Ninth Philippic
Philippica IX
Headnote
Delivered in the Senate on 4 February 43 BC, the day after the Eighth Philippic, the Ninth is a speech in an altogether different key: not invective but eulogy. The embassy Cicero had opposed in the Sixth and Seventh Philippics — three legates sent in early January to carry the Senate’s terms to Antony before Mutina — had come back with nothing but Antony’s defiance; and its senior member did not come back at all. Servius Sulpicius Rufus, consul of 51 BC and the most celebrated jurist of the age, had undertaken the winter journey already gravely ill, and died near Antony’s camp. On 4 February the consul Pansa proposed public honours for him and spoke at length in his praise. Cicero rises to second the motion — and to answer the one man who had spoken against its fullest form.
That man was Publius Servilius Vatia Isauricus, who held that the honour of a statue belonged only to an envoy killed by the sword while on embassy, and who proposed a public tomb but no statue. Cicero’s answer is the legal heart of the speech, and it is argued like the jurist it commemorates: our ancestors, he says, looked to the cause of death, not its manner. The man for whom the embassy itself proved fatal earned his monument as surely as one cut down by violence, for the point of the honour was to make men undertake dangerous embassies more boldly. He marshals the precedents — the four envoys whom Lars Tolumnius, king of Veii, slew at Fidenae, and Gnaeus Octavius, murdered at Laodicea on an embassy in which no danger had been foreseen, both honoured with statues on the Rostra — and turns the argument against Antony himself: the man who was the cause of death was the killer, so that Antony slew Sulpicius no less than Leptines slew Octavius. The statue, Cicero insists, will stand as a permanent witness that the war was grave enough to cost a legate his life, and an everlasting testimony to the embassy Antony spurned.
The speech is also an elegy for a friend. Cicero recalls Sulpicius’s reluctance, his pleading of ill health, the moment when — urged on by Pansa, and unwilling to set his own life above the Senate’s authority — he drew his son and Cicero aside and consented to go; his parting words, Cicero says, seemed an omen of his fate. There is even a connoisseur’s note in the honour proposed: recalling Sulpicius’s love of old Roman restraint and his scorn for the extravagance of the age, Cicero decrees a statue of bronze and on foot — pedestris — rather than the gilded equestrian kind first set up for Sulla, “as though by his own authority and will.” He keeps Servilius’s public tomb and adds the statue to it, against the rule that statues go to many and tombs to few. The speech closes, as the deliberative ones do, in a formal motion (§15–17): the bronze pedestrian statue on the Rostra, a reserved space of five feet for the family at the games, an inscription recording that he died for the commonwealth, a magnificent public funeral, and a public tomb thirty feet square in the Esquiline field for Sulpicius and his line. It is the gentlest speech of the series, and the only one given wholly to the dead.