Terentia, Tullia and Publilia: The Women in Cicero’s Family. By SUSAN 
TREGGIARI. Women of the Ancient World. London and New York: Routledge, 
2007. Pp. xxii + 228. Paper, $34.95. ISBN 978–0–415–35179–9.

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Most of the source materials we would like to have about women in the 
ancient world, unfortunately, do not exist. Our view of Cicero’s two wives 
and daughter, like our view of most people in the late Roman Republic, is 
filtered through the distorting lens of the great orator’s egotism. Susan 
Treggiari (T.) has nevertheless made a laudable effort to reconstruct these 
women’s lives, fishing through his copious correspondence for clues.

After an overview of the social, historical and political situation in 
Cicero’s Rome, T. embarks on a detailed, mainly chronological narrative of 
his life, interweaving information about his wives and daughter when it 
exists and speculating when it is absent. The elderly statesman’s teenaged 
second wife Publilia remains little more than a footnote (the marriage was 
over in a few months). His first wife Terentia, on the other hand, not only 
appears sporadically throughout Cicero’s correspondence (their marriage 
lasted over 30 years), but was also the recipient of 24 extant letters, the 
richest cache of non-poetic spousal letters to survive from antiquity. His 
daughter Tullia is mentioned frequently and affectionately, and her death 
in her early 30s was the greatest grief of Cicero’s personal life. The 
sources on two of the book’s three titular women, then, however patchy, are 
among the most extensive on any women from ancient Rome.

The social historian must squeeze as much as possible out of scanty 
evidence and be especially alert to implication and nuance. When T. 
performs this sort of analysis, her observations are keen. For instance, 
that Cicero includes a Greek word in a letter to Terentia says much about 
her literary education; that his curt, trivial letters to her shortly 
before their divorce survive at all suggests that she preserved them and 
therefore “had some regard for Cicero’s writings” (p. 157). Probably T.’s 
most elaborate analysis is of Cicero’s description of a quarrel between 
Quintus (Cicero’s brother) and Pomponia (Quintus’ wife and Atticus’ 
sister), whose jealousy of Quintus’ freedman Statius flares up in her pout 
“I myself am a guest here.” As T. notes (p. 81), the letter not only shows 
the “storminess of the marriage,” but “is also significant for suggesting 
points of tension in any upper-class marriage: the division of 
responsibilities; the lack of privacy in a slave household; the separations 
imposed by a husband’s career; wives’ possible jealousy of trusted slaves 
and freedmen; wives’ need to be supreme at least in household management 
(the ‘last straw’ as well as the pretext for Pomponia’s outburst).”

Elsewhere, however, sources ripe for analysis are embedded with little 
comment in lists of facts. One example (p. 78): “Cicero was looking after 
some piece of business for Pilia and expected that this would win Tullia’s 
approval (A 4.16/89.4, Rome, c. 1 July 54). He kept quiet at a trial 
because his daughter was worried that if he spoke he would offend Clodius. 
She was unwell. He made the effort to be in Rome to attend the theatre, 
where he was cheered. Again, we do not know if Terentia went too [endnote, 
p. 187: A 4.15/90.4, 6, Rome, 27 July 54].” [[1]] The Latin is in fact far 
richer than T.’s summary would suggest. “About Pilia’s matter” (de re 
Piliae), Cicero declares, in eo me etiam Tulliae meae venditabo. The verb 
venditare, literally “to seek to sell” (OLD 1.a), here meaning “to seek to 
recommend oneself (to), pay court (to)” (2.b), yet also used “(w. personal 
obj., w. ref. to prostitution)” (1.b), is surely an interesting enough 
locution to merit comment; the word vividly conveys both Cicero’s affection 
and his humorous inversion of gender and power roles in dealing with “my 
Tullia.” Similarly, explaining why he held his tongue at the trial, Cicero 
writes, verita est enim pusilla, quae nunc laborat, ne animum Publi 
offenderem. Here pusilla, the feminine substantive of an adjective meaning 
“[v]ery small in size, tiny, wee” (OLD 1.a), is a remarkable title for a 
woman in her 20s (showing Cicero’s humor? condescension? affection? ironic 
self-awareness?). This reader’s imagination, at least, needs such concrete 
tidbits to chew on. Unanswerable questions about who did or did not 
accompany Cicero on his various travels, like the many speculations 
beginning “We can imagine,” “We can hope,” or “We do not know,” simply do 
not stick.

The book’s intended audience is also somewhat unclear. The density of 
details about Cicero’s life will be daunting to the non-specialist, as in 
this breathless travelogue (p. 77): “After the dinner at Crassipes’ house 
on 8 April, Cicero went on a trip, via a friend’s house at Anagnia and on 
to Quintus’ villa at Laterium, then to Arpinum for five days, then his 
villa at Pompeii, and a brief stop at Cumae on the way back. He planned to 
reach Rome on 6 May. He does not say whether Terentia or Tullia accompanied 
him, but it seems likely that neither did, since he was travelling fast to 
check properties.” Such minutiae will be of interest mainly to hard-core 
Cicero enthusiasts or those seeking to solve a particular puzzle. Yet 
though the “General index” and “Index of persons and Gods” [capitalized 
sic!] provide some assistance (along with a brief chronology, table of 
ages, family tree, map and bibliography), the absence of an Index Locorum 
severely limits the book’s usefulness as a scholarly resource. A list of 
all the references to Terentia and Tullia, or the complete set of letters 
to Terentia (about ten pages), would have been immensely helpful. Instead, 
both the “general” and the “serious” reader must search the entire book to 
see which snippets T. has chosen to include.

As T. admits in her Preface (pp. xi–xii), “In attempting to write their 
lives, I have fallen between two stools. I want to set out the evidence so 
that readers can make up their own minds and I want to see things from the 
women’s point of view. I have veered towards the former, so that Cicero, 
who gives us the evidence, at times usurps centre-stage.” Readers endowed 
with patience and love of Cicero may enjoy this journey through his life, 
even if the lives of his women remain largely in the subjunctive.

JULIA D. HEJDUK 
Baylor University


[[1]] Endnotes in scholarly books are an abomination for which there is no 
excuse in the age of computer typesetting. Would that all publishers might 
extend their authors—and readers—the courtesy of footnotes!



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