Posts Tagged ‘Cicero’

Cicero: Political Speeches

August 25, 2018

Political Speeches
Marcus Tullius Cicero
Translated from the Latin by D.H. Berry
(Oxford World Classics, 2009) [70-43 BC]
400 p.

Cicero was considered, in his own time, the greatest orator of the Roman world, and his reputation has not faded greatly in the meantime, for those Latinists equipped to appreciate it. This volume gathers together a number of his most famous speeches — not all of them actually given in public, but all intended, at least, to be considered as contributions to Roman politics.

The earliest, from 70 BC, when Cicero was 30 years old, are two In Verram speeches which he prepared for the prosecution of Verres, a former governor of Sicily who had been arrested for corruption. Verres had two main characteristics: he was plainly guilty, and he was immensely wealthy. If acquitted, therefore, the reason would be plain: the courts were corrupted by bribery. Cicero therefore cannily turned the trial into a test of the Senators’ competence to sit as jurors over their peers: “This is a trial in which you will be passing verdict on the defendant, but the Roman people will be passing verdict on you.” This first speech was so effective that Verres fled before the trial could proceed. Nonetheless, Cicero later published a set of five speeches that he would have given, had the trial occurred, in which he set forth his evidence. The fifth of these is included here.

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In 66 BC Cicero gave a famous speech in praise of Pompey. In the previous year Pompey had, against all expectation, succeeded in clearing the Mediterranean of the pirates who had long plagued Roman traders, and, his star ascendant, was being considered for command in the war in the east against Mithridates. Cicero’s speaks in favour of granting Pompey this honour:

“My subject is the outstanding and unique merit of Gnaeus Pompeius — a subject on which it is more difficult to finish speaking than to begin.”

*

In 63 BC Rome was upset by the Catiline conspiracy, an attempt by Catiline to overthrow the government and assume power. This is one of the most famous episodes in all of Roman history, thanks largely to the four great speeches, the Catilinarians, which Cicero, who was consul at the time, composed. The first was given to the Senate on 7 November, the day after the discovery of the conspiracy. Catiline himself was present, and much of the speech is addressed directly to him. A well-known fresco depicts the scene. Cicero advocated Catiline’s exile, rather than his execution, on the grounds that Catiline’s conspirators were likely to follow him, thereby cleansing the city of the trouble that has threatened it. And Catiline did flee the city, that very night.

The second Catilinarian was given the next day, this time to the people of Rome. Cicero described the conspiracy, marshaled the evidence, and urged any remaining conspirators to follow him out of the city. It is a sometimes humorous speech, in which the invective is inventive and powerful. A few weeks later, on 2 December, he laid a trap and intercepted correspondence between conspirators. On this evidence he arrested several of them who remained in Rome, and the next day he spoke again to the people of Rome to describe these developments; this is the third Catilinarian. Finally, on 5 December, Cicero spoke again before the Senate, presenting two main proposals for what to do with the captured conspirators: execute them (as advocated by Silanus) or condemn them to life in prison (as advocated by Caesar), and calling on them to make a wise decision.

As it happened, Cicero himself ordered the execution, without trial, of five captured conspirators, which caused great controversy in Rome and eventually led to Cicero’s being exiled for several years. His part in the drama saved the city (if his own account is to be believed) but nearly ruined his public career.

*

By 46 BC Rome was in a quite different situation. Caesar was gaining power, and the Republic was under threat from within. Six years earlier Cicero had fought on Pompey’s side against Caesar, and, when Caesar had been victorious, Cicero ceased speaking in the Senate for fear of giving its proceedings a legitimacy he denied that it possessed. But in 46 BC Caesar offered clemency to Marcellus, a friend and ally of Cicero, and in response Cicero rose in the Senate and spoke in honour of Caesar, beginning with a phrase that became famous: “Diuturni silenti…” (The long silence…”). This speech’s unstinting praise of Caesar, in Caesar’s presence, strikes our ears as sycophantic, and we cannot help noting the change of tone from his earlier speeches to a healthier Republican Senate.

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The final speech in this collection comes from September 44 BC, about six months after the assassination of Caesar. It is the Second Philippic, a speech directed against Mark Antony, against whom Cicero, siding with Octavian, was fighting for control of Rome. The speech was originally called In Antonium (Against Antony), but acquired its peculiar title on account of a jesting comparison Cicero made, to a friend, between himself and Demosthenes, the most famous orator of the Greek world, who had composed a series of speeches, the Philippics, against Philip of Macedon.

Cicero had reason to later regret his Second Philippic, for in 43 political alliances changed, and Antony joined with Octavian (and Lepidus) to form the so-called Second Triumvirate. They drew up lists of those they wanted executed to consolidate their power, and Antony put Cicero’s name at the top. He was captured, and killed, on 7 December of that year.

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Reading these speeches is a crash course in the Roman history of the period, for Cicero stood at or near the center for most of his public life, and this is reason enough to get to know them. But surely part of the attraction, too, is the famous eloquence of Cicero, who is credited with turning the Latin language into an instrument of supple power and charm, and whose greatness as a rhetorician was admired for as long as Latin was spoken. Unfortunately, this aspect of his genius is hard to preserve in translation, and is, perhaps, ultimately unavailable to those of us who cannot read his original words with appreciation. Such is my lamentable condition.

D.H. Berry is, I am sure, a conscientious translator, but his renderings of these great speeches in this edition are not, I dare say, great English prose to compare with Cicero’s great Latin prose. We can appreciate the large scale structure of the speeches, and some of the rhetorical techniques, but the sheer beauty of the language, which seduced generations of admirers, is occluded. Damn you, John Dewey!

Appian: The Civil Wars

July 14, 2018

The Civil Wars
Appian of Alexandria
Translated from the Greek by John Carter
(Penguin Classics, 1996) [c.150]
xliii + 436 p.

Lives of the Noble Romans
Gaius Marius, Tiberius Gracchus, Gaius Gracchus, Sulla, Crassus, Pompey, Caesar, Cato the Younger, Brutus, Antony, Cicero
Plutarch
Translated from the Greek by John Dryden
(Modern Library, 1942) [c.100]

Livy’s surviving history broke off in the 160s BC. At that time the Roman Republic controlled the Italian peninsula, most of Spain, Asia Minor, and Greece, along with the swath of Northern Africa formerly held by Carthage. It was the end of a long period of consistent triumph for Rome. But fortune’s wheel turns, and the next 150 years were a time of tumult, trial, and war, a period, as Appian says,

well worth the attention of any who wish to contemplate limitless human ambition, terrible lust for power, indefatigable patience, and evil in ten thousand shapes. (I, 6)

It resulted finally in the collapse of the Republican government and the emergence of Imperial Rome.

Appian’s history of the Roman civil wars covers the period 133-35 BC in five Books; it is but a part of his more comprehensive history of Rome, but it attracts special attention, despite his defects as a historian, because it is our only surviving ancient source for the period 133-70 BC, years of great interest and import for what happened later.

“The hour calls forth the man” is a proverb (and, if it isn’t, it ought to be). In previous periods of Roman history one could usually focus on one or perhaps two main threads and major figures at any one time, but as the first century BC progressed and the political crises deepened they seemed to summon up a crowd of powerful personalities — in the year 50 BC, for example, a list of important political figures then living (if not all then in power) would include Crassus, Pompey, Julius Caesar, Octavius, Marc Antony, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Cato — so that any adequate account has to slow down and descend into the details — which Appian certainly does, devoting about half of his history to the two or three years surrounding the assassination of Caesar in 44 BC. Obviously I can’t do the same in this forum, but I will try to sketch, in rough outline, how things developed as the Republic slowly crumbled.

The faltering Republic was beset by an abandonment of political traditions and breakdown of the rule of law. We can look, for instance, at the careers of the Gracchi brothers, Tiberius and Gaius, who were grandsons of the great general Scipio Africanus. Tiberius became tribune and proposed a number of reforms — specifically to redistribute land from the wealthy to the poor and to extend Roman citizenship more broadly to the conquered peoples of the Italian peninsula — and, when his programme encountered resistance, broke with both longstanding tradition and law by standing for (and winning) a second term as tribune. When Tiberius was opposed by the Senate, he simply sidestepped them — after all, their ratification was only customary, not necessary. And when he was opposed by another tribune during a vote, Tiberius had his opponent forcefully removed from the Forum, in flagrant violation of the long tradition of holding the person of the tribune sacrosanct. Harmless enough, you might think, and in the service of a good cause, perhaps, but the Roman tradition of rotating political offices every year was one of the oldest and most venerable political traditions they had, and the immunity of the tribune from violence or prosecution was quasi-sacred in nature; both had always been understood as safeguards against political tyranny. His younger brother Gaius was even more radical in his political programme and in his conduct: he held the tribunate for three years. Both brothers met violent ends at the hands of mobs, another sign that Rome’s political life was straining.

These trends continued in the career of Marius, who was first consul in 107, but who went on to hold the consulship a record seven times. Marius was a military hero who rose to prominence from an undistinguished background on the strength of his generalship. His greatest military achievement was, perhaps, his reform of Roman military tactics; he abandoned the maniple system Rome had used for centuries in favour of a new, three-line system that ensured that fresh troops would rotate to the front on a regular basis, and he achieved great success in the field. When in 91 the so-called Social War broke out between Rome and the subject peoples of Italy — a war that sounds more genteel than it was — Marius led the effort to put down the rebellion. But then, for complicated reasons, he returned to Rome and allowed his army to pillage the city, taking up residence as something like a military dictator.

He was opposed by Sulla, one of the most intriguing men to enter this history. He too had military success, in battles against Mithridates in the east, but when Marius occupied Rome Sulla returned with the intention of dislodging — and, as it turned out, displacing — him. Comments Appian:

“In this way the episodes of civil strife escalated from rivalry and contentiousness to murder, and from murder to full-scale war; and this was the first army composed of Roman citizens to attack their own country as though it were a hostile power” (I,60)

As it turned out, his job was done for him: Marius died, and Sulla moved in, declaring himself — or having himself declared — dictator. The office of dictator had been an official political role early in Roman history, invoked in periods of crisis, but it had always been understood as being limited in term to about 6 months or a year. Sulla was declared dictator for life. It would be hard to come up with a more radical upending of the Roman political system, but for Sulla it was just the beginning. He published proscription lists of his enemies; they were to be captured and executed, along with anyone who might try to help them escape. Sulla’s was a reign of terror. The paradox is that he was essentially a conservative figure: his radical measures aimed to restore the proper functioning of the Republican system. He saw that system buckling under strain, overtaken by violence and revolution, and he sought unrestricted power to shore it up. He broke the law in order to restore the law. And, in one of the most surprising turns in this or any other history, once he thought he had achieved his goal he relinquished his absolute power, walked away from political life and retired to a quiet country villa. But he had not achieved his goal, for what the next generation took from Sulla were not his objectives, but his methods, and those could be used against the Republic at least as effectively as Sulla had used them for it.

In Sulla’s conflict with Marius for control of Rome, he had been assisted by two able men: Crassus and Pompey, and in the aftermath of Sulla’s rule a rivalry between them brought both to prominence in Rome’s public life. They collaborated to put down the slave rebellion led by Spartacus in 73-71, but were thereafter at one another’s throats, jockeying for political position.

Into this fraught conflict came one Gaius Julius Caesar, a man of relatively humble station (patrician, but poor), who convinced the two that they would be stronger in partnership than in conflict, and that he could help them to achieve together both wealth and power. Thus was born the ‘first triumvirate’ — a rather distinguished title for what Mary Beard opts to call The Gang of Three, and what Varro called The Beast with Three Heads — an alliance that Caesar was to use to propel himself not only to an equal rank with Crassus and Pompey, but to the first rank, and that would effectively bring an end to the Republican government of Rome.

It all happened fairly rapidly. The alliance was formed in 59. Caesar took an army to Gaul where, for ten years, he fought his famous campaign (recounted in his Gallic Wars) that nearly doubled the size of the Roman empire, and brought Romans to Britain for the first time (albeit briefly), bringing Caesar immense wealth and popularity in the process. Crassus led an army to Parthia where, however, he was killed in 53, leaving Caesar and Pompey as the leading men of Rome. And, on the principle that “Three is company, but two is a crowd”, the alliance degenerated into a rivalry once again. In 49 Caesar returned to Italy, crossing the Rubicon with his army in violation of Roman law and setting the spark to inflame civil war. (Parenthetically, I was surprised to learn that historians do not know which river was the Rubicon.) Pompey, taken by surprise, took his army and fled to Greece, there to regroup, and Caesar occupied Rome.

Not resting on his laurels, Caesar pursued Pompey and they met in August 48 at the Battle of Pharsalus, at which Pompey went down to defeat. He fled to Egypt, where he was killed while going ashore by order of Egyptian authorities eager to get into Caesar’s good books. They, along with everyone else, could see the writing on the wall. Caesar was evidently the great man of the age, whom Appian describes as

“a man extremely lucky in everything, gifted with a divine spark, disposed to great deeds, and fittingly compared with Alexander.”

(Indeed, he goes on to compare Caesar and Alexander at some considerable length. [Book II,149-54])

But Caesar’s rule, as we know, was short. There were yet those in Rome who wanted to restore the Republic, and who resented these great men bent on treating Rome as their personal property, and of course Romans had a long-standing horror of kingship. Caesar appeared to them to be a king in all but name. And so it was that in 44 a conspiracy of about 10 men, led by Brutus (thought by some to be Caesar’s biological son, and certainly a man greatly favoured by Caesar) and Cassius, was formed to assassinate him. This assassination, narrated by Appian in Book II, 117, and in more detail by Plutarch in his life of Caesar, is of course well-known to us from Shakespeare’s play.

Following Caesar’s death, the conspirators fled, and much of Appian’s history is occupied with tracing what became of them, as, one by one, they were picked off. Brutus and Cassius met their end in 42, at the Battle of Philippi. Of them, Appian says in tribute:

“They were Romans of the highest nobility and distinction, and of unchallenged virtue, without a single stain…” (IV, 132)

which is slightly odd, because elsewhere he tends toward apologetics on behalf of Imperial Rome, and I would have thought that he would have consequently disapproved of Caesar’s assassins, as Dante did.

Meanwhile, back in Rome, the power vacuum left by Caesar’s death and the departure of the conspirators begged to be filled. The natural man for the part, in his own eyes at least, was Marc Antony, a man who, though given to drunkenness and debauchery, had a proven record of military prowess and had been Caesar’s protege. But when Caesar’s will was read it was discovered that he posthumously adopted as his son and heir his great-nephew, Octavian, then just 19 years old. Naturally this precipitated a rivalry between Antony and Octavian, a rivalry temporarily set aside in 43 by the formation of another alliance of convenience, the so-called ‘second triumvirate’, composed of Antony, Octavian, and Lucius Lepidus, one of history’s most notable third wheels.

This second Gang of Three began another, even more frightful, reign of terror to purge Rome of their enemies. Proscription lists were once again published in the Forum, and Appian devotes a long section (Book IV, 1-51) to stories, both happy and tragic, about what happened to those whose names appeared on these lists: betrayed by their wives, perhaps, or saved by their slaves. Perhaps the most famous name to appear on the list was Cicero’s; he had initially sided with Octavian against Antony, and with the formation of the triumvirate Antony insisted on his execution. He, who was by some reasonable measures the greatest of all the great men swaggering through this episode of history, was captured and killed in December 43.

In subsequent years the uneasy alliance within the triumvirate continued. Appian describes the relationship of Octavian and Antony in these terms:

“Their behaviour constantly swung between suspicion, arising from their desire for power, and trust, arising from their current needs.” (V, 94)

They fought together against Sextus Pompeius, the son of Pompey, who led an effective naval blockade against Rome that prevented grain reaching the city. Antony went east on campaign where he fell under the spell of the Egyptian queen Cleopatra.

Appian’s history of these civil wars comes to an end in 35, with the finale of the story yet untold. From other sources we know that, soon enough, open war broke out between the two, and in 30 Antony, seeing that he was beaten, committed suicide, leaving Octavian, at 28 years old, the unchallenged leader of the largest Empire the world had ever known.

It is said that Octavian went to Egypt after Antony’s death, and, like many before him, stood at the tomb of Alexander the Great. He was perhaps the only person in history who could do so without feeling humbled at the comparison. He returned home, and three years later took the name Caesar Augustus, the first unequivocal emperor of Rome.

**

Almost everything about this history has been fascinating. Of course I knew bits and pieces of it, but I had not before seen them all put together, with the gaps filled. I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly. Appian is not a historian with the talents of Livy — how I wish Livy’s account of this period had survived! His account is sometimes disjoint and he makes mistakes of fact — the latter not such a problem in this Oxford edition, which is festooned with copious notes. My main complaint is that he is not good at conveying the character of the people whose actions he describes; they rarely come to life as real historical people. I supplemented my reading, therefore, with a number of Plutarch’s lives, and, for good measure, with Shakespeare’s plays on Caesar and Antony (and Cleopatra). I would recommend the same sensible and rewarding course to others interested in this period of history.

Terra australis incognita

February 3, 2011

It is a notable and curious fact that Antarctica — the ‘unknown southern land’ — appeared on European maps for centuries before anyone laid eyes on it. The reason was historical and literary: ancient authorities had dilated on the appropriateness of its existence, and, having a great reverence for the ancients and no grounds on which to contradict them, medieval and early modern cartographers duly included it on their maps. Aristotle, in his Meteorologica, had written about a cold, uninhabited region at the South Pole, and Cicero, in the Somnium Scipionis, had spoken of a region “rigid with frost” at each of the poles. Cicero, especially, was influential on the medieval and early modern periods on account of Macrobius’ very popular commentary on the Somnium Scipionis, dating from the 5th century AD.

On the strength of these suggestions, it was believed that the geography of the south ought to mirror, to a large extent, the geography of the north, and since there was land in the northern regions, it would be fitting that there be land in the south as well. Those who remember the arguments Herodotus deployed, in his Histories, to generate a map of the rivers of Africa will be familiar with this sort of reasoning.

The Ulm map (1482), after Ptolemy.

In any case, the terra australis incognita was there on the maps. Sometimes it was shown as contiguous with southern Africa (as above), and sometimes not. As the years wore on, and especially after ships successfully rounded the Cape of Good Hope and, later, Cape Horn, some expressed doubt as to its existence. The ensuing debate played a role in motivating the initial explorations, by Captain Cook, which we shall come to in good time.

There is a lesson here somewhere.

Abraham Ortelius, Theatrum Orbis Terrarum (1570).