I have reread today — for the how manyeth time? — the words of Marcus Tullius Cicero. I found them in a dusty manuscript, kept in a leather chest that smells of mildew and old ink.
“Non viribus aut velocitate aut celeritate corporum res magnae geruntur, sed consilio, auctoritate, sententia.”
“It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgment.”
How few still believe this, here in Rome in our year 270. The city groans under its own weight: noise, shouting, the daily carnival of those who run, fight, cheat, or flee. The Forum is no longer a place of debate, but of bargaining. No one speaks of virtue unless it serves as a mask for some deceit.
Cicero was a man of words and ideas, yet he too was undone by the raw iron of politics. They cut off his head and hands, and his voice fell silent—yet the echo remains. I wonder, at times, if he truly believed in the power of reflection to the very end. Or if, facing death, he realized that Rome is not built on reason, but on fear of weakness.
—
Today, between two documents I had to copy for the praefectus urbi, I paused and looked through my narrow window toward the Tiber. The water flows as if it knows nothing of the many souls who look to it daily for answers. A boatman shouted at a slave, and the slave said nothing. I wondered: is his silence a sign of weakness, or a mark of character? Perhaps he knows, deep inside, what Cicero wrote with such clarity. That not strength nor swiftness will save him, but judgment. Or perhaps he is simply afraid. In Rome, it is difficult to tell the difference between virtue and fear.
I often feel torn between two worlds: the world of ideas, of those who still read, write, think—and the world of the others, those who live simply to survive. I understand both. Julia, if she were here, would tell me to come down from the clouds and buy more oil. But Julia is not here. She is in Campania, five years and counting. I wonder if she still believes anything I used to say.
—
In the scriptorium of the administration, I saw a new young scribe. His hands are quick, but his mind drifts easily to lighter things. When I mentioned Cicero, he chuckled and said those days were gone, that now one must be cunning, must know whom to flatter. I smiled, but something twisted inside me. Rome does not lack for hands—it lacks spines.
Sometimes I wonder if Cicero was wrong. That perhaps great things can no longer be born of reflection and judgment. Not in our age, where emperors change like seasons, and cities burn in provinces no one cares for anymore. And yet, I read him again, and I feel that he did not speak of Rome the city, but of Rome the idea. The idea of order, balance, of power born from thought.
—
Today, Saturn was heavy in my thoughts. The god of time, with his silent sickle, watches all our steps. I wonder how much longer this Rome will last. Not the Rome of marble, but the Rome of flesh and words. I have seen how the old are no longer heard, how tribunes are mocked, how senators sell favors. And still—a boy reads a passage from Cicero, an old man comments on it, a scribe like me copies it again, with round letters, onto a scroll. That is the Rome that does not die. The Rome of ideas.
I often think of Fausta. How she used to listen to me speak of philosophy, leaning against the wall behind the school. She would smile and say I was too serious for my age. Now I am older than I ever imagined, but Cicero’s words make me young again. Perhaps because I still hope the world can be thought—not just endured.
—
When my workday ended, I walked past a stone insula where laborers live. They shouted to each other, laughed, drank cheap wine, and played dice. I wondered: do these men not reflect? Do they lack judgment? Or perhaps they hide it beneath their sun-beaten skin and weariness? Maybe deep thinking is not the luxury of the idle, but the silent decision not to strike back, not to steal, not to betray. That is character. Often quiet, invisible—but real.
—
In my room, I lit the oil lamp. I watched the flame tremble and thought: if Rome were a flame, then each of us is a drop of oil. Some burn fast, others smolder. But without us, the light would die.
Perhaps the Rome of today is unworthy of Cicero. Perhaps I am too. But that is why I read him again. Because amid the noise, despite the decay, there is still hope in the idea that great things are not born of brute force, but of reflection, character, and sound judgment.
And if we can no longer change the world, perhaps we can still guard our soul. That may be the last form of freedom we have left.
Vivat Roma. Vale.