Book 6

1. The bond with the disowned son. A brother gave his disowned brother a bond promising to give him half the inheritance if he did not speak against it. The disowned man kept silent. The other is disowned by the father.

He has as much debt as he could not pay while his father lives. Do you wish to know what your credit is worth? Not even your brother trusted you without a bond. The one I delay in his hope, the other in his good faith. I am alive, and already my patrimony has been divided. Unless you help me, even the man who kept silent will defeat me. I do not conceal that today I am disowning two. Bring out the bond, the compact of parricides and the pact of unholy hope, the bond impious in the giver, base in the receiver, dangerous to the father.

The other side. In every fortune, brother, I will join myself to you as your companion: if there is soldiering to do, we will soldier together; if travel abroad, together we will wander through cities; if I beg my daily alms, even that I will share with you. I did not wish my father's fresh anger to be stirred up; I preferred that, by keeping silent, he should overcome our father. I will be heir of my own portion, guardian of yours. And because in the greatest matters each man trusts himself best, I give the bond; do you take care to seem to receive that portion rather from your father than from your brother. This thing which we were doing honourably and dutifully, we did so openly that our father knew it. For what did I fear? That, if my father learned of it, he would take it ill that his son is no greedy man, that his brother is dutiful? So may it fall to me that my father be reconciled to us both.

2. The exiled father barred by the country-house. Let it not be lawful to help an exile with shelter and food. Let one condemned for unintentional homicide be exiled for five years. A certain man, who had a son and a daughter, condemned for unintentional homicide, set out into exile and used to come to an estate that bordered on his own. The son learned of this and beat the overseer; the overseer shut the father out. He began to go to his daughter. She, accused of having received an exile, was acquitted with her brother as advocate. After five years the father disowns the son.

The accuser made me an exile from my city, the son from my own people too. I found my daughter more honourable, in that she was accused; my slave more thrifty, in that he was beaten. You deserved ill of your father, whom you shut out; of your sister, whom you harmed by a precedent; of the judges, whom you feared in so good a cause. Either you did wrong, or your sister. My own son taught me, in that I do not receive him. "My sister," he says, "was acquitted with me as advocate." So you would not receive your father, when you could plead this cause so well? When the woman who had received him was acquitted, the man who had driven him out was condemned. My daughter judged me her father, my slaves their master; to my son alone I was an exile. Forgive me, most faithful of little slaves, I unwittingly harmed you too. How good do you think that cause was, which was not condemned even with you as advocate? If I can die with you as my heir, I am worthy to leave you even this slave. To another he is an exile, to you he is a father. No law commands a crime. At least she who did it was acquitted. The law holds the man who helped an exile, not the one who suffers him to be helped. Be ignorant, pretend not to see: the law bids you be innocent, not inquisitive. If you were doing it for my sake, you would have warned me, you would have barred the slave, you would not have beaten him.

The other side. I could not act when the law forbade. She was accused and acquitted, because she seemed a poor woman who did not know the laws. I feared not for myself but for you: the matter had come to men's knowledge; you were being hunted; I feared you would be killed. Do you wish to know it was known? My sister was accused. I chose to beat a most thrifty slave rather than to lose the best of fathers.

3. The mother of the bastard chosen as a portion. Let the elder brother divide the patrimony, the younger choose. Let it be lawful to rear a son by a slave-woman. A certain man, who had a legitimate son, reared another by a slave-woman, and died. The elder brother divided thus, that he set the whole patrimony on one side, and on the other the mother of the bastard. The younger chose the mother and accuses his brother of fraud.

I alone of all men have been disinherited by the dividing. "He should have chosen the other portion," he says. You alone could be such a son as you are a brother. The law bade you divide, me choose: openly it fears lest the younger be defrauded. He divided thus, that, if I did not wish to be a beggar, I should leave my brother in want and my mother in slavery. It is not dividing, to set the patrimony on one side and a burden on the other. He was such a son that his father reared a co-heir for him by a slave-woman. Choose, so as to lack either the patrimony or the crime. Those are wont to be called defrauders who have carried something off: this man left nothing. "You yourself," he says, "wished to be poor." Why then do I complain, if I delight in want? "What was done by law," he says, "cannot be charged." Nay, nothing can be charged except what was done by law; for if anything was otherwise done, it is of itself void. Fraud always wraps a crime under the appearance of law: what is apparent in it is lawful, what lies hidden is insidious. Fraud always reaches injury through right. The law bids the elder divide, the younger choose: you did not divide, nor did this man choose; he was so bound by you that he must needs prefer what did not profit him. My devotion toward my mother was known; he did not fear that I could choose the other portion.

The other side. I did nothing but divide. The fraud is not in the division, but in the choosing. You have a mother whom some have ransomed with their whole goods; you have a glory that some have sought through fire, through arms. She carried off much of the patrimony, having, by a slave-woman's effrontery, the right of a mistress. Did you fear I would rage against her? It did not profit me, since in her I was about to have the whole patrimony. As it is, you have just as much; for you have the portion you wished. That you should have just as much, not even your father had wished; therefore he left your mother a slave.

4. The drink deadly in part. Let there be an action for poisoning. A wife followed her proscribed husband. At a certain time she asked him, as he held a cup in secret, what it was; he said poison, and that he wished to die. She asked him to give her a share, and said she did not wish to live without him. He drank part himself, gave part to his wife. She alone perished. By the will the husband was found heir. Restored, he is charged with poisoning.

He acted so as to be caught, was caught so as to be entreated, drank so as to live. What is this poison that harms only the heir? No one ever gave his wife poison so openly. He flees being killed, who says he longs to die. One man has been made richer by the proscription. To make him wish to live, his wife could not persuade him; a more alluring thing persuaded him, his wife's inheritance. He knew which part of the draught he was draining. The opposing party he pursued with the sword, his own with poison. The conquerors made an end of killing sooner than the conquered. What did you suppose would happen, when the wife had carried a will into exile, and the husband poison? Where is the wife? Are you not ashamed? Now even the proscribed return. As soon as she took the draught, she collapsed. Do not wonder if the poison is so effective: he is heir who gave it. Generally a light and harmless fluid hangs at the top, while that heavy and deadly part sinks by its own weight. It is plain that you had long had the poison prepared: you knew how to divide it. Even if one who gave it to a willing woman can be defended, can you, who made her willing? It was the kind of poison that, by its weight, sank to the bottom of the draught. This man drank as far as the poison, his wife drank the poison.

The other side. She loved her husband in peace, followed him in war, did not abandon him in his last counsel. O a woman worthy that I, innocent, should follow her! I waged civil war, I was proscribed, I went into exile; what can be added to these ills, except that I should drink poison and live? "It is poison," I said. Those who mean to give poison conceal it. Cato sold poison. Ask whether it was lawful for a proscribed man to buy what it was lawful for Cato to sell.

5. Iphicrates as defendant. Let one who has done violence in a trial be punished with death. Iphicrates, sent against the king of the Thracians, twice conquered in the line, struck a treaty with him and married his daughter. When he had returned to Athens and was pleading his cause, certain men in Thracian dress were seen, armed, around the court, and the defendant himself drew his sword. When the judges were summoned to give judgement, they openly cast votes of acquittal. He is accused of having done violence in the trial.

Not one of your judges but feared as though you were going to judge them. He came as advocate with his whole kingdom; he did not array his war with greater forces than his trial. Iphicrates, sheathe your sword; it is a trial. What have you to do with a sword? Surely those twice conquered must lay down their arms. What is this exchange against the nature of things — a wedding in war, a war in a trial?

The other side. I did no violence; for all the lawful forms were carried out: the accuser spoke in his place, the defendant answered in his; the trial was completed in all its parts. While the judges were casting their votes, I drew my sword, to kill myself if I were condemned. The judges cast their votes of acquittal openly, to return thanks to their general. The reason for the marriage was the advantage of the commonwealth. The soldier had rather often been beaten in an unlucky battle. The barbarians around the court were armed not for any service, but after their own custom. "What," he says, "can you complain of? That I brought you a hostage?"

6. The adulteress and poisoner. Let there be an action for poisoning. A certain man who had a wife and by her a marriageable daughter told his wife to whom he meant to give her in marriage. She said: "She will die sooner than marry that man." The girl died before her wedding day, with doubtful signs of indigestion and of poison. The father tortured a slave-girl; she said she knew nothing of poison, but knew of an adultery between her mistress and the man to whom he meant to give the daughter. He accuses his wife of poisoning and adultery.

"She will die" — I have the poisoner; "sooner than marry" — I have the adulteress. "She will die" — it was done; "sooner than marry" — it was done. The adultery I detected later than it was done, the poisoning before it was done. Two crimes I have brought before you, and two informers: one tells what has been done, the other even what is to come. To her son-in-law an adulteress, to her daughter a rival. How unhappy is the house in which adultery is the proof! I said, "He is honourable"; I said, "He is handsome"; while I praised the son-in-law, I recommended the adulterer. O how slow I am in my own misfortunes! The poisoning, even when foretold, I did not believe; the adultery I detected only in the poisoning. The wedding was turned into a funeral, the marriage-bed changed into a bier, the happy torches set beneath the pyre. The body is brought forth, rotting and swollen with poisons. What more do you ask? The signs agree with the words, the tortures with the signs. The deeds agree with your voice. "She will die before she marries" — it was done. We saw the flowing body, and in her corpse we believed the mother's words. I lost my son-in-law by adultery, my wife by parricide, my daughter by poisoning.

The other side. He has charged two most grievous crimes, adultery and poisoning: the adultery on a slave-girl's testimony, the poisoning not even on a slave-girl's. When she was indignant at not being consulted, words slipped from her — words of one who mourns her daughter no less than he does. But why did you say, "She will die sooner than marry that man"? Words slipped out, too little considered in grief. And very often divination is fortuitous.

7. The madman who gave up his wife to his son. Let there be an action for madness. A man who had two sons married a wife. One of the young men, when he was ill and at the last, the physicians said had a sickness of the mind. The father entered to his son with drawn sword, and asked him to tell him the cause. He said he was in love with his stepmother. The father gave up his wife to him. He is accused by the other son of madness.

Hear a new thing: a cruel brother, a merciful stepmother. I am mad, because by my kindness someone is well. I handed over my wife to him; but I had snatched her away. "I call to witness," he said, "the gods who watch over filial love: I began to love her before you married her." So you call it an injury, that you have a brother and have not a stepmother? I passed before this man's eyes with a blade; no one but a sick man wrested the sword from me. To a father who could not endure the danger of a dying son, pardon must be given in whatever deed.

The other side. One was cured by pandering, the other recovered by parricide. What? Do you not think that adultery, which is committed with the husband bringing it about? I do not know whether he married more madly, or kept her, or dismissed her, or gave her away. How mad is the man to whom adultery is reckoned as a kindness! The husband drew his sword, not to avenge adultery, but to bring it about. The brother ought rather to have died than to be healed disgracefully. For what if he had coveted his mother, his sister? Some remedies are graver than the dangers themselves. Everything was contrived between stepson and stepmother; a sickness was feigned, and a father mocked by the basest of mimes.

8. The verse of the Vestal Virgin. A Vestal Virgin wrote this verse: "Happy the wedded! May I die if marriage is not sweet." She is charged with unchastity. "Happy the wedded" — this is the word of one who longs for it; "may I perish if" — this is the word of one who affirms; "marriage is sweet" — either you swear from experience or you forswear from inexperience; neither befits a priestess. To you the magistrates lower their fasces, to you the consuls and praetors yield the road; are you a virgin for so paltry a reward? Let a priestess swear rarely, and never except by her own Vesta. "May I die" — has the eternal fire been put out? "May I die" — have you been approached about marriage? You at last, Vesta, I invoke, that you be as hostile to your priestess as you are hateful to her. Recite the verse, while I ask what kind it is. Would you write verse, would you soften words to your own measures, and break by melody the severity owed to the temple? But if you must needs praise marriage, tell of Lucretia, write of her death before you swear about your own. O you, worthy of every punishment, to whom anything is happier than the priesthood! "It is sweet" — how vivid a word, how sent up from the depths of the heart, not only of one who has experienced it but of one who has delighted in it. Even without defilement, she who longs for defilement is unchaste.

The other side. One verse is charged against her, and not even this one whole. "She ought not," he says, "to write verse." It is a great difference whether you rebuke or punish. No one can be condemned for unchastity but a woman whose body has been violated. What? Do you think that poets write what they feel? She lived modestly, with restraint; her dress was not too luxurious, her converse with men not too free; I confess to you her one crime: she has talent. Why should she not envy Cornelia? Why not the woman who bore Cato?

Outside. Varius Geminus said before Caesar: "Caesar, those who dare to speak before you are ignorant of your greatness; those who do not dare, of your humanity."