unwilling to be seen by you. For you would not have seen your brother-not the brother you had left, not the brother you knew, not him to whom you had with mutual tears bidden farewell as he followed you on your departure for your province: not a trace even or faint image of him, but rather what I may call the likeness of a living corpse. And oh that you had sooner seen me or heard of me as a corpse! Oh that I could have left you to survive, not my life merely, but my undiminished rank! But I call all the gods to witness that the one argument which recalled me from death was, that all declared that to some extent your life depended upon mine. In which matter I made an error and acted Culpably. For if I had died, that death itself would have given clear evidence of my fidelity and love to you. As it is, I have allowed you to be deprived of my aid, though I am alive, and with me still living to need the help of others; and my voice, of all others, to fail when dangers threatened my family, which had so often been successfully used in the defence of the merest strangers. For as to the slaves coming to you without a letter, the real reason (for you see that it was not anger) was a deadness of my faculties, and a seemingly endless deluge of tears and sorrows. How many tears do you suppose these very words have Cost me? As many as I know they will cost you to read them! Can I ever refrain from thinking of you or ever think of you without tears? For when I miss you, is it only a brother that I miss? Rather it is a brother of almost my own age in the charm of his companionship, a son in his consideration for my wishes, a father in the wisdom of his advice! What pleasure did I ever have without you, or you without me? And what must my case be when at the same time I miss a daughter: How affectionate! how modest! how clever! The express image of my face, of my speech, of my very soul! Or again a son, the prettiest boy, the very joy of my heart? Cruel inhuman monster that I am, I dismissed him from my arms better schooled in the world than I could have wished: for the poor child began to understand what was going on. So, too, your own son, your own image, whom my little Cicero loved as a brother, and was now beginning to respect as an elder brother! Need I mention also how I refused to allow my unhappy wife--the truest of helpmates--to accompany me, that there might be some one to protect the wrecks of the calamity which had fallen on us both, and guard our common children? Nevertheless, to the best of my ability, I did write a letter to you, and gave it to your freedman Philogonus, which, I believe, was delivered to you later on; and in this I repeated the advice and entreaty, which had been already transmitted to you as a message from me by my slaves, that you should go on with your journey and hasten to Rome. For, in the first place, I desired your protection, in case there were any of my enemies whose cruelty was not yet satisfied by my fall. In the next place, I dreaded the renewed lamentation which our meeting would cause : while I could not have borne your departure, and was afraid of the very thing you mention in your letter--that you would be unable to tear yourself away. For these reasons the supreme pain of not seeing you--and nothing more painful or more wretched could, I think, have happened to the most affectionate and united of brothers-was a less misery than would have been such a meeting followed by such a parting. Now, if you can, though I, whom you always regarded as a brave man, cannot do so, rouse yourself and collect your energies in view of any contest you may have to confront. I hope, if my hope has anything to go upon, that your own spotless character and the love of your fellow citizens, and even remorse for my treatment, may prove a certain protection to you. But if it turns out that you are free from personal danger, you will doubtless do whatever you think can be done for me. In that matter, indeed, many write to me at great length and declare that they have hopes; but I personally cannot see what hope there is, since my enemies have the greatest influence, while my friends have in some cases deserted, in others even betrayed me, fearing perhaps in my restoration a censure on their own treacherous conduct. But how matters stand with you I would have you ascertain and report to me. In any case I shall continue to live as long as you shall need me, in view of any danger you may have to undergo: longer than that I cannot go on in this kind of life. For there is neither wisdom nor philosophy with sufficient strength to sustain such a weight of grief. I know that there has been a time for dying, more honourable and more advantageous; and this is not the only one of my many omissions, which, if I should choose to bewail, I should merely be increasing your sorrow and emphasizing my own stupidity. But one thing I am not bound to do, and it is in fact impossible-remain in a life so wretched and so dishonoured any longer than your necessities, or some well-grounded hope, shall demand. For I, who was lately supremely blessed in brother, children, wife, wealth, and in the very nature of that wealth, while in position, influence, reputation, and popularity, I was inferior to none, however distinguished--I cannot, I repeat, go on longer lamenting over myself and those dear to me in a life of such humiliation as this, and in a state of such utter ruin. Wherefore, what do you mean by writing to me about negotiating a bill of exchange? As though I were not now wholly dependent on your means! And that is just the very thing in which I see and feel, to my misery, of what a culpable act I have been guilty in squandering to no purpose the money which I received from the treasury in your name, while you have to satisfy your creditors out of the very vitals of yourself and your son. However, the sum mentioned in your letter has been paid to M. Antonius, and the same amount to Caepio. For me the sum at present in my hands is sufficient for what I contemplate doing. For in either case-whether I am restored or given up in despair--I shall not want any more money. For yourself, if you are molested, I think you should apply to Crassus and Calidius. I don't know how far Hortensius is to be trusted. Myself, with the most elaborate pretence of affection and the closest daily intimacy, he treated with the most utter want of principle and the most consummate treachery, and Q. Arrius helped him in it: acting under whose advice, promises, and injunctions, I was left helpless to fall into this disaster. But this you will keep dark for fear they might injure you. Take care also--and it is on this account that I think you should Cultivate Hortensius himself by means of Pomponius--that the epigram on the lex Aurelia attributed to you when Candidate for the aedileship is not proved by false testimony to be yours. For there is nothing that I am so afraid of as that, when people understand how much pity for me your prayers and your acquittal will rouse, they may attack you with all the greater violence. Messalla I reckon as really attached to you : Pompey I regard as still pretending only. But may you never have to put these things to the test! And that prayer I would have offered to the gods had they not ceased to listen to prayers of mine. However, I do pray that they may be content with these endless miseries of ours; among which, after all, there is no discredit for any wrong thing done-sorrow is the beginning and end, sorrow that punishment is most severe when our conduct has been most unexceptionable. As to my daughter and yours and my young Cicero, why should I recommend them to you, my dear brother? Rather I grieve that their orphan state will cause you no less sorrow than it does me. Yet as long as you are uncondemned they will not be fatherless. The rest, by my hopes of restoration and the privilege of dying in my fatherland, my tears will not allow me to write! Terentia also I would ask you to protect, and to write me word on every subject. Be as brave as the nature of the case admits. Thessalonica, 13 June.

III. Scr. Thessalonicae Idibus Iuniis a.u.c. 696. MARCUS QUINTO FRATRI SALUTEM. 1. mi frater, mi frater, mi frater, tune id veritus es, ne ego iracundia aliqua adductus pueros ad te sine litteris miserim? aut etiam ne te videre noluerim? Ego tibi irascerer? tibi ego possem irasci? Scilicet, tu enim me afflixisti; tui me inimici, tua me invidia, ac non ego te misere perdidi. Meus ille laudatus consulatus mihi te, liberos, patriam, fortunas, tibi velim ne quid eripuerit praeter unum me. Sed certe a te mihi omnia semper honesta et iucunda ceciderunt, a me tibi luctus meae calamitatis, metus tuae, desiderium, maeror, solitudo. "Ego te videre noluerim?" Immo vero me a te videri nolui; non enim vidisses fratrem tuum, non eum, quem reliqueras, non eum, quem noras, non eum, quem flens flentem, prosequentem proficiscens dimiseras, ne vestigium quidem eius nec simulacrum, sed quandam effigiem spirantis mortui. Atque utinam me mortuum prius vidisses aut audisses! utinam te non solum vitae, sed etiam dignitatis meae superstitem reliquissem! 2. Sed testor omnes deos me hac una voce a morte esse revocatum, quod omnes in mea vita partem aliquam tuae vitae repositam esse dicebant: qua in re peccavi scelerateque feci; nam, si occidissem, mors ipsa meam pietatem amoremque in te facile defenderet: nunc commisi, ut me vivo careres, vivo me aliis indigeres, mea vox in domesticis periculis potissimum occideret, quae saepe alienissimis praesidio fuisset. Nam, quod ad te pueri sine litteris venerunt, quoniam vides non fuisse iracundiam causam, certe pigritia fuit et quaedam infinita vis lacrimarum et dolorum. 3. Haec ipsa me quo fletu putas scripsisse? eodem, quo te legere certe scio. An ego possum aut non cogitare aliquando de te aut umquam sine lacrimis cogitare? cum enim te desidero, fratrem solum desidero? ego vero suavitate prope aequalem, obsequio filium, consilio parentem; quid mihi sine te umquam aut tibi sine me iucundum fuit? Quid, quod eodem tempore desidero filiam? qua pietate, qua modestia, quo ingenio! effigiem oris, sermonis, animi mei. Quid filium venustissimum mihique dulcissimum? quem ego ferus ac ferreus e complexu dimisi meo, sapientiorem puerum quam vellem, sentiebat enim miser iam, quid ageretur. Quid vero tuum filium, imaginem tuam, quem meus Cicero et amabat ut fratrem et iam ut maiorem fratrem verebatur? Quid, quod mulierem miserrimam, fidelissimam coniugem, me prosequi non sum passus, ut esset, quae reliquias communis calamitatis, communes liberos tueretur? 4. Sed tamen, quoquo modo potui, scripsi et dedi litteras ad te Philogono, liberto tuo, quas credo tibi postea redditas esse, in quibus idem te hortor et rogo, quod pueri tibi verbis meis nuntiarunt, ut Romam protinus pergas et properes: primum enim te praesidio esse volui, si qui essent inimici, quorum crudelitas nondum esset nostra calamitate satiata; deinde congressus nostri lamentationem pertimui; digressum vero non tulissem, atque etiam id ipsum, quod tu scribis, metuebam, ne a me distrahi non posses. His de causis hoc maximum malum, quod te non vidi, quo nihil amantissimis et coniunctissimis fratribus acerbius miserius videtur accidere potuisse, minus acerbum, minus miserum fuit, quam fuisset cum congressio, tum vero digressio nostra. 5. Nunc, si potes id, quod ego, qui tibi semper fortis videbar, non possum, erige te et confirma, si qua subeunda dimicatio erit: spero, si quid mea spes habet auctoritatis, tibi et integritatem tuam et amorem in te civitatis et aliquid etiam misericordiam nostri praesidii laturam; sin eris ab isto periculo vacuus, ages scilicet, si quid agi posse de nobis putabis. De quo scribunt ad me quidem multi multa et se sperare demonstrant; sed ego, quod sperem, non dispicio, cum inimici plurimum valeant, amici partim deseruerint me, partime etiam prodiderint, qui in meo reditu fortasse reprehensionem sui sceleris pertimescunt. Sed, ista qualia sint, tu velim perspicias mihique declares. Ego tamen, quamdiu tibi opus erit, si quid periculi subeundum videbis, vivam: diutius in hac vita esse non possum; neque enim tantum virium habet ulla aut prudentia aut doctrina, ut tantum dolorem possit sustinere. 6. Scio fuisse et honestius moriendi tempus et utilius; sed non hoc solum, multa alia praetermisi, quae si queri velim praeterita, nihil agam, nisi ut augeam dolorem tuum, indicem stultitiam meam. Illud quidem nec faciendum est nec fieri potest, me diutius, quam aut tuum tempus aut firma spes postulabit, in tam misera tamque turpi vita commorari, ut, qui modo fratre fuerim, liberis, coniuge, copiis, genere ipso pecuniae beatissimus, dignitate, auctoritate, existimatione, gratia non inferior, quam qui umquam fuerunt amplissimi, is nunc in hac tam afflicta perditaque fortuna neque me neque meos lugere diutius possim. 7. Quare quid ad me scripsisti de permutatione? quasi vero nunc me non tuae facultates sustineant, qua in re ipsa video miser et sentio quid sceleris admiserim, cum de visceribus tuis et filii tui satisfacturus sis quibus debes, ego acceptam ex aerario pecuniam tuo nomine frustra dissiparim. Sed tamen et inde Antonio, quantum tu scripseras, et Caepioni tantundem solutum est: mihi ad id, quod cogito, hoc, quod habeo, satis est; sive enim restituimur sive desperamus, nihil amplius opus est. Tu, si forte quid erit molestiae, te ad Crassum et ad Calidium conferas censeo: quantum Hortensio credendum sit, nescio. 8. Me summa simulatione amoris summaque assiduitate quotidiana sceleratissime insidiosissimeque tractavit adiuncto Q. Arrio; quorum ego consiliis, promissis, praeceptis destitutus in hanc calamitatem incidi. Sed haec occultabis, ne quid obsint: illud caveto—et eo puto per Pomponium fovendum tibi esse ipsum Hortensium—, ne ille versus, qui in te erat collatus, cum aedilitatem petebas, de lege Aurelia, falso testimonio confirmetur; nihil enim tam timeo quam ne, cum intelligant homines, quantum misericordiae nobis tuae preces et tua salus allatura sit, oppugnent te vehementius. 9. Messalam tui studiosum esse arbitror; Pompeium etiam simulatorem puto. Sed haec utinam ne experiare! quod precarer deos, nisi meas preces audire desissent; verumtamen precor, ut his infinitis nostris malis contenti sint; in quibus non modo tamen nullius inest peccati infamia, sed omnis dolor est, quod optime factis poena maxima est constituta. 10. Filiam meam et tuam Ciceronemque nostrum quid ego, mi frater, tibi commendem? quin illud maereo, quod tibi non minorem dolorem illorum orbitas afferet quam mihi; sed te incolumi orbi non erunt. Reliqua, ita mihi salus aliqua detur potestasque in patria moriendi, ut me lacrimae non sinunt scribere! etiam Terentiam velim tueare mihique de omnibus rebus rescribas; sis fortis, quoad rei natura patietur. Idibus Iuniis, Thessalonica.