For P. Sulla (86-90)

Wherefore I call you, O gods of my country and of my household, to witness,—you who preside over this city and this empire,—you who have preserved this empire, and these our liberties, and the Roman people,—you who by your divine assistance protected these houses and temples when I was consul,—that I with a free and honest heart am defending the cause of Publius Sulla; that no crime has been concealed by me knowingly, that no wickedness undertaken against the general safety has been kept back or defended by me. I, when consul, found out nothing about this man, I suspected nothing, I heard of nothing.

Therefore I, the same person who have seemed to be vehement against some men, inexorable towards the rest of the conspirators, (I paid my country what I owed seemed to be vehement against some men, inexorable towards I heard of nothing. Therefore I, the same person who have seemed to be vehement against some men, inexorable towards the rest of the conspirators, (I paid my country what I owed her; what I am now doing is due to my own invariable habits and natural disposition,) am as merciful, O judges, as you yourselves. I am as gentle as the most soft-hearted among you. As far as I was vehement in union with you, I did nothing except what I was compelled to do: I came to the assistance of the republic when in great danger; I raised my sinking country; influenced by pity for the whole body of citizens, we were then as severe as was necessary. The safety of all men would have been lost for ever in one night, if that severity had not been exercised; but as I was led on to the punishment of wicked men by my attachment to the republic, so now I am led to secure the safety of the innocent by my own inclination.

I see, O judges, that in this Publius Sulla there is nothing worthy of hatred, and many circumstances deserving our pity. For he does not now, O judges, flee to you as a suppliant for the sake of warding off calamity from himself, but to prevent his whole family and name from being branded with the stigma of nefarious baseness. For as for himself, even if he be acquitted by your decision, what honours has he, what comfort has he for the rest of his life, in which he can find delight or enjoyment? His house, I suppose, will be adorned; the images of his ancestors will be displayed; he himself will resume his ornaments and his usual dress. All these things, O judges, are lost to him; all the insignia and ornaments of his family, and his name, and his honour, were lost by the calamity of that one decision. But he is anxious not to be called the destroyer, the betrayer, the enemy of his country; he is fearful of leaving such disgrace to a family of such renown; he is anxious that this unhappy child may not be called the son of a conspirator, a criminal and a traitor. He fears for this boy, who is much dearer to him than his own life, anxious, though he cannot leave him the undiminished inheritance of his honours, at all events not to leave him the undying recollection of his infamy.

This little child entreats you, O judges, to allow him occasionally to congratulate his father, if not with his fortunes unimpaired, at least to congratulate him in his affliction. The roads to the courts of justice and to the forum are better known to that unhappy boy, than the roads to his playground or to his school. I am contending now, O judges, not for the life of Publius Sulla, but for his burial. His life was taken from him at the former trial; we are now striving to prevent his body from being cast out. For what has he left which need detain him in this life? or what is there to make any one think such an existence life at all?

It would be becoming for even you yourself, O Torquatus, to be by this time satisfied with the miseries of my client. Although you had taken nothing from Sulla except the consulship, yet you ought to be content with that for it was a contest for honour, and not enmity, which originally induced you to take up this cause. But now that, together with his honour, everything else has been taken from him,—now that he is desolate, crushed by this miserable and grievous fortune, what is there which you can wish for more? Do you wish to deprive him of the enjoyment of the light of day, full as it is to him of tears and grief, in which he now lives amid the greatest grief and torment? He would gladly give it up, if you would release him from the foul imputation of this most odious crime. Do you seek to banish him as an enemy, when, if you were really hard-hearted, you would derive greater enjoyment from seeing his miseries than from hearing of them?