It seemed then quite clear that a friendship with Pompey need involve no wrong to the republic, and that an allegiance to Caesar implied no hostility to Pompey—­such, at that time, was their union.  But now, as you show and as I plainly see, there will be a duel to the death; and each, unless one of them is feigning, regards me as his.  Pompey has no doubt of it, for he knows that I approve of his political principles.  Moreover, I have a letter from each of them, arriving at the same time as yours, indicating that neither of them values anyone more than me.  What am I to do?

If the worst comes to the worst, I know what to do.  In the case of civil war I am clear that it is better to be conquered with the one than to conquer with the other.  But I am in doubt how to meet the questions which will be in active discussion when I arrive—­whether he may be a candidate in his absence from Rome, whether he must not dismiss his army, and so on.  When the president calls my name in the senate—­“Speak, Marcus Tullius!” am I to say, “Please wait until I have had a talk with Atticus”?

The time for hedging has passed.  Shall it be against Caesar?  What then becomes of our pledges to one another?  Or shall I change my political opinions?  I could not face Pompey, nor men and women—­you yourself would be the first to reproach me.  You may laugh at what I am going to say.  How I wish I were even now back in my province!  Though nothing could be more disagreeable.  By the way, I ought to tell you that all those virtues which adorned the early days of my government, which your letters praised to the skies, were very superficial.  How difficult a thing is virtue!

To L. Papirius Rome, B.C. 46

I am writing at dinner at the house of Volumnius; we lay down at three o’clock; your friends Atticus and Verrius are to my right and left.  Are you surprised that we pass the time of our bondage so gaily?  What else should I do?  Tell me, student of philosophy! shall I make myself miserable?  What good would it serve, or how long would it last?  But you say, “Spend your days in reading.”  As a matter of fact, I do nothing else; it’s my only way to keep alive.  But one cannot read all day; and when I have put away my books I don’t know any better way of spending the evening than at dinner.

I like dining out.  I like to talk without restraint, saying just what comes to my tongue, and laughing care and sorrow from my heart.  You are no more serious yourself.  I heard how you mocked a grave philosopher when he invited questions:  you said that the question that haunted your mornings was, “Where shall I dine to-day?” He thought, poor fool, that you were going to ask whether there was one heaven or many.

I give part of the day to reading or writing; then, not to shut myself up from my friends, I dine with them.  You need not be afraid of my coming; you will receive a guest of more humour than appetite.