It was on a little eyot formed by the river Reno, near Bologna, that Antony, young Caesar, and Lepidus (the nominal third in what is known as the Second Triumvirate) met to arrange among themselves the division of power, and what they held to be necessary, to the securing it for the future—­the proscription of their several enemies.  No private affections or interests were to be allowed to interfere with this merciless arrangement.  If Lepidus would give up his brother, Antony would surrender an obnoxious uncle.  Octavianus made a cheaper sacrifice in Cicero, whom Antony, we may be sure, with those terrible Philippics ringing in his ears, demanded with an eager vengeance.  All was soon amicably settled; the proscription-lists were made out, and the Triumvirate occupied Rome.

Cicero and his brother—­whose name was known to be also on the fatal roll—­heard of it while they were together at the Tusculan villa.  Both took immediate measures to escape.  But Quintus had to return to Rome to get money for their flight, and, as it would appear, to fetch his son.  The emissaries of the Triumvirate were sent to search the house:  the father had hid himself, but the son was seized, and refusing to give any information, was put to the torture.  His father heard his cries of agony, came forth from his hiding-place, and asked only to be put to death first.  The son in his turn made the same request, and the assassins were so far merciful that they killed both at once.

Cicero himself might yet have escaped, but for some thing of his old indecision.  He had gone on board a small vessel with the intention of joining Brutus in Macedonia, when he suddenly changed his mind, and insisted on being put on shore again.  He wandered about, half-resolving (for the third) time on suicide.  He would go to Rome, stab himself on the altar-hearth in young Caesar’s house, and call down the vengeance of heaven upon the traitor.  The accounts of these last hours of his life are, unfortunately, somewhat contradictory, and none of the authorities to be entirely depended on; Abeken has made a careful attempt to harmonise them, which it will be best here to follow.

Urged by the prayers of his slaves, the faithful adherents of a kind master, he once more embarked, and once more (Appian says, from sea-sickness, which he never could endure) landed near Caieta, where be had a seaside villa.  Either there, or, as other accounts say, at his house at Formiae, he laid himself down to pass the night, and wait for death.  “Let me die”, said he, “in my own country, which I have so often saved”.  But again the faithful slaves aroused him, forced him into a litter, and hurried him down through the woods to the sea-shore—­for the assassins were in hot pursuit of him.  They found his house shut up; but some traitor showed them a short cut by which to overtake the fugitive.  As he lay reading (it is said), even during these anxious moments, a play of his favourite Euripides,