Chapter 3

5 But I received a kindness from you. What kindness? I have always openly acknowledged the very thing you mention: I preferred to confess an obligation to you rather than appear insufficiently grateful to anyone whose judgment was less sound. But what was the kindness? That you did not kill me at Brundisium? The victor himself, who had made you chief among his brigands, as you used to boast, wanted me safe and ordered me to return to Italy. Would you have killed that man? Suppose you could have. What other kindness, senators, do brigands offer than the right to boast that they gave life to those from whom they did not take it? If that were a kindness, the men who killed the man who had spared them—men you yourself habitually call most illustrious—would never have won such glory. And what sort of kindness is it to have refrained from an abominable crime? I ought to have felt less pleasure that you had not murdered me than misery that you could have done so with impunity.

6 Still, let it count as a kindness, since no greater could have been received from a brigand. Where, then, can you call me ungrateful? Was I not to lament the republic’s destruction, lest I seem ungrateful to you? Yet in that lament, sorrowful and bitter, but necessary for a man in the position to which the senate and Roman people have raised me, what did I say that was insulting? What was not restrained? What was not friendly? What self-command it took to complain of Marcus Antony without abuse! Especially when you had scattered the republic’s remnants; when everything was for sale in the foul marketplace of your house; when you acknowledged laws as both concerning you and carried by you, though they had never been published beforehand; when, an augur, you had abolished the auspices, and, a consul, the right of veto; when armed men crowded disgustingly around you; when, worn out by wine and debauchery, you daily welcomed every impurity into your shameless home.

5 You say I received a favor from you. What favor? I’ve always openly acknowledged the very thing you mention. I’d rather admit I owed you something than seem ungrateful to someone less discerning. But what was the favor? That you didn’t kill me at Brundisium? The victor himself wanted me safe and ordered me into Italy. He’d made you leader of his gang of robbers. You used to boast about that yourself. Would you have killed someone he’d spared? Let’s suppose you could have. Senators, what favor can robbers offer except this? They can claim they gave life to people they didn’t kill. But suppose that counted as a favor. The men who killed their own savior would never have won such glory. You yourself regularly call them outstanding men. And what sort of favor is avoiding a wicked crime? Your not killing me should have brought me less pleasure than your power to do it unpunished brought distress.

6 Still, let’s call it a favor. No one could receive a greater one from a robber. How can you say I’ve been ungrateful for it? Should I have kept quiet about the republic’s destruction, just to avoid seeming ungrateful to you? My complaint was sad and full of grief. But the Senate and Roman people had put me in this position. I had to make it. What did I say that was insulting? What wasn’t restrained? What wasn’t friendly? Think how much self-control that took. I was complaining about Marcus Antony without using insults. You’d scattered what remained of the republic. Everything was for sale in your house, in a disgraceful market. You admitted that laws had been passed by you and about you without ever being published as proposals. You were an augur, yet you’d abolished the taking of auspices. You were consul, yet you’d abolished the tribunes’ veto. Armed men crowded around you in the most disgraceful way. Every day you did every filthy thing in your shameless house, worn out by drink and brothels.