In C. Verrem

O miserable and bitter spectacle! that the glory of the city and the name of the Roman people should be a laughingstock; that in the face of all that body of inhabitants and all that multitude of people, a pirate in a piratical galley should celebrate a triumph in the harbour of Syracuse over a fleet of the Roman people, while the oars of the pirates were actually besprinkling the eyes of that most worthless and cowardly praetor. After the pirates had left the harbour, not because of any alarm, but because they were weary of staying there, these men began to inquire the cause of so great a disaster. All began to say, and to argue openly, that it was by no means strange, that when the soldiers and the crews had been dismissed, and the rest had been destroyed by want and famine, while the praetor was spending all his time in drinking with his women, such a disgrace and calamity should have fallen upon them.

And all the reproaches which they heaped upon him, all the infamy that they attributed to him, was confirmed by the statements of those men who had been appointed by their own cities to command their ships; the rest of whom had fled to Syracuse after the loss of the fleet. Each of them stated how many men they knew had been discharged out of their respective ships. The matter was clear, and his avarice was proved not only by arguments, but also by undeniable witnesses. The man is informed that nothing is done in the forum and in the assembly all that day, except putting questions to the naval captains how the fleet was lost. That they made answer, and informed every one that it was owing to the discharge of the rowers, the want of food of the rest, the cowardice and desertion of Cleomenes. And when he heard this, he began to form this design. He had long since made up his mind that a prosecution would be instituted against him, long before this happened, as you have heard him say himself at the former pleading. He saw that if those naval captains were produced as witnesses against him, he should not be able to stand against so serious an accusation. He forms at first a plan, foolish indeed, but still merciful.

He orders Cleomenes and the naval captains to be summoned before him. They come. He accuses them of having held this language about himself; he begs them to cease from holding it; and begs every one there to say that he had had in his ship as large a crew as he ought to have had, and that none had been discharged. They promise him to do whatever he wished. He does not delay. He immediately summons his friends. He then asks of all the captains separately how many sailors each had had on board his ship. Each of them answers as he had been enjoined to. He makes an entry of their answers in his journal. He seals it up, prudent man that he is, with the seals of his friends; in order forsooth, to use this evidence against this charge, if ever it should be necessary.

I imagine that senseless man must have been laughed at by his own counselors, and warned that these documents would do him no good; that if the charge were made, there would be even more suspicion owing to these extraordinary precautions of the praetor. He had already behaved with such folly in many cases, as even publicly to order whatever he pleased to be expunged out of, or entered in the records of different cities. All which things he now finds out are of no use to him, since he is convicted by documents, and witnesses, and authorities which are all undeniable. When he sees that their confession, and all the evidence which he has manufactured, and his journals, will be of no use to him, he then adopts the design, not of a worthless praetor, (for even that might have been endured,) but an inhuman and senseless tyrant. He determines, that if he wishes to palliate that accusation, (for he did not suppose that he could get rid of it altogether,) all the naval captains, the witnesses of his wickedness, must be put to death.

The next consideration was,—“What am I to do with Cleomenes? Can I put those men to death whom I placed under his command, and spare him whom I placed in command and authority over them? Can I punish those men who followed Cleomenes, and pardon Cleomenes who bade them fly with him, and follow him? Can I be severe to those men who had vessels not only devoid of crews, but devoid of decks, and be merciful to him who was the only man who had a decked ship, and whose ship, too, was not stripped bare like those of the others?” Cleomenes must die too. What signify his promises? what do the curses that he will heap on him? what do the pledges of friendship and mutual embraces? what does that comradeship in the service, of a woman on that most luxurious sea-shore signify? It was utterly impossible that Cleomenes could be spared. He summons Cleomenes.

He tells him that he has made up his mind to execute all the naval captains; that considerations of his own personal danger required such a step. “I will spare you alone, and I will endure the blame of all that disaster myself, and all possible reproaches for my inconsistency, rather than act cruelly to you on the one hand, or, on the other hand, leave so many and such important witnesses against me in safety and in life.” Cleomenes thanks him: approves of his intention; and says that that is what must be done. But he reminds him, of what he had forgotten, that it will not he possible for him to put Phalargus the Centuripan, one of the naval captains, to death, because he had been with him himself in the Centuripan quadrireme. What, then, is he to do? Shall that man, of such a city as that, a most noble youth, be left to be a witness? At present, says Cleomenes, for it must be so; but afterwards we will take care that it shall be put out of his power to injure us.

After all this was settled and determined, Verres immediately advances from his praetorian house, inflamed with wickedness, frenzy, and cruelty. He comes into the forum. He orders the naval captains to be summoned. They immediately come with all speed, as men who were afraid of nothing, and suspected nothing. He orders those unhappy and innocent men to be loaded with chains. They began to invoke the good faith of the praetor, and to ask why he did so? Then he says that this is the reason,—because they had betrayed the fleet to the pirates. There is a great outcry, and great astonishment on the part of the people, that there should be so much impudence and audacity in the man as to attribute to others the origin of a calamity which had happened entirely owing to his own avarice; or to bring against others a charge of treason, when he himself was thought to be a partner of the pirates; and lastly, they marveled at this charge not being originated till fifteen days after the fleet had been lost.

While these things were happening, inquiry was made where Cleomenes was: not that any one thought him, such as he was, worthy of any punishment for that disaster; for what could Cleomenes have done, (for it is not in my nature to accuse any one falsely,)—what, I say, could Cleomenes have done of any consequence, when his ships had been dismantled by the avarice of Verres? And they see him sitting by the side of the praetor, and whispering familiarly in his ear, as he was accustomed to do. But then it did seem a most scandalous thing to every one, that most honourable men, chosen by their own cities, should be put in chains and in prison, but that Cleomenes, on account of his partnership with him in debauchery and infamy, should be the praetor's most familiar friend.

However, an accuser is produced against them, a certain Naevius Turpio, who, when Caius Sacerdos was praetor, had been convicted of an assault; a very suitable tool for the audacity of Verres; a man whom he had frequently employed in matters connected with the tenths, in capital prosecutions, and in every sort of false accusation, as a scout and emissary. The parents and relations of these unfortunate young men came to Syracuse, being aroused by the sudden news of this misfortune. They see their children loaded with chains, bearing on their necks and shoulders the punishment due to the avarice of Verres. They come forward, they defend them, they raise an outcry; they implore your good faith which at no time and no place had ever any existence. The father of one came forward, Dexis the Tyndaritan; a man of the noblest family, connected by ties of hospitality with you yourself, at whose house you had been, whom you had called your friend. When you saw him, a man of such high rank in such distress could not his tears, could not his old age could not the claims of hospitality and the name of friend recall you back from your wickedness to some degree of humanity?

But why do I speak of the claims of hospitality with reference to so inhuman a monster? He who entered Sthenius of Thermae, his own connection, whose house, while received in it in hospitality, he had plundered and stripped, in the list of criminals in his defence, and who, without allowing him to make any defence, condemned him to death; are we now to expect the claims and duties of hospitality from him? Are we dealing with a cruel man or with a savage and inhuman monster? Could not the tears of a father for the danger of his innocent son move you? As you had left your father at home, and kept your son with you, did neither your son who was present remind you of the affection of children, nor your father who was absent call to your recollection the indulgence of a father?

Your friend Aristeus, the son of Dexion, was in chains. Why was this? He had betrayed the fleet. For what bribe? He had deserted the army. What had Cleomenes done? He had done nothing at all. Yet you had presented him with a golden crown for his valour. He had discharged the sailors. But you had received from them all the price of their discharge. Another father, from another district, was Eubulida of Herlita: a man of great reputation in his city, and of high birth; who, because he had injured Cleomenes in defending his son, had been left nearly destitute. But what was there which any one could say or allege in his defence? They are not allowed to name Cleomenes. But the cause compels them to do so. You shall die if you do name him, (for he never threatened any one with trifling punishment.) But there were no rowers. What! are you accusing the praetor? Break his neck. If one is not allowed to name either the praetor, or the rival of the praetor, when the whole case turns on the conduct of these two men, what is to be done?