## 1. Cicero's Life and Times



There are a number of good studies of Cicero's life (e.g.
Fuhrmann 1992, Rawson 1994, Tempest 2011); some background knowledge
is salient to an understanding of his philosophical outlook. As
already mentioned, Cicero lived through a turbulent historical period.
Under the strains of empire, the Roman republican system of government
had fractured, and was eventually to prove unsustainable. Cicero was
both witness to and participant in some of the events that hastened
the collapse of republican government and that ushered in, within
fifteen years or so of his death, the rule of Augustus, first of the
Roman emperors.



Cicero rose to the highest political office in the republic -
the consulship - in 63 BCE. His period as consul was both the
high-water mark of his political career and a fateful turning-point.
While consul, he put down the conspiracy against the republic led by
Catiline. But his actions led to his being exiled in 58; and, while he
was restored to Rome the following year through the influence of
Pompey, he could do little other than contemplate with horror the
deterioration of relations between Caesar and Pompey that led to civil
war and the ascendancy of Caesar to the dictatorship. Caesar's
assassination in 44 brought only brief respite. Cicero himself was put
to death on Mark Antony's orders in 43.


## 2. Philosophy and Roman Society



As a staunch republican himself, Cicero frequently despaired of the
state of the republic. Writing philosophy provided both consolation
and a resource that, at least in more hopeful moments, he believed
could help ameliorate the political crisis. One of the things that
makes Cicero an interesting philosophical figure is his conviction
that philosophy has the potential to change lives and make societies
better. This belief in philosophy's practical purpose explains
why much, though by no means all, of Cicero's philosophical
production has a broadly ethical or political orientation.



The social and political backdrop is important in another way too. One
of Cicero's purposes in writing philosophy is to bring the best
of the Greek philosophical inheritance to wider Roman attention. That
does not, however, mean that his works are simple philosophical
manuals to be absorbed uncritically by their readership. A striking
feature of Cicero's philosophical output is that it takes
seriously and critically the question of the relation between abstract
ideas, on the one hand, and the culture and tradition of particular
societies (most saliently, for him, Rome), on the other.



Indeed, Cicero treats this relation as bringing with it a set of
distinctly philosophical questions about, for example, the normative
weight to be assigned to the deliverances of rational theology as
against traditional religious practice (see section 7.3 below), or to
the precepts of an abstract ethical theory as against the
theory's liveability in a concrete society (section 7.2 below).
His discussions of the leading philosophical theories of his day tend
to be used not for the purpose of firm advocacy of one particular set
of doctrines or another, but to give his readers the tools to think
through positions for themselves. Cicero's project of
disseminating philosophy has the aim of inducing what he saw as the
properly philosophical approach, one that is critical and
open-minded.


## 3. Dialogue and the Sceptical Stance



His philosophical compositions bear out this approach in two important
and connected ways. Firstly, they are by and large written in dialogue
form (see Gorman 2005, Schofield 2008). His adoption of the form in
part reflects his admiration for Plato, whom he considered the
greatest of all philosophers. Now Cicero's relation to Plato is
a complex one (see Long 1995b, Hosle 2008, Bishop 2019 ch. 2),
and his use of the dialogue form differed from Plato's,
manifesting itself principally in opposed set speeches rather than
rapid back-and-forth exchanges, though the latter are not completely
absent from Cicero's work (and long speeches are common enough
in Plato). We find Cicero also invoking the (now lost) dialogues of
Aristotle and of the early Platonist philosopher Heraclides of Pontus
as influences on him. Still, his favouring of dialogue over straight
treatise shares the Platonic motive of engaging readers in active
philosophical enquiry.



The majority of Cicero's philosophical writings feature a
speaker or series of speakers setting out the views held on a core
topic (for example, the nature of the gods, or the best way to live)
by various philosophical schools, with a critique of those views
mounted after each exposition, often by Cicero himself. Thus, in terms
of their structure, his works lend themselves not to decisive
acceptance or rejection of a particular view, but to a setting out of
all sides of an argument so readers can make their own assessment.



This feature reflects, in turn, Cicero's allegiance to Academic
scepticism. Now the extent and nature of this allegiance is a matter
of debate (see Glucker 1988, Gorler 1995, Thorsrud 2012, Brittain
2016, Wynne 2018) but what matters for present purposes is that the
sceptical stance takes it as a mistake to believe that certainty is
possible. The most one can do is form a judgement that some particular
position is more or less plausible than another, such a judgement
itself being revisable in the light of further evidence or
argument.



The truly philosophical approach is thus one that refuses to take any
philosophical view as settled - including this very one (see
section 7.1 below). Cicero thereby sets himself against the approach
of the contemporary 'dogmatic' schools - in
particular, Epicureanism and Stoicism - where dogmatism refers
not to positions that are unargued for, but to doctrines regarded by
their advocates as settled truth. Cicero's stance is not one
that pits itself primarily against specific doctrines of these schools
- the sceptic is entitled to adopt any view as plausible.
Rather, what he opposes is a conception of intellectual endeavour as
capable of arriving at certainty. The best philosophy is one that
fosters critical enquiry; and the nature and role of philosophy must,
by the same token, itself be in the critical spotlight.


## 4. Philosophy and Oratory



Cicero's main philosophical production can be divided into two
chronological periods. The first, from around 54-51 BCE, sees
the writing of his two main works of political philosophy, the
*Republic* and the *Laws* (the latter apparently
unfinished), each loosely based on a Platonic archetype, together with
his great work on the nature and role of oratory, *On the
Orator*. The second period, during which he composed the greater
part of his philosophical oeuvre, occurred in an astonishing two-year
burst of creativity towards the end of his life, in 45 and 44.
Although Cicero's writings on oratory (he composed several works
on the topic) will not be discussed here, they should not be regarded
as entirely distinct from his philosophical writings. That is because
the relation between philosophy and oratory was of central importance
to him. While this might sound arcane to a modern ear, what it
encapsulated for Cicero was the vital question of how philosophy is
best communicated.



In the *Gorgias*, Plato had Socrates mount a passionate attack
on rhetoric, by contrast with philosophy, as concerned with mere
persuasion rather than truth. For Cicero, as probably the supreme
orator of his day, matters could not be that simple. The use of speech
to manipulate others for self-serving ends could not, of course, be
condoned. But the idea that pure reasoning, divorced from
communicative skill, was sufficient to win people round to philosophy
struck Cicero as, if anything, even more dangerously misguided. The
resources of oratory must be recruited to the vital enterprise of
disseminating philosophy to new audiences. Cicero often shows himself
acutely conscious of criticism that a practical Roman should so much
as attempt to write philosophy. By writing it in a way that was not
alienating to its potential audience, he could aspire to draw his
critics in despite themselves.


## 5. The First Period: Philosophical Politics


### 5.1 The *Republic* and *Laws*



It is perhaps no accident that Cicero's first two major
philosophical works should be in political philosophy, given both the
crisis faced by the republican system of government and the need to
produce work in a field that would be regarded as suitable for a Roman
statesman. But the *Republic* and *Laws* (in Latin
*De Re Publica* and *De Legibus* respectively) are in at
least one respect radical nonetheless: together with *On the
Orator*, they introduce the dialogue form into Latin literature.
And notwithstanding the influence of Plato, the two works can lay
claim to being among the most original parts of Cicero's
philosophy, since each deals to a substantial extent with the
government and institutions of a state of which Plato could have had
no inkling, namely Rome.



Both works are intensely Roman. The *Republic* takes as the
best kind of state one that, to a large extent, consists in the
traditional structures of the Roman republic. The *Laws*
considers the sort of laws that will best maintain or restore those
structures. To this extent, they challenge the idea, one that Cicero
saw reflected in the utopianism of Plato's *Republic*,
that political philosophy should proceed in isolation from
consideration of actual political structures and societies. Yet, in
ways that make their overall message far from straightforward, both
are deeply influenced by abstract theory as well, and by questions of
how theory, history and practical politics interact.


### 5.2 The *Republic*



In the *Republic*, a work which unfortunately has not come down
to us complete (none of its six books survive whole, with large
portions missing especially from the last four), Cicero stakes out his
position early with an attack on philosophers who argue that one
should refrain from public affairs - he means principally
Epicureans. The Stoics, in offering a more activist model, present the
alternative view. The Stoic philosopher Panaetius, together with the
Greek historian Polybius, is named in the main body of the dialogue as
having discussed political matters with one of the work's
principal speakers, Scipio (1.34); and the influence of Stoic
political thinking is evident in the idea that humans share with gods
dominion not just of the place in which they happen to live, but of
the Earth and indeed the whole universe (1.19). Yet this cosmopolitan
outlook in turn creates tension with the idea, also prominent in the
dialogue, of the specialness of Rome, and raises the question of
whether Roman exceptionalism can sit comfortably with a view of human
beings as citizens of the world.



It is noteworthy that, even before embarking on a discussion of the
nature of the state, Cicero is explicit in his preface (1.12) about
the need to justify participation in public affairs, a stance that
underlines his view that theories of good government are all very well
but may be idle unless one makes the case that engaging in the public
arena is the right thing to do. Yet, having commended the participant
over the theoretician, Cicero goes on to say that he will now appeal
to those who are moved by the authority of philosophers, and declares
that in their discussions of government such philosophers have
themselves discharged a public office.



The debate about the role of philosophy is reflected within the main
body of the dialogue as well, and here it becomes if anything clearer
that Cicero's purpose is not to play down philosophy but to play
up the practically oriented way of doing political philosophy that he
considers appropriate to the subject. At the same time, this enables
him to present his writing on the topic as genuine progress over his
Greek predecessors. It may, then, come as a surprise to find, in a
work of supposedly practical orientation, that prior to Scipio's
main exposition in Book 1 of the different types of political
constitution, Cicero depicts a rather lengthy discussion of a
cosmological event: the recent apparent sighting of a 'second
sun' in the sky (1.15).



Scipio, even though he will take the lead role in the discussion of
political theory, fulsomely praises the more abstract kinds of study
directed at the celestial realm (1.26-28); but he is persuaded
by Laelius, another participant, that it is of greater importance now
to address terrestrial issues, particularly regarding the best form of
government (1.30-34). The debate that Cicero lays out about the
investigation of the human versus the divine realm makes the case for
the study of both as having value, and intriguingly leaves open the
question of the relation between the two: Scipio speaks of how the
Earth pales into insignificance beside the heavens, and asserts that
there is a universal natural law that has authority over any civil
law, so that what has ultimate moral weight is the decree of the wise
person who understands the natural law, rather than that of the Roman
people (1.27). Similar principles are laid down at 3.33, anticipating
the fuller discussion in the *Laws*. These are pronouncements
with a strongly Stoic flavour; and when another participant, Philus,
speaks of the Stoic notion that gods and humans share the whole
universe as their homeland, he suggests that for that reason cosmology
might be relevant to politics in any case (1.19).



By the time that we turn to Scipio's exposition of the various
forms of government, it can be seen that Cicero has used the
flexibility of the dramatic dialogue to prime his reader to examine
the topic with a critical eye. Scipio's focus on Rome is a
response to the lack of practical awareness that he (or his author)
sees infecting Greek models. But if Stoic universalism is correct,
such focus on a particular concrete system seems itself to be headed
in the wrong direction. And if cosmology is more important than
politics, yet too important for politics to ignore, then an exposition
that sticks to the human realm - as Scipio's, as far as we
can tell, largely does - is missing something. Cicero thus
invites us, in the midst of a work on political theory, to consider
how small the human (and within that the Roman) domain is, a thought
reinforced in some complex ways in the dialogue's concluding
Dream of Scipio, perhaps the most famous excerpt in all of
Cicero's philosophy (its survival owed to its coming down to us
as part of a separate manuscript tradition). In thus giving the work
as a whole structural integrity (despite its, for us, truncated
condition), Cicero's framing challenges the reader to maintain a
critical perspective on the doing of political philosophy itself.


### 5.3 The *Laws*



In *Republic* 5, Scipio had affirmed that the political leader
requires knowledge of justice and of the laws and will have studied
their foundations. The discussion of natural law in *Laws* 1
offers an account of those foundations. The purpose of such an account
is to set the parameters within which more concrete laws must fall and
be judged. The natural law is god's law; it is also what human
beings who have perfected their reason would follow. Law is to be
identified with right reason (1.23), or more specifically with right
reason in the realm of what is commanded or forbidden (1.33, 1.42).
This, then, is a normative account: it tells us what law, properly
speaking, is; and that may be very different from the actual laws that
particular states have enacted.



Given the normative character of Cicero's enquiry, it is not
difficult to see why law should be identified with right reason.
Rationality, after all, is itself a normative concept. Not every piece
of thinking counts as rational, and rationality can be exercised
imperfectly and so, at least in principle, perfectly. If one reasons
correctly about the relevant matters in the case of what is just and
unjust, then it seems fair to conclude that one will enunciate
standards against which, for example, actual laws will be required to
measure up. Law in the normative sense is 'what distinguishes
just things from unjust' (2.13).



It is not as obvious why the concept of nature, or the natural, looms
large in Cicero's account of law. One of its main purposes is,
again, to stress that he is conducting a normative enquiry. We are, he
says, 'born for justice', and what is right is a matter
not of opinion but of nature (1.28). Here Cicero draws upon a
tradition, already going back at least as far as Plato, in which
nature stands in contrast with convention. What is merely a matter of
convention or opinion is not the same as what is really -
'by nature' - the case. Thus the fact that a certain
(human-made) law states that something is right or wrong does not mean
that its pronouncements are correct.



What is this nature that is thus contrasted with matters of opinion or
convention? It is, in the first instance, human nature, as witnessed
by Cicero's statement that 'we' are born for
justice. We all belong to the same species, and to that extent are all
alike (1.29), in particular in our possession of reason, which
distinguishes us from other creatures (1.30). This explains the sense
of mutual fellowship and union between human beings (1.28) and means
that we are formed by nature to share justice and impart it to all
(1.33). This does not mean that we necessarily do this. Nature is
itself a normative concept, so humans can fail to live up to their own
nature, corrupted by the effects of bad habit and opinion (1.29,
1.33). Nonetheless, Cicero argues, if one considers the endowments
that humans share, one will conclude that justice is the natural human
condition.



But nature also refers, compatibly, to the nature of the universe as a
whole, since on the Stoic theory that Cicero draws upon (a theory set
out more fully in Book 2 of Cicero's *On the Nature of the
Gods*, see esp. 2.73-90), the universe - 'all of
nature', as Cicero puts it - is governed by god (1.21).
God in turn exercises governing power through the activity of right
reason, which we humans, at least in our best condition, share with
god (1.23). Reason is thus natural, in that it underlies the workings
of the universe; and since we possess it too, as the divine element in
us, in expressing our human nature it expresses our kinship with the
gods as well. Hence Cicero can refer in Book 2 of the *Laws* to
the 'true and original law' as identified with the right
reason of god (2.10).



Cicero's thinking seems to be that to regard laws as no more
than human artefacts - that is, as not based in nature -
is to concede that reward and punishment are the only motivations for
obedience. But then it will be the rewards and punishments, not the
justice or injustice of the act in question, that will have normative
force. But if that is so, then if one calculates correctly that, say,
greater utility will arise from breaking than obeying a law, it seems
that one has no reason to obey it. What is needed, rather, is a
conception of justice as something to be sought, as Cicero puts it,
'for its own sake' (1.48). That is, we must think of what
is just as having an inherent normative force, to be pursued because
it is just. And that means, for Cicero, that justice must be based in
nature and not simply a matter of human convention.



Whether or not we find this stance convincing, there is a specific
theory of justice that Cicero appears to have in mind as the object of
his critique: the Epicurean theory. Epicurus regarded justice as
precisely a matter of social agreements concluded with the aim of
maximizing utility. One should further note that Cicero's friend
Atticus is, along with Cicero's brother Quintus, one of
Cicero's two main interlocutors in the dialogue, and that
Atticus is an adherent of Epicureanism. His presence seems to
emphasize that there is an alternative point of view that is not being
given the opportunity to defend itself. Strikingly, Cicero does not
even say that he thinks the Epicurean theory is wrong; rather, he bids
the Epicureans abstain from all matters of government, which they
neither know about nor have wished to know about (1.39). It is true
that the Epicureans, unlike the Stoics, generally maintained a
quietist outlook and believed that by and large one should not be
politically active. But they did have a specific theory of justice. So
Cicero seems a little high-handed in excluding them from a
conversation featuring that as one of its principal topics.



Epicureans are not the only ones whose views Cicero seems intent on
marginalizing in this context. Remarkably, he asks the adherents of
the New (that is, sceptical) Academy to 'be silent', since
their habit of attacking any doctrinal view will cause
'confusion' and result in the ruin of Cicero's
'elegantly arranged edifice' (1.39). We have indeed just
been reminded that Cicero himself is a follower of the sceptical
Academy, with Atticus' ironical comment that Cicero is of course
someone who does not follow his own judgement in debate but the
authority of others (1.36). Cicero replies that he indeed does not
always accept the authority of others but that he is here trying to
establish a foundation for states and cities (1.37).



Should we take Cicero at face value here? Although one can understand
that having to deal with opposing views may make it more difficult to
establish the kind of basis for systems of law and justice that he has
in mind, that could surely apply to any philosophical thesis and any
sort of opposition. One might even suppose that attacking an edifice,
however elegantly constructed, might lead to a stronger edifice being
built. Cicero in fact says that he would like to appease the sceptics
and does not dare drive them off (1.39). So why does Cicero attempt
just here to stifle debate? Why, in particular, does he draw attention
to the fact that that is what he is doing? He need not have mentioned
the sceptics, nor for that matter the Epicureans. He need not have
chosen Atticus as a participant whom he could then ask not to dispute
his basic premise.



Cicero clearly expects his readers to notice these moves. One might
say that to announce loudly that one is closing down debate is itself
to initiate a debate. Cicero thus uses the notion of uniformity of
outlook both to illustrate and critique a crucial feature of the
theory he is advocating. The idea of natural law is precisely the idea
that there is a universal set of normative principles of equal
applicability in all contexts. If that idea is correct, then there is
no room for divergence of opinion about what justice is. At the same
time, Cicero's dismissal of the Epicurean and sceptical
viewpoints reminds us that, in the real world as opposed to the ideal
one of perfected reason, there are competing and critical opinions,
and that the universalist theory is itself a product of a particular
philosophical school (Stoicism).



On the one hand, then, we have a vision of uniformity, representing a
kind of ideal endpoint in which all is organized and measured in
accordance with the same basic principles. On the other, we have
concrete and divergent voices that embody a range of perspectives and
show where we are now and perhaps - though the voices may change
- where we will be at any specific historical moment: at some
distance from an undisputed endpoint. In the very process of apparent
suppression of dissent, Cicero uses the resources of the dialogue form
to draw readers into critical participation in his enquiry.


## 6. The Second Period: An Encyclopedia of Philosophy



Cicero's second, and most intense, period of philosophical
production occurs during the last few years of his life, a period that
saw the dictatorship and then assassination of Julius Caesar. The
latter event caused Cicero's political stock to rise briefly
but, in the end, brought only futile hope of the restoration of
republican government. The political situation, combined with personal
tragedy - the death of his daughter Tullia in childbirth -
resulted in a remarkable bout of creativity during which Cicero
produced substantial works on a wide range of philosophical themes.
His ambition, as he puts it in his preface to *On the Nature of the
Gods* (1.7), was to compose nothing less than a comprehensive
treatment covering 'the whole of philosophy' - a
veritable encyclopedia of the subject.



For the purposes of this entry, a more selective approach is adopted.
Three late dialogues will be highlighted below, but the late period
also saw the composition of two works likely to be relatively familiar
to non-specialists: *On Duties* (*De Officiis*),
concerning practical conduct, and *Tusculan Disputations*, on
the theory of the emotions, together with a trio of works on mainly
Stoic themes: *On Fate* (*De Fato*), *On
Divination* (*De Divinatione*) and *Stoic Paradoxes*
(*Paradoxa Stoicorum*), as well as a pair on specific issues in
ethics: *On Old Age* (*De Senectute*) and *On
Friendship* (*De Amicitia*). In what follows, further works
from the period on each of three central topics - epistemology,
ethical theory and theology - are discussed, in order to offer a
representative illustration of the distinctiveness of Cicero's
approach as an Academic sceptic and writer of philosophical
dialogues.


### 6.1 Epistemology



Although it has come down to us in a rather misshapen state,
containing portions of two quite different editions of the work,
*On Academic Scepticism* (in Latin *Academica*) cannot
be passed over, since it presents an account of the epistemological
viewpoint of the sceptical Academy and so in effect serves as a
defence of the method that Cicero employs in much of his philosophical
writing. At the same time, Cicero does not present a one-sided
picture. In the segment sometimes known (after its leading character)
as the *Lucullus*, critique of the New, or sceptical, Academy
is mounted, with Cicero responding on behalf of the sceptic.



Against a position that denies that certainty is attainable, Lucullus
argues that intellectual enquiry, which aims at proof, will be
hamstrung, since proof requires certainty (2.26). Moreover, the
sceptic's refusal to allow that there can be
'cataleptic' impressions - the Stoic technical term
for impressions that can be grasped with certainty - will
subject the sceptic to the charge of inconsistency (cf. 2.44): the
sceptic holds that nothing can be grasped with certainty, but surely
the claim that 'nothing can be grasped with certainty'
must itself be graspable with certainty, or else the sceptic position
lacks firm foundation.



If the sceptics have their own counterpart of a criterion of truth, in
terms of the notion of plausibility, they must surely regard that
notion as beyond dispute if it is to play its allotted role (2.29).
Given the importance of correctly identifying the proper basis for
one's decisions and actions, it cannot for the sceptic be merely
plausible, but must be certain, that plausibility is the right
criterion. Sceptics are thus impaled on a dilemma: their system
undermines itself by being either inconsistent (if 'nothing can
be grasped' is graspable) or ineffectual (if it is not
graspable).



Lucullus continues to take aim at the notion of plausibility that
features as the sceptics' criterion for determining what we
accept and do (2.32); but he approaches it in a way that might seem to
beg the question, asking how the sceptic can maintain a criterion of
truth and falsehood if truth and falsehood are indistinguishable
(2.33). It seems as if the sceptic could reply that they do not in
fact have such a criterion. They do not, unlike their dogmatic
opponents, claim to pronounce one thing true, another false. What they
can do - what, if they are right, is the most one can do -
is identify one thing as plausible, another as implausible.



Lucullus has an interesting riposte to this, which involves
questioning the intelligibility of being able to determine what is
plausible and what is not without a criterion for determining what is
true and what is not. He points out that in rejecting the cataleptic
impression, the sceptic does not allow that there are impressions
distinctively marked out as truth-bearing. But if so, it follows that
there is no difference between true and false, in the sense that there
is nothing about a given impression that will mark it out as true
rather than false. So, says Lucullus, 'there will be no
criterion' (2.34). In other words, without a means of
determining which is true, no impression will be more deserving of
credence than any other.



Moreover, the notion of plausibility is, logically, tied to the notion
of truth: what is plausible is what 'resembles truth', in
Latin *veri simile*, the phrase Cicero uses as an alternative
for *probabile* to represent the concept of plausibility. If
something is plausible, then it is likely (though not certain) to be
true. But the sceptics by their own admission have no criterion for
determining what is true. Hence, they have no way of judging something
as likely to be true, since that presupposes a standard of truth
against which the purported plausibility would be judged.



Cicero responds by sketching a distinction, made by the sceptical
philosopher Clitomachus, of two ways in which one might withhold
assent: by refraining (a) from 'completely' assenting to
anything, and (b) from approving or disapproving. The wise sceptic
will never completely assent to any impression but will
'approve' those that are plausible and
'disapprove' those that are not. One will then be able to
act on the basis of those impressions one approves, without having
entirely assented to them (2.104).



The distinction has an air of sophistry about it, but it corresponds
reasonably well to the way we actually make decisions. Take a simple
case of my deciding whether to drink the tap water in my glass. It
looks and smells healthy, there seems nothing to suggest otherwise.
Nonetheless it might always be the case that it is unhealthy. I
'approve' the impression that it is healthy and drink the
water, while accepting that it cannot, strictly speaking, be certain
but at most plausible that the water is healthy; hence I do not
'completely' assent to the impression. If it turns out to
be unhealthy, my original impression was not mistaken, because I only
took it to be plausible, rather than true, that the water was healthy,
which is consistent with its being unhealthy. Thus the wise sceptic
can act on the basis of mere plausibility while in an intelligible
sense not getting things wrong.



Cicero suggests that even the Stoic sage will follow many things on
the basis of plausibility, if life is to be possible at all (2.99);
and his point, I take it, is supposed to apply not just in case it
turns out that there are no cataleptic impressions, but even in those
(presumably frequent) situations where such impressions, should they
exist, are not present. The wise still have to live. Indeed, if one
includes the crucial refinement made by the leading sceptical
philosopher Carneades as part of the plausibility criterion -
namely that the impression must be 'unimpeded' (2.104)
- then we seem to have a way of addressing Lucullus' point
that to have a notion of plausibility, or being likely to be true,
depends on one's having a prior notion of truth as such.



What does 'unimpeded' mean? Cicero spoke at 2.99 in terms
of there being nothing that presents itself in opposition to the
plausibility of the impression. Take the example of the water again.
It looks healthy in my glass, it comes from a generally reliable
source (my tap), there is nothing to indicate that it is not healthy
- nothing, therefore, 'impeding', or presenting
itself in opposition to, the plausibility of the impression that it is
healthy. Say, further, that I then hear on the radio a news report
that the water supply in my area has been contaminated. At this point
there is something opposing - undercutting, one might say
- the plausibility of the impression that the water is healthy
and I would not therefore drink it.



How does this tell against Lucullus' criticism? It suggests
that, rather than plausibility being dependent on truth, we might
build a notion of truth upon that of unimpeded plausibility. Take the
water case once again. What would it mean to be able to identify as
true the impression that 'this water is healthy'? It could
be argued that its truth would be a matter of there being nothing to
oppose the impression of plausibility - no
'defeaters', as it were. Say, then, that I turn on the
radio and hear no news reports pertaining to my water; but being the
ultra-cautious type I send the water to a lab for testing. It turns
out that the sample is laden with harmful microbes. There is thus
something opposing the plausibility of the impression that the water
is healthy.



It seems as if one could move towards a notion of truth by utilising
the condition that there is nothing opposing an initial impression
that things are a certain way - in the water case, no news
report, no adverse lab results, and so forth. This would still be a
notion of truth as something possessed fallibly. But the sceptic can
now speak of identifying some things as true (rather than as simply
plausible) and others as the contrary (2.111). Carneades at any rate
is not trying to provide an equivalent of the Stoic notion of
infallible truth-possession. His 'unimpeded' condition is
a refinement designed to give a criterion of reasonable action in the
absence of such a notion. What one can do, using Carneades'
method, is start with the impression of something's being the
case and approach, but never reach, a position of certainty. It is a
question of increasing the likelihood of correctness, not eliminating
completely the possibility of error.



If so, then Cicero can likewise reject Lucullus' assertion that
the sceptic must (inconsistently) hold their own theory of
plausibility as certain. He reiterates Carneades' view that the
theory, like any other claim, could at most have the status of
plausibility by the very terms of the theory (2.110). Seen in the
light of the 'unimpeded' condition, plausibility now looks
a more robust notion than it may have appeared, and so the resting of
one's whole procedure for decision and action on such a basis
looks correspondingly less fragile, though of course it is still
fallible. But scepticism deserves to be rejected not if it cannot
claim certainty for its guiding principle, but if it fails to apply to
itself the same standards of critical scrutiny that it does
elsewhere.



In perhaps Cicero's most technical work, he rarely allows us to
lose sight of what purpose the technicality serves. Lucullus had ended
his speech in critique of scepticism by addressing Cicero himself,
making what looks like a light-hearted jest that Cicero supports a
philosophy that keeps things in the dark despite his having brought
the most deeply hidden matters to light (2.62). He refers to the
uncovering by Cicero of Catiline's conspiracy, a plot whose
nature and significance remain a matter of debate, but whose thwarting
Cicero refers to often and takes to represent his having more or less
single-handedly saved the republic from catastrophe.



The punning contrast of obscurity and illumination that Lucullus
employs thus has a serious point, reminding us that what turns on the
sometimes abstruse epistemology is the vital practical question of
whether the sceptical viewpoint allows there to be a proper basis for
decision and action, especially on the political stage. Roman -
and of course not just Roman - politicians, including Cicero
himself and those whom he might hope to win over to the sceptical
cause, must at times take life-and-death decisions.



One of the most controversial aspects of Cicero's actions
against Catiline was the execution without trial of five of the
alleged co-conspirators, an act that ultimately led to Cicero's
exile. Is mere likelihood sufficient to justify the weight of
one's actions in such cases? Should not certainty be the only
proper basis? And is a criterion of plausibility even intelligible
without a notion of certainty? Whatever we think of Cicero's
answers to these questions, he leaves us in no doubt about why the
questions matter. Even at its most abstract, philosophy's
relation to the concrete and practical lies at the heart of his
enterprise.


### 6.2 Ethical Theory



Cicero's principal work on ethical theory, *On Ends*
o*r On Moral Ends* (in Latin *De Finibus*), offers
perhaps the most vivid example of his use of the sceptical method to
engage critically with questions about the nature of philosophy
itself. The title abbreviates a longer Latin title (*De Finibus
Bonorum et Malorum*) whose meaning - literally, *On Ends
of Goods and Evils* - raises puzzles of its own (on which
see Allen 2014), but refers, to simplify a little, to the question of
what are the highest goods, the attainment of which will bring about a
happy human life. Cicero considers three leading ethical theories of
his day: Epicureanism, which proposes that pleasure is the highest
good; Stoicism, which holds that virtue is not just the highest but
the only good; and the theory of the so-called Old Academy, which,
while including goods other than virtue within its conception of the
supreme good, ranks virtue higher than the rest. The structure of the
work is once again dialogical: for each theory, Cicero puts into the
mouth of a proponent an exposition of that theory, followed by a
critical response delivered by Cicero himself.



Cicero allows himself a head start on the exposition of Epicurean
hedonism by its proponent Torquatus with an initial, critical outline
of the theory in Book 1. At 1.23-24 he appeals to the behaviour
of two of Torquatus' ancestors, both stern military men who
treated their sons harshly (execution for cowardice and banishment for
taking bribes, respectively), behaviour which in Cicero's view
can only be explained by their having put the wider public interest
ahead of their own pleasure, contrary to Epicurean prescription.



Cicero chooses examples that, in combining military with family, evoke
core ancient Roman values. Torquatus then defends his ancestors'
behaviour in terms compatible with Epicurean theory. Focusing in
particular on the first Torquatus, he argues that he acted to uphold
his authority at a time of war, and therefore to enhance his own
security and so, ultimately, pleasure. More striking than the details
of Torquatus' explanation is that he feels the need to give it.
Why could he not have said that his ancestors were misguided and that
it took later generations to see the Epicurean light? Torquatus says
explicitly that he has no reason to fear that he cannot
'accommodate' his ancestors to the Epicurean view (1.34).
That he rises to Cicero's challenge in this way indicates that
ancestral behaviour has normative force for him: his ancestors must be
read as acting from (what he considers) the correct motives.



Interestingly, it appears that Torquatus' own father was an
Epicurean, whom Torquatus evidently admired. He reports with
enthusiasm his father's rebuttal of a Stoic argument against
hedonism (1.39); and, though this is not said explicitly, perhaps was
influenced by his father in adopting Epicureanism himself. Cicero thus
slyly reinforces the sense that ancestral piety is an ineliminable
part of the value system that Torquatus shares. He has induced
Torquatus to agree that it would be a *problem* for the
validity of Epicurean ethics if it did not sit comfortably with the
norms of Roman culture. The reader is thus encouraged to reflect on
whether, and if so how, the abstract and general features of an
ethical theory are to fit with outlooks and practices which, at least
in part, carry normative weight precisely because they represent
adherence to a particular tradition: a strategy that Cicero further
deploys in his more lengthy critique of Epicurean ethics in Book 2
(see Inwood 1990).



However difficult it might be for Torquatus himself, it seems open to
an Epicurean to respond that they have no obligation to simply accept
Roman values as authoritative. Epicurean theory is professedly a
radical one that sees most humans as having been corrupted by false
values. What, then, should we, as non-Roman readers, make of
Cicero's discussion? Even if we accepted that he demonstrates an
incompatibility between Roman and Epicurean values, it is not clear
that this should have any hold on us. We are surely both able and
entitled to assess the Epicurean case on its own merits. On the other
hand, we are no less the inheritors of cultural assumptions and
outlooks than the Romans, even if ours are different, and even if the
'we' implied are a great and diverse plurality.
Disentangling a thing's 'own merits' from the values
we bring to an encounter with it is neither a simple nor perhaps a
viable task.



This is not of course to say that our perspectives cannot be changed
by such philosophical encounters. Ethical theory, particularly of the
professedly radical sort that many ancient philosophers propounded,
would hardly have a point if that were the case; and Cicero's
project of communicating such theories would be equally unintelligible
in that light. But coming to a theory from outside of any perspective
*is* unintelligible. What Cicero's holding up of
Epicurean ethics against the canvas of Roman tradition conveys is a
point about how ethical theory in particular must conform, not so much
to specific values and traditions, as to certain basic elements of
what makes us human, without which it would be hard to discern how an
ethical theory could have purchase on us at all: above all, perhaps,
our status as social creatures shaped by our relation to specific
histories and traditions.



When it comes to Stoic theory, as laid out next by its spokesman Cato
the Younger, things look more promising. Cato was historically the
arch-defender of the traditional values of the Roman republic, while
Stoicism, with its emphasis on the supremacy of virtue and the value
of political participation, seems on the face of it to conform to the
Roman way much more readily than Epicureanism does. Nonetheless, the
stringency of Stoic theory, which holds that virtue is the only good
thing, and vice the only bad thing, and takes virtue not to admit of
degrees - without complete virtue one is not virtuous at all
- allows Cicero to mount his critique.



He invites us to consider whether the Stoics have a theory which, in
the terms they express it, can be proclaimed in those contexts that
define the sphere of public life for a Roman: courts, assembly, Senate
house, and battlefield. A lawyer, observes Cicero, could not credibly
conclude the case for the defence by declaring that the punishments of
exile and confiscation were not evils, but merely to be
'rejected' (the Stoic technical term for aversion toward
things that nonetheless cannot affect one's happiness); nor
could an orator announce, with Hannibal at the gates, that captivity,
enslavement, and death were no evils (4.22). Moreover, the Senate
would not be able to speak of Scipio Africanus' triumph as
having been won by his valour, since he did not meet the standards of
perfection required, in Stoic terms, for virtue (4.22).



This sort of objection seems especially damaging for the Stoics, with
their emphasis on agency and public participation. In effect Cicero
argues that the Stoics can have their integrity, or their theory, but
not both. They cannot express their doctrines about virtue in public
contexts without incurring ridicule or incomprehension. What they are
left with, according to Cicero, is hypocrisy: the use of ordinary
language in public, their own language in their writings (4.22).



Whether or not Cicero is fair to the detail of Stoic and Epicurean
ethics, his aim, as exemplified by the dialogical structure, is to
provoke debate. In particular, his readers are invited to consider to
what extent ethical theory must be answerable to social reality. Is
not an ethical theory that cannot be lived consistently thereby flawed
as a theory? In keeping with this question, Cicero moves next to a
theory that seems on the face of it rather more congenial to lived
experience, with an exposition by his interlocutor Piso of the ethics
of the Old Academy, broadly in line with what we now think of as
Aristotelian ethics.



Crucially, this theory recognises a plurality of goods. Piso holds
that virtue is sufficient for happiness but that there are also bodily
goods such as health and freedom from pain, the possession of which,
when added to virtue, will render the subject not just happy, as
virtue on its own does, but 'supremely happy' (5.71).
Cicero wonders whether treating such things as goods will not simply
mean adopting the view of Aristotle's distinguished successor
Theophrastus who, while providing a good deal of the resources for
Piso's account (5.12), also acts as something of an outlier for
having claimed that no life could be happy if caught up in pain or
misfortune (5.77).



Cicero asks Piso to consider whether, even if one were to allow that a
single misfortune might not affect the happiness of the virtuous, an
accumulation of them would: could someone wracked by pain, disease,
and other misfortunes plausibly be thought of as happy, let alone
happiest? (5.84). Shrewdly turning against him the Aristotelian method
of canvassing the views of both the many and the wise, to which Piso
had appealed at 5.63 in support of his view of the supremacy of
virtue, Cicero declares that ordinary folk would deny, and experts be
unsure, that someone being tortured could be happy (5.85). Piso
responds by giving a more worked-out 'lexical' account of
the relation between virtue and the other goods, so as to underpin his
view that virtue suffices for a happy (even if not for the happiest)
life: the smallest amount of excellence of character is ranked ahead
of all bodily goods; and no foul-but-pleasant action is better than
any honourable-but-painful one (5.93). Virtue can thus be equated with
happiness, while happiness can be enhanced through the addition of
other goods (5.95).



One might think, however, that this theoretical tightening comes at a
cost. The advantage of Piso's originally looser pluralism is
that it accords with the views about value of those who, as Cicero
puts it, have never come across a philosopher even in a painting
(5.80). Piso is allowed to reiterate the criticism - indicating
its importance for Cicero - that the Stoics adopt one set of
terms in real life and another in the lecture room (5.89). But when
Piso asks disapprovingly whether philosophers should speak in a
different way from human beings (5.89), it is hard to avoid the
thought that in his case the terminology of the street now dresses a
more rigid substance. In becoming full-fledged theory, his discourse
is in danger of losing what made it distinctive and attractive as an
account of the good human life.



Cicero does not tell us which, if any, of the ethical theories that he
discusses we should adopt. Matters are left explicitly unresolved at
the close of *On Ends* (5.95-6). Cicero, however, not
only offers us tools to think through the issues for ourselves, but in
so doing, utilises the series of expositions and critiques that he
lays out to raise pertinent questions, befitting the sceptical stance,
about the status of ethical theory itself.


### 6.3 Theology



Cicero's manifesto to write, in what proved to be his last
period of literary production, encyclopedically about philosophy, is
set out in the preface to his work of philosophical theology *On
the Nature of the Gods*. The daunting task he sets himself is
linked by him to the specific approach of the Academic sceptic. He
cites with approval the example of Carneades, who by challenging Stoic
theology aroused in people a desire to discover the truth (1.4).
Cicero will take this one step further and aspire to examine
critically all the relevant theories about the gods. His conception of
a worthy philosophical encyclopedia is therefore much more than a
dutiful trotting out of who thought what. His aim is to subject all
available views to scrutiny.



In Cicero's view this approach fits the questions of theology
particularly well, given the many and varied differences of opinion
that exist about the nature of the gods. It may be, he declares, that
none of the positions are correct; certainly, no more than one can be
(1.5). The reader is thus put on notice that any view might in
principle be overturned, and it is perhaps no surprise that Cicero
says he will need to respond to critics who claim that sceptical
philosophy, rather than providing illumination, 'floods things
with darkness' (1.6).



In response, he says that upon the verdict reached about the nature of
the gods will depend our assessment of the whole moral and material
apparatus of religion, including by implication traditional Roman
religion - indeed the examples he lists suggest that this is
primarily what he has in mind (1.14). When he speaks, at the very
start of the work, of its subject being one that was vital 'for
the regulation of religion' (1.1), one might easily read that
conservatively: we investigate the gods in order better to maintain
the religious status quo. Now, however, it seems that our
investigation is to be open, our sense of what (if any) is the correct
religion awaiting the outcome of enquiry into the nature of the
gods.



The greater part of Book 1 is given over to an exposition of Epicurean
theology by Cicero's spokesman Velleius, followed by a critique
from the work's representative of Academic scepticism, Cotta
- Cicero also portrays a younger version of himself as holding
mainly a listening brief at the discussion. Books 2 and 3 consist
respectively of exposition (by Balbus) and critique (by Cotta) of
Stoic theology, which, in stark contrast to the Epicurean version, has
god managing the workings of the universe down to the smallest
detail.



The Epicurean gods, on Velleius' telling, live a life of utter
tranquility. They have no business to attend to; they simply take
pleasure in their own wisdom and virtue, secure in the knowledge that
their bliss will be everlasting (1.51). Since they have no troubles,
they are not involved in the laborious business of creating or
governing the universe, which arises and is sustained by the
clustering of atoms in the void; they likewise have no concern with
the travails of human life (1.52-54). This does not, however,
mean that they are not rightly objects of piety and reverence: we
worship the sublimity of their nature (1.56).



We can discern a coherent, if hardly uncontroversial, theological
account here. Having previously criticised his opponents for not
setting out a clear roster of divine attributes, Velleius is at pains
to do that himself. The gods are, in a nutshell, immortal, beautiful
and happy, with the corollaries of happiness meaning that they are
virtuous and wise as well. Happiness is inconsistent with making or
having trouble, so god is completely and everlastingly tranquil and at
rest, enjoying the bliss of that state. Underlying this account is
what one might call a negative principle: god must not exhibit any
weakness or imperfection. If we now consider the maxim of Epicurus
that Velleius cites about the blessed and eternal, its unfolding of
what such a state implies is framed entirely negatively: it does not
have troubles or make trouble for others, nor is it in the grip of
anger or partiality since each is a sign of weakness (1.45). We might
agree that the concept of god has to be that of a perfect being. And
conceiving of perfection in terms of a lack of negative qualities is
one way to substantiate what perfection might mean.



The Epicurean viewpoint also has implications for how we are to
consider the relation between god and religion. Velleius'
insistence on an anthropomorphic conception of god (1.46-8) is,
in part, motivated by a desire to do justice to the traditional Greek
picture of the gods - and, for that matter, the traditional
Roman one, which shared an anthropomorphic conception with, and was
deeply influenced by, the Greek inheritance. Equally, however,
Velleius takes aim at traditional poetic representations of the gods
as badly behaved humans on a larger scale. There is, in a correct
conception of divinity, no place for war, strife, lust, anger or other
violent emotions (1.42). And Velleius has little time for ordinary
people's views about the gods, which he dismisses as
'mired in the greatest inconsistency through their ignorance of
the truth' (1.43).



Cicero's agile use of the dialogue form is manifest in
Cotta's response. He picks up on an aspect of the Epicurean
method as Velleius had described it, namely that we must infer the
existence of the gods from the fact that everyone has a conception (if
often a distorted conception) that the gods exist. Cotta is happy for
present purposes to grant the existence of god, while registering his
dissatisfaction with both the idea that the belief is universally
held, and the notion that, if it were, this would justify inferring
its truth.



However, Cotta also says that while it might be difficult to deny the
existence of the gods in a public assembly, it should be easy to do so
in the sort of meeting they are currently having (1.61). He later adds
the thesis that anthropomorphic gods were either thought up by
philosophers to encourage ordinary people to turn from vice to worship
or were a product of a superstition that considered that the worship
of concrete images allowed access to the gods themselves (1.77). He
then presses the idea that the non-interventionist gods of the
Epicureans are fatal to religion (1.116-7, 1.121), while
characterising under the same heading, as 'utterly destructive
of religion', those who claim that the notion of immortal gods
is a fiction invented by the wise to lead people unsusceptible to
reason to do, through religion, their duty (1.118). Cotta does not say
that this analysis of the origin of the gods is incorrect; rather, he
implies that its public dissemination would undermine the very aim
that the analysis posits as an explanation.



We are back to the question of the relation between one's theory
and one's public pronouncements. On this occasion, Cotta's
own stance may seem both cynical and hypocritical: to maintain social
order one must suppress one's own views, while reserving
frankness for private gatherings of the philosophically minded. Yet
here the formal difference between Cicero the author and Cotta the
character is important. If, within the dramatic setting of *On the
Nature of the Gods*, the gathering is indeed as Cotta describes,
its embedding in a written work that Cicero intends to be read more
widely blurs the line between private and public on which the charge
of hypocrisy rests. If Cotta can be convicted of hypocrisy, it is less
clear that Cicero is open to the same charge. He has let the cat out
of the bag, and in so doing raised the vital question, for any reader,
of the extent to which unrestricted frankness of speech can co-exist
with the maintenance of social order.



The Stoic theology expounded next by Balbus seems less immediately
vulnerable to these practical concerns; here there is a parallel with
the respective treatments of the schools' ethical theories in
*On Ends*. Indeed, while Velleius relied on a relatively
technical and abstract approach in his exposition of the Epicurean
view, Balbus offers in Stoicism a theology that seems targeted rather
specifically at a Roman audience, and this in two distinct ways.
First, the less technical presentation encourages readers who are
unwilling or unable to enter the more tangled thickets of
philosophical theory to engage with the basic ideas. Second, it
promises to appeal to a Roman sense of specialness and pride in their
nation by portraying the gods themselves as certifying that attitude
through the interest they take in the wellbeing of Rome.



Thus, having separated out 'our [Roman] people' as bearers
of the belief in gods' existence, Balbus proceeds to declare
that the ever-increasing strength (as he sees it) of religious belief
is no accident given the way the gods have concretely manifested their
power. He then cites examples, from both distant and more recent Roman
military history, of gods seen fighting on the side of Rome, or acting
as messengers of Roman victory (2.6). He follows this up with tales of
how divine premonitions were sent by the gods to warn Rome away from
impending disaster, with dire consequences when they were ignored
(2.7-8).



In fact, Balbus' lengthy speech both begins and ends with the
placing of Rome at the forefront of divine providence. Towards the
close of his speech, having argued for the thesis that the care of the
gods is, to be sure, directed at the whole human race (2.164), he then
gradually zooms in, first to the specific regions of the world, with
Europe listed first; then to particular cities, with Rome listed
first; and finally to individuals, all of whom happen to be Romans who
achieved significant military success (2.165), though there is a nod
to Greece and the Homeric heroes to bring up the rear.



Hence, in terms of the structure of his speech, one of the chief
points of theological doctrine that distinguishes the Stoic view from
the Epicurean - namely that the gods are concerned with human
wellbeing and actively promote it - becomes, in Balbus'
hands, the notion that this providential outlook has Rome not as its
exclusive but certainly as its primary focus. On the face of it, this
seems like a shrewd strategy: a Roman audience is, perhaps, more
likely to be won over by an account that shows the gods as
Rome's best friend than by one that shuns any notion of divine
favour.



Yet there is also, from the point of view of the dramatic context,
something peculiar about this approach. Balbus, it is true, is
conversing with a group of staunch Romans. But they are also Romans
whose philosophical sophistication has been emphasised. Is recounting
tales of divine support for the Roman enterprise really the best way
to persuade such an audience of the truth of one's philosophical
position? The short answer, of course, is that Cicero's intended
audience is wider and no doubt on average less philosophically
sophisticated than the interlocutors at the scene. But there is a bit
more going on than this.



In Book 1 Velleius' lucidity of exposition was pointedly
contrasted by Cotta with more typical Epicurean obscurity (notably in
Epicurus himself) in a way that seemed to warn that change of style
does not necessarily leave substance untouched. Balbus in turn speaks
of the advantages of his own full and rich style over the more
compressed argumentative method found in the Stoic theoreticians, in
particular Stoicism's founder Zeno of Citium. But he does so in
a way calculated by Cicero to raise our suspicions: my style of
presentation, says Balbus, flows like a river; and just as flowing
rivers avoid being polluted much better than do enclosed pools, so too
my stream of eloquence will dilute a critic's protestations,
while a closely reasoned argument cannot so easily protect itself
(2.20).



This is surely intended by Cicero to seem disquieting. If arguments
need a cloak of rhetorical eloquence to save them from refutation,
then the ideas in support of which those arguments are advanced might,
on reflection, appear less, not more, convincing. Balbus then gives a
brief list of some of Zeno's succinct deductive arguments in
favour of the universe being intelligent, wise, happy and eternal, and
therefore divine (2.21). So even as Balbus tells us that a more
flowing presentation has a better chance of evading the
'calumnies' of the Academic critics (2.20), we as readers
are offered the chance by Cicero to exercise our critical judgement on
some concrete arguments, while reflecting, in equally critical vein,
on the issue of how philosophy can be communicated without either the
alienation of excessive technicality or the distortion of an overly
smooth rhetoric.



The issue is then shown to have particular pertinence when religion is
to the forefront. In his response to Balbus, Cotta, who also held the
Roman office of priest, picks up on Balbus' plea, at the end of
Book 2, that Cotta support Stoic doctrine, by asserting that by this
was no doubt meant that he should uphold the ancestral beliefs about
the gods and about religious practice - and, he adds, no
discourse will ever turn him away from such beliefs (3.5). As a Roman
aristocrat of distinguished ancestry and as a priest, it behooves
Cotta to accept ancestral precedent even without rational argument;
but, since Balbus is a philosopher, the latter ought to give such
argument in defence of his claims (3.6). For Cotta, ancestral
authority suffices for his belief that the gods exist (3.7, 3.9),
whereas Balbus, since he 'despises authority', must fight
using reason alone. So, in responding to him, Cotta will pitch his own
reason against Balbus' (3.9).



It seems rather alarming that Cotta the avowed sceptic should tell us
that he accepts positions on authority rather than through reason and
imply that he (unlike Balbus) is no philosopher. One has some sympathy
with Balbus' riposte that, if Cotta is already convinced that
the gods exist, why should he want anything from him? (3.7). Of
course, Cotta as a proponent of scepticism is prepared to use the
weapons of reason against a philosopher. But one suspects that there
is more to his disclaimers than a sly false modesty designed to
provoke Balbus. We might think that appeal to authority is, in the
religious case, very much to the point.



Religions are not free-floating products of reason. They are based on
tradition and the establishment of authority. Tradition of course is
itself a product of evolution over time. But once something can be
talked of as a religion, it already has in place structures and a
history that can be seen to be reasonably deep-rooted and which,
although it can evolve, must retain a sense of connection with those
roots. In the religious context, tradition rather than reason is the
principal authority, whether that be located in founding figures or
documents, in time-honoured ceremonies and rituals, or in leaders who
can claim to inherit the mantle of authority via their own devotion to
the tradition - in the Roman context, the high priests whom
Cotta affirms that he defers to on religious matters, rather than
Stoic theorists (3.5).



Cotta has put his finger on something important about the role of
authority in religion. If one calls the authority of tradition into
question, then one risks having no religion left. And if one of the
purposes of religion is, from a practical point of view - both
in the Roman context and surely more widely - the promotion of a
sense of social cohesion and communal identity, then to challenge
tradition is to threaten those objectives. So Cotta's remarks on
authority are not an evasion of Balbus' closing challenge, but
an acknowledgement of what it means to have a religious commitment in
the first place. Cotta's position here has plausibly been seen
(Wynne 2019, 167) as an inspiration for fideism, the view that faith
or tradition is a justificatory source of religious belief independent
of reason.



We might nonetheless wonder whether Cotta can compartmentalise things
so straightforwardly as to be governed by tradition from the point of
view of his religious and Roman identity, and by reason when it comes
to philosophical discourse. Here Cotta's implication that he is
not a philosopher perhaps recognises something crucial about the
nature of reason. The problem is not exactly that one might have
different approaches in different contexts; in principle, that might
be a perfectly sensible way to proceed. It is, rather, that if one
demonstrates by reason that, for example, the gods do not exist, then
the gods do not exist. Reason is not a compartment in which one can
store a certain set of beliefs or conclusions that need not carry over
to other areas of one's life. It is an integral part of the
claim of reason that its claim is a universal one.



The tension between reason and tradition is not, then, to be resolved
simply by carving out, for example, separate spaces for religion on
the one hand and philosophy on the other. At the same time religion
itself has something important to tell us about the nature of belief.
When Cotta scoffs at Balbus' assertion, from his main speech,
that the tales of gods appearing to us in human form provide evidence
of their existence, Balbus responds by saying that surely ancient
authority must carry some weight with Cotta. To this Cotta replies,
along previous lines, that Balbus is offering 'hearsay when what
I ask for is reason' (3.13). Balbus, as before, owes Cotta a
rational defence of Stoic claims even if Cotta's own beliefs do
not, and are apparently not required to, rest on such a defence.



This contrast between beliefs based on hearsay and on rational
justification invites us to consider what it would be like if the
latter were given the unrestricted scope that it seems to demand.
Cotta's hiving off to the realm of the philosopher the task of
giving rational explanations suggests that the role of reason might,
in fact, have its limits. If, for example, rational justification were
the only acceptable basis for holding a belief, it is difficult to
imagine that one would hold many, or any, beliefs at all. Certainly,
many if not most of our beliefs are ones that we simply find ourselves
with - acquired on the authority of 'hearsay',
whether that be parents, friends, books, teachers, religious leaders,
public figures, or any other source that may not necessarily have
offered a strict rational justification for claims that we come to
believe.



Now the beliefs that we do come to hold can then be subject to
rational scrutiny; this notion is at the core of the sceptical
approach that Cotta, and of course Cicero himself, espouse. But to
make sense even of this it seems that we have to take some beliefs as
given in order to find a perspective from which to rationally assess
others. A project in which all one's beliefs are simultaneously
subject to the test of rational justification is incoherent. And from
a practical point of view, if we only acted on the basis of those
beliefs that had been subject to, and survived, rational scrutiny, we
would scarcely act at all.



If so, then it is not simply a case of religion deferring to reason.
Beliefs we hold without the legitimation of reason have a necessary
place. The upshot seems to be that religious beliefs, insofar as they
either are not or cannot be subject to rational defence, are more
representative than one might have supposed of the beliefs we hold
more generally. In this regard, *On the Nature of the Gods* is
not uncharacteristic of Cicero's whole approach to philosophy:
he uses his characters' debates both to advertise the virtues of
rational enquiry, and to suggest that those virtues reach right the
way up, as perhaps they should, to the status of rational enquiry
itself.


## 7. Cicero and Bernard Williams



There is no space here to explore in any detail the question of
Cicero's later reception. The influence of his philosophical
approach on his great eighteenth-century successor, David Hume,
particularly in matters of theology and religion, is, however,
well-documented (see e.g. Fosl 1994, Stuart-Buttle 2020). So it seems
appropriate instead to juxtapose that approach, albeit briefly, with
the work of one of the most noted Anglophone philosophers of the
twentieth century, Bernard Williams. Insofar as there are discernible
points of contact between the two thinkers, readers may be in a better
position to 'place' Cicero's philosophical project
which, in its context of Roman politics and Hellenistic philosophical
debate, is liable to appear a little recondite to contemporary
eyes.



Like Williams, then, Cicero engages deeply with his philosophical
predecessors not principally as a historical exercise but as a
creative way of doing, and communicating, philosophy. Like Williams,
he is concerned to explore the scope and limits of philosophical
theory, especially ethical theory, in relation to the character of
lived human experience. Both thinkers take the view that theory tends
to fall short in accounting for how one should live in practical
contexts and for the place of integrity in an agent's life. Each
combines a belief in the power of philosophy to illuminate with a
marked scepticism about some of the claims that philosophy makes for
itself. Not unconnectedly, the two thinkers show great care in the way
they write philosophy; both evince a distaste for technicality for its
own sake.



It is an irony in the history of philosophy that Williams himself,
during a discussion of ancient scepticism, refers to Cicero, in
passing, as a 'third-rate' thinker (2006, 33). If the
affinities with Williams sketched here are anywhere near the mark,
readers may be motivated to explore, by engaging with Cicero's
philosophical work themselves, whether that verdict is entirely
just.