Excellence Unleashed: Machiavelli's Critique of Xenophon and the Moral Foundation of Politics

“When it comes to the qualities characteristic of contemporary academic writing, lucidity is in the underrepresented minority. Paul J. Rasmussen’s prose exemplifies this virtue as it explores two authors who delight us even as they quicken our thoughts. His crisp formulations make familiar points seem new, and he then goes beyond them by establishing such new connections as the relationship between Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon and his critique of Christianity. This tour de force is accurately described by its own title.” —WAYNE AMBLER, director of the Herbst Program of Humanities at the University of Colorado at Boulder

What is Machiavelli’s place in the history of political thought? Did he seek to revive the civic virtues espoused by ancient Greek and Roman political theorists, or was he an intellectual rebel whose radical critique of the classical philosophic tradition made him a harbinger of the modern era? Almost every significant book on Machiavelli since the beginning of the twentieth century has addressed the question of his relation to classical thought in one form or another. Yet there has never been a comprehensive study of the relationship between Machiavelli and Xenophon, the classical political theorist whose shrewd analysis of effective politics comes closest to Machiavelli’s. Excellence Unleashed is a detailed comparison of Machiavelli and Xenophon’s political philosophy, focusing on Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus and Hiero or On Tyranny, and Machiavelli’s The Prince and Discourses on Livy. This study examines a number of major themes essential to both writers: the moral and political requirements of healthy republics; imperial expansion; the relationship between human nature, politics, and virtue; the role of religion in politics; the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate rule; and the influence of philosophy on politics. By elucidating the remarkable scope, depth, and subtlety of the debate between these two great thinkers, this book offers a fresh perspective on the philosophic and political significance of Machiavelli’s proto-modern break from the classical tradition. PAUL J. RASMUSSEN holds a Ph.D. in political theory from the University of Toronto. He has taught at Baruch College, the University of Michigan–Dearborn, and California State University–San Bernardino. He is currently working on a book about the history of patriotism.

EXCELLENCE UNLEASHED

“Excellence Unleashed is a fine comparison of Machiavelli and his favorite classical author, Xenophon, that is long overdue. Paul J. Rasmussen accompanies his careful analysis with useful strictures and shrewd insights.” —HARVEY C. MANSFIELD, professor of government at Harvard University

RASMUSSEN

PO LI TI CAL THE O R Y • PHI LO SO PHY

EXCELLENCE UNLEASHED PAUL J. RASMUSSEN MACHIAVELLI’S CRITIQUE OF XENOPHON AND THE MORAL FOUNDATION OF POLITICS

For orders and information please contact the publisher LEXINGTON BOOKS A division of Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200 Lanham, Maryland 20706 1-800-462-6420 www.lexingtonbooks.com

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Excellence Unleashed

Excellence Unleashed Machiavelli’s Critique of Xenophon and the Moral Foundation of Politics

Paul J. Rasmussen

LEXINGTON BOOKS A division of ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD PUBLISHERS, INC. Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

LEXINGTON BOOKS A division of Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200 Lanham, MD 20706 Estover Road Plymouth PL6 7PY United Kingdom Copyright © 2009 by Lexington Books All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rasmussen, Paul J., 1971– Excellence unleashed : Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon and the moral foundation of politics / Paul J. Rasmussen. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references (p. ). ISBN-13: 978-0-7391-2824-4 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-7391-2824-8 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-7391-3311-8 (electronic) ISBN-10: 0-7391-3311-X (electronic) 1. Political ethics—History. 2. Machiavelli, Niccolò, 1469–1527. 3. Xenophon. I. Title. JA79.R37 2009 172—dc22 2008039310 Printed in the United States of America

⬁™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

To the memory of my father, Poul Jorgen Rasmussen, who believed in the power of education above all else



Contents

Part One

Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction

xi

Republics and Tyrants

Chapter 1

Xenophon’s Persian Republic

Chapter 2

Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny: Machiavelli’s Unconventional Republicanism

15

The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero

33

Chapter 3 Part Two

3

Princes and Philosophers

Chapter 4

The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics

51

Chapter 5

Cyrus’ Socratic Education

81

Chapter 6

Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule

99

Chapter 7

Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince

113

Conclusion: The Philosopher and Politics

131

References

137

Index

145

About the Author

149 vii



Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to my teachers, Thomas Pangle and Clifford Orwin at the University of Toronto, and Nathan Tarcov at the University of Chicago. Walter Newell, Ronald Beiner, and an anonymous reviewer provided valuable commentary on previous drafts of this project. I would also like to thank Joseph Parry, Melissa Wilks, and Lynda Phung at Lexington Books. The Olin Foundation, the Earhart Foundation, the Bradley Foundation, and the University of Toronto all provided me with support through various phases of this work. Finally, I must thank my wife Claire Buchanan for her undying support and immeasurable patience.

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In recent years, due in large part to the work of J. G. A. Pocock, Quentin Skinner, and others affiliated with the “Cambridge School,” Machiavelli has come to be seen as a valuable resource for strengthening the moral and political foundations of modern republican society. He is considered an ally especially to communitarian political theorists attempting to redress the moral malaise of contemporary liberalism—the unfortunate consequence of the liberal ethic that frees the individual (in the name of autonomy, personal fulfillment, and toleration) from all ties of solidarity and the duties of responsible citizenship.1 Pocock, Skinner, and the scholars they have influenced argue that Machiavelli is a pivotal member of a venerable classical republican tradition that begins with Aristotle and stretches to the American Founding. The fundamental principle of this “civic republican” or “civic humanist” tradition is that human excellence consists in the vita activa of a dutiful citizen of a thriving republic.2 Machiavelli is praised for his inspiring articulation of the civic greatness possible in a free republic, and for his defense of the political virtues essential to maintaining this freedom. At the core of Machiavelli’s thought, asserts Skinner, is the traditional belief that “unless each citizen behaves with virtu, and in consequence places the good of his community above all private ambitions and factional allegiances, the goal of civic grandezza can never be achieved” (1990, 138; 1981, 64). Machiavelli’s republican teaching is also respected for its focus on promoting and maintaining the civic humanist ethos in the less-than-ideal conditions of actual political communities. According to Pocock, this pragmatism is most evident

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in Machiavelli’s “exaltation of the citizen militia” and “militarization of citizenship” (1975, 213, 201, 90). Pocock suggests that Machiavelli’s influence on the American Founding, especially the statesmanship of Jefferson, demonstrates the potency of his vigorous republicanism; even the Second Amendment to the American Constitution reflects Machiavelli’s pragmatic vision of the civic spirit necessary to protect a nation against the dangers of political instability. “The Second Amendment . . . apparently drafted to reassure men’s minds against the fact that the federal government would maintain something in the nature of a professional army affirms the relation between a popular militia and popular freedom in language directly descended from that of Machiavelli, which remains a potent ritual utterance to this day in the United States” (1975, 258).3 This interpretation of Machiavelli’s political teaching, with its emphasis on civic responsibility, poses an important challenge to the dominant liberal paradigm that grounds our society in the “natural rights” liberalism of Hobbes and Locke.4 And if this assessment of Machiavelli and his influence is correct, it suggests that Machiavelli may indeed be uniquely suited to helping contemporary political theorists craft a public philosophy that recaptures the public-minded citizenship of the classical republican tradition in a way that effectively addresses the ills specific to modern society.5 But how traditional is Machiavelli’s republicanism? Does Machiavelli really believe that government exists for the purpose of promoting the moral and political excellence of citizens as citizens? The answer to these questions has a direct bearing on Machiavelli’s suitability as a guide for cultivating the healthy republican politics championed by Pocock, Skinner, and their followers. We are justified in asking these questions because, as these scholars themselves acknowledge, there is a certain novelty to Machiavelli’s thought that distinguishes him from other writers of the classical republican tradition. At a minimum, they recognize that the context in which he wrote—the modern Christian world as opposed to the ancient pagan one—lends a unique character and significance to his work.6 Machiavelli’s work deserves attention if for no other reason than that it raises the question whether and how ancient republican virtue can be cultivated in the postclassical world. Even if they disagree about the nature of Machiavelli’s novelty, most scholars affirm that the singularity of Machiavelli’s thought is inextricably linked to his answer to the more comprehensive question of the necessary relationship between virtue and politics.7 Thus, any inquiry into the public philosophy Machiavelli might help us cultivate is inseparable from the larger question of Machiavelli’s novelty vis-à-vis classical notions of virtue.

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How do we discover this novelty? There is widespread agreement among those who place Machiavelli in the civic republican tradition, and indeed among most scholars, that we cannot understand Machiavelli’s thought by looking at his writings alone. To understand his work, or the work of any other great thinker, for that matter, we must understand the context in which he wrote. But what is that context, how do we identify it, and how much weight do we give it in trying to assess what Machiavelli himself thought? Pocock has developed what is perhaps the most influential contextual approach to the study of intellectual history. He states that to understand the political thinkers of a given era, it first is necessary to identify the “conceptual vocabularies” that were available to those writing about “political systems considered in their particularity” (1975, 57). We then must consider the “limitations and implications” of these conceptual systems and “the processes by which [they], their uses and implications, changed over time.” Similarly, Quentin Skinner argues that political life “sets the main problems for the political theorist, causing a certain range of issues to appear problematic, and a corresponding range of questions to become the leading subjects of debate” (1978, xi). In debating these questions, however, the theorist is limited by the “normative vocabulary available at any given time.” This vocabulary determines “the ways in which particular questions come to be singled out and discussed.” The “nature and limits” of this vocabulary, in turn, are determined by “earlier writings and inherited assumptions about political society.” For both Pocock and Skinner, therefore, Machiavelli’s thought can be understood only as a “product of the ideas and conceptual vocabularies which were available to the Renaissance mind” (Pocock 1975, 3). The reigning intellectual paradigm of Machiavelli’s day was the tradition of civic humanism derived from ancient Roman, earlier Renaissance, and Aristotelian sources. Their conclusion is that we must begin our study of Machiavelli by looking at his writings in the context of this republican tradition as it was generally understood by sixteenth-century Florentine intellectuals (Skinner 1992, 9–13).8 Such studies are indeed helpful in describing the general intellectual climate of Machiavelli’s Florence. But determining the concerns and assumptions of Machiavelli’s contemporaries is not adequate for identifying the most important aspects of his own thought.9 This is not to suggest that Machiavelli was unconcerned with the writers, ideas, and political problems that Pocock and Skinner identify as having shaped Florentine thought. Given Machiavelli’s extensive discussion of Roman and Italian history, his attention to the relative merits of republics and principalities, and his active involvement in

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Florentine politics, it is clear that he shared many of the same political concerns as his fellow citizens, and that he understood their intellectual debt to the civic humanist tradition. Nevertheless, while focusing on Machiavelli’s response to these concerns and writers, most scholars who employ this contextual approach have neglected one of the more significant aspects of Machiavelli’s thought. They have not considered sufficiently the extent to which Machiavelli understood his writings to be a correction of the classical, especially Greek, political-philosophic understanding of the necessary relationship between politics and virtue. We can make this assertion because most contemporary scholars have largely ignored the importance of Xenophon in Machiavelli’s writings.10 As the most political of Socrates’ students, Xenophon joins Machiavelli in celebrating the excellence and vigor of great rulers. As reflected in the formal separation of his “political” and “Socratic” writings, Xenophon distinguishes political action from philosophical speculation in a way that focuses our attention on the possibility of political excellence as a noble end in itself.11 Further, both Xenophon and Machiavelli consider at length whether humanity is not best served when ambitious rulers are allowed to exercise freely their political talents on the greatest scale—even or especially when they exceed conventional notions of moral and political virtue. Machiavelli learned much from Xenophon’s keen insights into the harsh realities of political success. But Machiavelli is ultimately critical of Xenophon. And his critique is significant because it is based on a number of fundamental, if often subtle, theoretical disagreements with Xenophon about human nature and the moral foundations of healthy politics. These differences are reflected in the distinction between Machiavelli’s radical questioning of traditional morality and the ultimately conservative tone of Xenophon’s writings. Though fully aware that political success and moral virtue do not necessarily coincide, Xenophon, unlike Machiavelli, continues to endorse the conventional notions of virtue that manifest themselves in the laws and institutions of traditional republican regimes. The general plan of this study is, first, to uncover the reasons behind the moral qualifications Xenophon places on the pursuit of political greatness; and second, to articulate Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon’s position as it emerges from his brief but pregnant references to his predecessor. My conclusions are based on a close reading of Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus (the Cyropaedia) and Hiero or On Tyranny, and Machiavelli’s The Prince and Discourses on Livy. This book will show that Machiavelli understood his critique of Xenophon’s more conservative political teaching to be an essential part of

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his larger project to supplant both classical and, as will be seen, Christian notions of moral and political virtue with a shrewdly pragmatic, morally neutral understanding of the political excellence necessary for human flourishing.

Reading Machiavelli and Xenophon Machiavelli indicates his respect for Xenophon by citing him more than any other classical writer, with the obvious exception of Livy. In The Prince and Discourses on the First Ten Books of Titus Livy, Machiavelli mentions Xenophon eight times. In contrast, Machiavelli mentions Cicero and Sallust, whom Skinner (1990, 122–23) names as the primary sources of Machiavelli’s humanist beliefs, only three times each in the Discourses, and not once in The Prince. What is more, Machiavelli makes no explicit references to such leading Renaissance humanists as Leonardo Bruni, Poggio Bracciolini, and Coluccio Salutati, who are also considered by Skinner (1978, 152) and Pocock (1975, 64–67, 90) to be important influences on Machiavelli’s thought. Machiavelli was certainly familiar with these Roman and Renaissance writers, but we cannot ignore the fact that he chooses to cite not them but Xenophon in his most important political works.12 Xenophon’s importance is further confirmed by the context of Machiavelli’s references to him. Most of these references occur in discussions of the relationship between the requirements of political rule and conventional notions of moral and political virtue, the most important theme in Machiavelli’s writings. And in Machiavelli’s most famous discussion of this theme (Prince 14–15), Xenophon is the only writer Machiavelli mentions by name, even though he acknowledges that “many have written about this” (Prince 15).13 Machiavelli singles out Xenophon’s Cyropaedia for further study and encourages the reader to compare his work to Xenophon’s. He implies that studying Xenophon’s account of the relationship between politics and virtue will help to clarify his own position, especially his claim that in writing on this subject he “[d]eparts from the orders of others.” Xenophon holds the key to understanding both the veracity of Machiavelli’s claim regarding the novelty of his thought and the grounds on which it is based. This is complicated, however, by the fact that, considered in light of each other, Machiavelli’s references in The Prince and Discourses on Livy to Xenophon’s Cyropaedia paint a seemingly inconsistent, even paradoxical, account of Xenophon’s Cyrus. On the one hand, Xenophon’s Cyrus represents for Machiavelli the classic example of a prince who won glory and the love of his subjects through his great moral virtue (Prince 14, Discourses III 20, 22.4–5). On the other hand, Machiavelli claims that the Cyropaedia also reveals a

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darker side to Cyrus’ rule: in Discourses II 13.1, Machiavelli argues that Xenophon teaches the necessity of fraud through his description of Cyrus’ campaign against Armenia and systematic deception of his maternal uncle. Xenophon in his life of Cyrus shows this necessity to deceive, considering how the first expedition he has Cyrus make against the king of Armenia is full of fraud; and how with deception and not with force he makes him seize his kingdom. And he does not conclude otherwise from this action than that it is necessary for a prince who wishes to do great things to learn to deceive. Besides this he makes him deceive Cyaxares, king of the Medes, his maternal uncle in several modes; without which fraud he shows that Cyrus would not have attained that greatness he came to.

Does, then, Machiavelli see Xenophon’s Cyrus as a model of moral virtue, or the sort of ruler who is willing to use fraud, even against his own family? And why is there such a disparity between these two accounts? But here arises another difficulty: of those contemporary scholars who acknowledge Machiavelli’s interest in Xenophon, the majority reject Machiavelli’s suggestion that Xenophon’s Cyrus succeeded through the systematic use of fraud. They dismiss or downplay the significance of Discourses II 13.1. Hulliung, for example, argues that Machiavelli “misread” Xenophon’s account, and that the “actual text of the Cyropaedia limits trickery to military strategy and maintains that the best way to seem to be something is to be it” (1983, 197).14 This reflects a widely held belief among classicists that Xenophon’s Cyropaedia is a portrait of moral and political greatness, intended to demonstrate the necessity of cultivating virtue in the political ruler. Scholars point to the laudatory tenor of Xenophon’s work and argue that he does not say anything about Cyrus that does not befit a man of great virtue. Many even argue that Xenophon went to great lengths to ensure that his would be a flattering portrait of Cyrus. Whereas Machiavelli is generally known for his unflinching look at the harsh reality of political life—especially the nefarious deeds of effective leaders—Xenophon is commonly believed to have freely altered historical facts that did not enhance the image of Cyrus. Hence, Xenophon’s portrait of Cyrus is frequently considered to be less a candid study of the historical Cyrus than an idealized composite of Xenophon’s own cherished moral, political, and religious ideals.15 Those who believe that the Cyropaedia is simply a catalogue of Cyrus’ great virtue and achievements, however, do not appreciate the subtlety of Xenophon’s writing. Too often, scholars mistake Xenophon’s understated style for lack of analytical sophistication and his moral tone for simple moralism.16 Influenced by this low estimation of Xenophon’s intellectual powers

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and abilities as a writer, most scholars have failed to appreciate the significance of a number of passages in the Cyropaedia that suggest Cyrus’ rule was not altogether just.17 For one thing, Machiavelli’s description of Cyrus’ use of deception is consistent with Xenophon’s account in the Cyropaedia. From the beginning of the joint Persian-Median offensive against the Assyrians, Cyrus deliberately and systematically deceives and manipulates his uncle to usurp his authority and gain control over his soldiers and resources. Cyrus convinces Cyaxares to bear much of the financial costs of his campaign by exploiting his uncle’s fear about the inadequacy of the Persian army (II 1.2–7). He undermines Cyaxares’ conservative military strategy by shaming him into lending him troops (IV 1.13–24), keeps him in the dark about his operations (IV 5.8–12), and eventually wins the loyalty of the Median soldiers by manipulating their fear of their despotic master (IV 5.18–21). Cyrus thus effectively disarms Cyaxares and delivers a not-so-veiled threat to his uncle. “Even though I am younger, I advise you not to take back what you give, lest enmity be owed you instead of gratitude; when you wish someone to come to you quickly, do not send for him with threats; and when you are alone, do not deliver threats to large numbers, lest you teach them to think nothing of you” (IV 5.32). The end result is that a disgraced and emasculated Cyaxares is reduced to little more than a pampered houseguest. He is excluded from Cyrus’ circle of allied advisors, and has lost all authority over his own troops, who show him deference only when Cyrus gives “them the nod to do so” (V 5.37 passim).18 Even the opening chapter of the Cyropaedia shows that we need to look more carefully at Xenophon’s work and reconsider his attitude toward Cyrus and the regime he founded. Xenophon introduces Cyrus as an exception to the general observation that it is difficult, if not impossible, to rule over human beings. He suggests that the example of Cyrus shows that political rule is not so difficult if only one does it “intelligently” (I 1.3). Xenophon subsequently describes the greatness of Cyrus’ empire, emphasizing the willing obedience of his subjects. “In any case, we know that people willingly (’ejqelhvsantaV) obeyed Cyrus, some who were many days journey from him, some who were many months journey, and others who had never seen him, and even some who knew well that they would never see him. Nevertheless, they were willing to obey him.” Xenophon thus seems to present Cyrus as a remarkably intelligent, skilled ruler whose reputation for greatness won him the hearts and minds of his subjects. Just a few lines later, however, Xenophon asserts that Cyrus “was able to reach so great an area by means of the fear he inspired, with the result that all were terrified (kataplh:xai) and no one opposed him” (I 1.5). Xenophon’s account of Cyrus’ first procession

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out of his palace as new master of Babylon is similarly ambivalent. “Upon seeing him, all prostrated themselves, either because some had been ordered to initiate it or because they were all stunned by the display and by Cyrus’ appearing tall and beautiful” (VIII 3.14). Xenophon describes in detail Cyrus’ preparations to make himself appear magnificent, but only after telling us that Cyrus also surrounded himself with “troops with whips . . . who struck anyone who became an annoyance” (VIII 3.9). There is less ambiguity about Cyrus’ preferred tactic on the battlefield. “There being three forts of the Syrians, [Gobryas] himself took the weakest by attacking it with force (biva). Regarding the other two, Cyrus by terror (fobw:n) and Gadatas by persuasion (peivqwn) convinced their guards to surrender” (V 4.51). Taken together, these passages tacitly raise the most basic ethical question one can ask about a ruler: does he rule by consent or terror? Was it Cyrus’ knowledge of how to win the willing obedience of his subjects or his knowledge of how to terrify them into submission that enabled him to acquire such a great empire?19 Throughout the Cyropaedia, Xenophon implicitly—but consistently— raises such doubts about the moral and political legitimacy of his rule. Xenophon’s portrait of Cyrus is less a straightforward catalogue of Cyrus’ virtues than a systematic exploration of political rule that does not flinch from its complicated and morally ambiguous truths. He explores the possibility that political greatness is not necessarily consistent with traditional standards of moral and political legitimacy. Xenophon’s substantive political analysis thus appears to have much in common with Machiavelli’s notorious observation that “it is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity” (Prince 15). With respect to Machiavelli’s claim about the Xenophontic Cyrus’ profitable use of fraud, Machiavelli recognizes, and wants his readers to recognize, that he and Xenophon share many of the same substantive insights into the nefarious character of effective rule. This suggests Machiavelli considers Xenophon to be an important exception to his general critique of the moral idealism of classical thinkers who “have imagined republics and principalities that have never been known to exist in truth,” and whose teachings focus not on what is done but on what “should be done.” Nevertheless, we are still faced with the following difficulty: if Machiavelli (correctly) recognizes in Discourses II 13 that Xenophon’s Cyrus is not simply a paradigm of virtue, why does he elsewhere characterize the Cyropaedia as a description of a morally ideal ruler? Part of the problem for Machiavelli is the mode in which Xenophon conveys his “Machiavellian”

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insights. Simply put, Xenophon merely implies what Machiavelli boldly proclaims. Xenophon’s descriptions of the morally dubious aspects of Cyrus’ rule are overshadowed by many more passages designed to flatter the casual reader’s belief in the omnipotence of goodness. According to Machiavelli, it was this latter aspect of the Cyropaedia that attracted the attention of Scipio, that great imitator of Xenophon’s Cyrus. “Whoever reads the life of Cyrus written by Xenophon will then recognize in the life of Scipio how much glory that imitation brought him, how much in chastity, affability, humanity, and liberality Scipio conformed to what had been written of Cyrus by Xenophon” (Prince 14). Had Scipio been more alert to the moral ambiguity of Xenophon’s nuanced presentation of Cyrus, Machiavelli intimates, perhaps he would not have allowed his “excessive mercy” to become a “damaging quality” that undermined his capacity for strong military rule (Prince 17). This suggests that much of Machiavelli’s innovation consists in his relative openness in describing the often-great discrepancy between the actions of effective rulers and conventional virtue. The difference between Machiavelli and Xenophon’s political teaching, however, is not simply rhetorical. Their rhetorical differences reflect disagreement over the requirements and aims of healthy regimes that can be traced to an even more fundamental difference in their understanding of human nature itself. This book will show how Machiavelli’s departure from Xenophon is based in large part on his conviction that humanity is far less reliant on established standards of virtue than Xenophon and the classical tradition he represents suggest. As indicated previously, despite Xenophon’s grasp of effective politics, he ultimately offers a qualified, yet sincere endorsement of conventional morality. For Xenophon, traditional notions of political and moral virtue, however imperfect or incomplete, remain an indispensable (though not sufficient) element of successful rule and healthy regimes. Human beings naturally long to participate in moral causes greater than themselves; a regime founded on ancient principles of universal right is more likely to cultivate its citizens’ belief in the nobility of their devotion to the common good. Xenophon’s reserve in describing the morally questionable aspects of Cyrus’ success reflects a politically responsible desire not to undermine completely the traditional foundations of stable government. Machiavelli challenges this view, arguing that human morality is fundamentally malleable; what communities consider right and wrong is dependent not on unchanging moral truths, but on the contingent, submoral conditions of humanity’s selfish, earthly desires. For Machiavelli, a “just” regime is one in which the citizens feel secure in their pursuit of their own selfish interests. Consequently, Machiavelli’s political science is not the articulation

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of transcendent ideals of universal good, but rather the discovery and exposition of the means to earthly success for both ruler and ruled. According to Machiavelli, classical political philosophy unnecessarily limits its capacity to serve humanity because it underestimates the ability of the philosopher to reshape humanity’s understanding of its own good to make it more consistent with the earthly demands of human flourishing. But Xenophon’s reluctance to embark on as ambitious a reevaluation of traditional political virtue as Machiavelli’s is not based solely on the belief that the cultivation of such virtue may be the most reliable solution to the inherent difficulties of political life. It is also grounded on a different understanding of the human good itself. This is reflected in Xenophon’s account of the relationship between political action and human excellence. Xenophon’s unwillingness to fully endorse the unfettered pursuit of political glory also stems from his reservations about the ultimate choiceworthiness of political life in any of its forms. As we will see, according to Xenophon the demands of political excellence, whether grand imperial rule or dutiful republican citizenship, are not necessarily consistent with human excellence. The greatest political goods (e.g., glory and mastery) cannot be shared. Politics is inherently competitive; there must be winners and losers. Accordingly, the desire for such exclusive goods stands in the way of philosophy, which seeks what is universally good for human beings as such. Xenophon’s political teaching ultimately points beyond politics in the direction of the independent and selfsufficient theoretical life embodied by Socrates. For Machiavelli, the active virtues do not lead beyond themselves. In Machiavelli’s pragmatic approach to understanding politics, the search for human excellence takes its bearings solely from the demands of effective rule. Machiavelli’s articulation of a practicable foundation for the kind of human flourishing that manifests itself in glorious rule is an attempt to supplant the classical-philosophic notion that the peak of human excellence rests less in the pursuit of political glory than in the cultivation of the intellectual virtues of the contemplative life. This is not to say that Machiavelli believes Xenophon’s account of human excellence is simply wrong. Indeed, although Machiavelli equates human excellence with the active virtues of effective rulers, his own intellectual activity, as political philosopher and writer, suggests that he does not dismiss entirely the classical belief in the supremacy, or at least choiceworthiness, of the contemplative life. This indicates that there is more to Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon than his apparent rejection of classical political philosophy. To fully understand Machiavelli’s break from Xenophon, we must recognize the extent to which Machiavelli’s treatment of Xenophon is tied to

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his critique of Christianity. This is a dimension of Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon that has never been fully explored. Much of Machiavelli’s motivation for dismissing the transcendent elements of classical philosophy came from his observation that classical philosophy had been absorbed and perverted by Christian spirituality, with its rejection of the temporal strength necessary for the pursuit of worldly glory and the defense of humanity’s earthly estate. According to Machiavelli, the Socratic philosophers’ concern for transpolitical notions of virtue only encourages, at least in the eyes of Christian readers, a politically deleterious belief that virtue is possible only through the spiritual transcendence of worldly affairs. In the end, Machiavelli’s practical teaching, with its rejection of traditional virtue, is, in itself, a dubious guide for reviving the moral seriousness of the classical republican tradition. Machiavelli’s pragmatic republicanism may provide a model for effective politics, but its very efficacy depends on a deliberate shrinking of the moral and intellectual horizons within which we deliberate about what is good for humanity. His teaching obscures many of the moral and theoretical questions that are the focus of Xenophon’s political philosophy, and which are essential to a full account of the moral basis of politics. This does not mean that Machiavelli cannot help us answer these questions. Machiavelli’s political teaching emphasizes the practical over the theoretical and the effective over the moral—but this teaching is itself based on a theoretically profound understanding of all facets of the human moral experience that rivals Xenophon’s in its scope and depth. Reexamining Machiavelli’s work in the light of his critical dialogue with Xenophon reveals a philosophic richness to Machiavelli’s thought that is not fully expressed in his substantive political teaching. Machiavelli may not provide us with a direct path to reviving classical republican virtue; however, once we appreciate the significance of the theoretical and moral arguments underlying his pragmatic republicanism, we will have a more refined understanding of the difficulties involved in reconciling the worldly goods encouraged by Machiavelli, and enjoyed by modern liberal democracies, with the moral commitments and sacrifices demanded by classical political virtue.

Chapter Outline Part I explores Xenophon’s and Machiavelli’s republican teaching and serves to introduce the basic questions about legitimate rule and the nature of stable regimes that pervade their writings. Chapter 1 looks at Xenophon’s critique of classical republicanism in his account of Cyrus’ rise to power in Books I 1–5 and II 1–3 of the Cyropaedia. We follow Xenophon as he explores the

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tension between the austere moral requirements of the Persian republic and the ambition that drives Cyrus to transform its army from a small defensive force into an aggressive, imperialistic war machine. Particular attention is given to the potential benefits, for ruler and ruled, of Cyrus’ political innovations that transcend the specific limitations of Persian law. Chapter 2 considers Machiavelli’s unconventional republicanism as revealed in Discourses I 1–8. The focus is on Machiavelli’s argument that healthy regimes do not necessarily depend upon traditional republican notions of self-sacrificing civic virtue. We will see that Machiavelli’s republican teaching constitutes a radical departure from the classical republican ideal espoused by ancient Greek and Roman political theorists. Part II looks at Machiavelli and Xenophon’s treatments of tyranny, emphasizing the extent to which their discussions of stable regimes blur the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate rule. Chapter 3 considers Machiavelli’s treatment of tyranny and legitimate rule in Discourses II 2. Chapter 4, following Machiavelli’s suggestion, examines Xenophon’s account in the Hiero of the possibility of reforming tyranny into a more benevolent and prosperous regime. While these two chapters reveal similarities between Machiavelli’s and Xenophon’s analyses of the substantive requirements of healthy regimes, they also expose a number of crucial distinctions between the two on political legitimacy as a necessary component of stable rule. Exposition of these differences helps us begin to understand Xenophon’s circumspect endorsement of conventional political morality, and lays the groundwork for the discussion in the following chapters of Machiavelli’s eventual rejection of Xenophon as an authority on political rule. Part III examines Xenophon and Machiavelli’s discussions of princely rule, including the relationship between politics and philosophy. Chapter 5 looks at Cyropaedia VII 5–VIII 8, which describes the peak and eventual decline of Cyrus’ empire. This discussion considers two crucial questions the Cyropaedia raises about the underlying health of Cyrus’ empire and the ultimate intelligence of his rule. Having undermined the moral and political conventions of the old Persian republic, is Cyrus capable of replicating or sustaining the necessary stability they fostered? Are Cyrus’ political innovations in fact conducive to his primary goal, satisfying his own ambition and desire for glory? These questions about the limits of Cyrus’ success subsequently lead us, in chapter 6, to Xenophon’s discussion, in Cyropaedia I 6, of the sufficiency of political life with respect to human excellence as such. In this passage, Xenophon considers the life devoted to political glory in light of the self-sufficient theoretical life of the Socratic philosopher. This discus-

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sion articulates the foundations of Xenophon’s philosophic reservations about the unfettered pursuit of political glory. Chapter 7 begins with a detailed survey of Machiavelli’s references to Xenophon’s Cyrus in both the Discourses and The Prince. These references reveal the substantive and theoretical grounds of Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon’s teaching on the connection between politics and virtue. This is followed by a discussion of Machiavelli’s protomodern account of the relationship between traditional political morality and effective rule, which includes an attempt to articulate a new role for the philosopher in the active promotion of political excellence. However, Machiavelli’s desire to refute the classical teaching on traditional political morality does not fully explain his critique of Xenophon. Chapter 8 shows the connection between Machiavelli’s rejection of Xenophon (and classical philosophy in general) and his critique of Christianity. This discussion leads to the core of Machiavelli’s novelty: his articulation of a wholly new understanding of human virtue that addresses the deficiencies of both the classical and Christian traditions. The conclusion returns to the question of Machiavelli’s contemporary relevance and shows that his greatest contribution to political theory is not his substantive political teaching, which has largely obscured the most important moral questions that must be addressed in any serious attempt to revive civic virtue in our society. Rather, it is his subtle exposition of the complexity of the relationship between politics, philosophy, and human excellence.

Notes 1. Sandel offers an eloquent formulation of the moral urgency of such a challenge to contemporary liberalism in general (1996, 12, 13–14, 16–17, 25, 322–33). See also Goodwin (1995, 35–36). 2. Pocock (1975, 56, 64–77, 85, 158–77, 212, 218, 329, 550; 1972, 160, 167, 173), Arendt (1959, 35, 78, 85, 195–96, 222–24, 236), Skinner (1978, 92; 1981; 1990, xiv, 45, 121–34, 179), and Viroli (1999, 4; 1998, 47–49, 54, 92, 115–16, 121–43; 1990, 146). See also Berlin (1980) and Hulliung (1983). 3. See also Lukes (2004), Raimondi (1977, 6). Cf. Sullivan’s (1992) critique of Pocock. Danoff (2000) suggests Machiavelli’s (indirect) influence on Abraham Lincoln. 4. Pocock (1975, 423, 435–36, 527), Goodwin (1995), Sandel (1996, 26), Kocis (1988), and Leden (2003). Cf. Cromartie (1998), Hodges (2003), and Femia (2004). 5. Sandel (1996, 26) and Maynor (2003). Cf. Pangle (1997). 6. Isaiah Berlin, for example, suggests that Machiavelli’s novelty consists in preaching pagan ethics in Christian times (1980, 63). 7. Regarding the scholarly interest in and controversy surrounding Machiavelli’s discussion of political rule and virtue, see Berlin (1980, 25–38, 44–45), Hulliung

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(1983, 3–30), Mansfield (1996, 6–8), Skinner (1978, 131; 1990, 136; 1992, 42), and Strauss (1978, 9–14). 8. See also Pocock (1975, 157; 1972, 153–55; 1985, 559–60), Viroli (1998, 1990), Hulliung (1983), Croce (1925), Plamenatz (1992, 1:32), Chabod (1958, 37, 97), F. Gilbert (1965, 3–4), A. Gilbert (1968), Sasso (1980; 322), and Burckhardt’s (1950) highly influential study of the Italian Renaissance. Parel (1992) and Patapan (2003) look at Machiavelli in a somewhat different context. 9. Tarcov (1988). Even some proponents of the methodology of Skinner and Pocock seem to be aware of the question of its possible insufficiency (A. Gilbert 1968, v; Parel 1992, 3). 10. Pocock, Skinner, F. Gilbert, Viroli, and Parel make no mention of Xenophon in their source–oriented studies of Machiavelli. Strauss (1970, 1978, 2000) is an exception. His discussion of the connection between these thinkers, however, is limited to a few brief comments scattered throughout his writings. More recent comparisons of Machiavelli and Xenophon include Newell (1988), Glenn (1992), and Nadon (1996a; 2001, 13–25). Cf. Hulliung (1983, 239). 11. Keep in mind Xenophon’s Anabasis, his account of his own political exploits and ambitions. It must be stressed, however, that it is uncertain whether Machiavelli had any knowledge of this text. The only works of Xenophon known to be available to Machiavelli are the Cyropaedia, Hiero, Memorabilia, and Oeconomicus (Newell 1988, 109, n. 3; A. Gilbert 1968). 12. For Machiavelli’s explicit references to Xenophon, see Prince 14; Discourses II 2.1, 13.1; III 20, 22.4 and 5, 39.1 and 2. For references to Cicero, see Discourses I 4.1, 33.4, 52.3; to Sallust, see Discourses I 46; II 8.1; III 6.19. 13. Unless otherwise noted, translations are my own. For references to both The Prince (cited as Prince) and Discourses on the First Ten Books of Titus Livy (cited as Discourses) I have used Vivanti’s edition of Machiavelli’s works (Machiavelli 1997a). For references to the Education of Cyrus (cited as Cyropaedia) I have used Gemoll’s edition (Xenophon 1968); for the Hiero or On Tyranny (cited as Hiero), I have used E. C. Marchant (Xenophon 1920). 14. Higgins (1977, 56, n. 67), Tatum (1989, 133) make similar arguments. 15. Due (1989, 37, 237), Drews (1973, 119–21), Gera (1993, 1–2). Higgins (1977, 44, 47, 53–54), and Hirsch (1985, 8–10). 16. Anderson contends that “Xenophon’s education in religion and politics, whatever it may have owed to Socrates, was, like his moral instruction, not complicated by abstract speculations. Throughout his life, Xenophon remained the sort of conservative whose acceptance of the doctrines and principles that he has inherited seems either unintelligent, or dishonest, or both to those who do not share them” (1974, 21, 34). Bury (1909, 151–52) and Vlastos (1991, 99) agree. Cf. Strauss (2000, 25–26), Nadon (2001, 1–3). 17. Nadon (2001, 1996a) and Ambler (in Xenophon 2001) are exceptions. Tatum and Gera point to passages in Xenophon’s text that suggest Cyrus was more selfish than benevolent, as well as willing to use morally questionable tactics (Gera 1993,

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286–96, 294, 295; Tatum 1989, 64, 71, 97, 106, 115). In the end, however, neither believes that Xenophon intends such descriptions of the less-than-ideal aspects of Cyrus’ rule to be serious indictments of his “hero’s” character (Tatum 1989, xv, 37, 63, 68, 233; Gera 1993, 299). 18. For the fraudulent tactics behind Cyrus’ defeat of the Armenian, see Cyropaedia II 4.16–17, 23; on fraud as an essential element of hunting and war see, e.g., I 6.28, 37, 39–41 in conjunction with Machiavelli Discourses III 39.1. Cf. Higgins (1977, 56, n. 67), Tatum (1989, 133), and Hulliung (1983, 197). 19. Xenophon himself distinguishes rule by consent from rule by terror and is well aware of the moral implications of the latter (Memorabilia IV 6.12, III 2.2, Hiero 4.10–11). See Nadon (2001, 7).

P A R T

I

REPUBLICS AND TYRANTS

C H A P T E R

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Xenophon’s Persian Republic

Pocock, Skinner, and other scholars associated with the “Cambridge School” view Machiavelli’s republicanism, like that of his Renaissance contemporaries, as clearly rooted in the civic humanist or civic republican tradition that traces its origins to Aristotle and classical Roman republican thought. They argue that Machiavelli’s pragmatic and austere republican teaching is based on the principle that human fulfillment consists only in selfless devotion to the common good of a strong republic. This interpretation of Machiavelli’s republicanism misconstrues the motives and principles behind his praise of republican Rome, and underestimates the significance of his critique of the classical republican tradition. He may praise ancient republics and the vigorous spirit of their citizens, but not in the same manner or for the same reasons as classical political theorists and his humanist contemporaries. Indeed, not only does Machiavelli’s account of Rome emphasize those qualities most antithetical to the classical republican ideal, but the mere fact that he prefers the fractious Roman republic over Lycurgus’ Sparta—where dedication to the common good was not simply the highest good, but the only good—constitutes an implicit rejection of the classical republican ideal. Machiavelli’s unconventional analysis of Rome as the classic model of a healthy republic represents an ambitious reassessment of the foundations and aims of republican government, one that challenges the traditional analysis of the nature and importance of civic and moral virtue. Comparing Machiavelli’s republican teaching with Xenophon’s highlights the novelty of Machiavelli’s analysis in two ways. In many respects,

3

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Chapter 1

Xenophon’s Persia is an exemplary regime inhabited by citizens of outstanding moral and political virtue; it represents an improved version of Sparta as described in Xenophon’s Lacedaemonian Constitution.1 Xenophon’s presentation emphasizes the virtues that made regimes like Sparta strong and stable, and thus admirable in the eyes of classical theorists. Looking at Machiavelli’s account of Rome with Xenophon’s Persia in mind underscores the moral and theoretical implications of Machiavelli’s critique of the Spartan model. At the same time, Xenophon’s republican teaching shows that Machiavelli’s critique of traditional republican virtue is not without precedent. Xenophon anticipates many of Machiavelli’s objections to the classical republican model. Despite his emphasis on Persian virtue, Xenophon tacitly reveals a number of significant flaws in the regime—particularly its difficulty reconciling its strict moral requirements with its citizens’ desire for individual glory and wealth. That is, Xenophon subtly questions the possibility of a genuine common good and the sufficiency of political virtue with respect to human flourishing. The Cyropaedia as a whole is a search for an alternative understanding of healthy regimes that better satisfies the moral and political longings of its citizens, and allows the full expression of the political ambition that motivates the most talented individuals. This distinguishes Xenophon’s work from that of his classical contemporaries. In striving to understand political excellence on its own terms, Xenophon is willing “to stress what Plato and Aristotle allowed themselves only to hint at: the defects of classical republicanism in its highest and most exalted form”; Xenophon thus takes “an important step in the direction of Machiavelli’s much less sympathetic critique” (Bruell 1987, 93). Ultimately, however, Xenophon does not go as far as Machiavelli in dismissing the conventional assessment of strong republican government. Comparing their republican teachings will establish the groundwork for understanding the more subtle differences in their analyses of the relation between political excellence and traditional notions of virtue.

Persian Virtue The Cyropaedia is Xenophon’s fictional account of the character and deeds of the legendary founder of the Persian empire. This exploration of Cyrus’ empire-building is preceded by an account of the austere and virtuous Persian republic of Cyrus’ birth. In placing this account at the beginning of the text, Xenophon establishes the Cyropaedia as a comparison of republican and monarchical rule. He encourages the reader to judge Cyrus’ empire in light of both the virtues and defects of the republic that it eventually eclipses.

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5

Xenophon asserts that the Persian republic is distinguished by its rigorous public education to virtue. Unlike the laws of most cities, the laws of Persia “seem to begin with a concern for the common good (tou: koinou: ajgaqou)” (I 2.2). Most cities allow their citizens to educate their sons as they see fit, and allow the older men to spend their time however they wish. These cities then make laws against theft, violence, adultery, and other unjust deeds, and subsequently punish those who transgress these laws. In contrast, the Persian laws “begin earlier,” taking care to prevent the Persian citizens from developing, in the first place, into the sort who would desire to commit “such evil and shameful acts” (I 2.3). From early childhood on, all aspects of the Persian citizen’s life are carefully structured to make him an effective and loyal guardian of the regime. The youths, for example, spend much of their time on hunting expeditions led by the king, during which they are habituated to the courage and obedience required of a good soldier, and to the moderation and continence necessary to endure the discomforts and hardships of war (I 2.10–11). But such training is only part of a larger design to ensure that the citizens’ desire for private gain and advantage does not compromise their ability to fulfill their obligations to the common good. The city is built around a “free square,” which contains the king’s palace and the other government buildings (I 2.3). All productive and commercial arts, with their attendant “vulgarity,” “noise,” and “disorder,” are banished from this square so as to not corrupt the “good order” of the educated citizens. The citizens themselves are divided into four parts: the boys, the youths, the mature men, and the old men beyond the age of military service. By law, the boys and mature men are required to report to their respective stations in the public square each morning, the boys to attend the public schools and the mature men to carry out the orders of the city’s magistrates. The youths are under even stricter obligations. Not only must they attend the public schools like the boys and be available to rulers like the mature men, but they are also required to sleep beside their weapons in the public square. The only exception is for the married youths; however, Xenophon indicates that even these are rarely absent, since it is not considered noble (kalovn) to be away often (I 2.4). Only the old men may come and go as they please, except on certain appointed days when their attendance is required. Through such details Xenophon indicates the regime holds the pursuit of material wealth and the intimacy of the family (particularly a man’s erotic attachment to his wife) to be not simply distinct from, but inimical to the performance of political duties.2 The regime recognizes that desire for such private goods undermines citizens’ willingness to devote themselves to the more

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abstract common good, which may or may not manifest itself in immediate benefit to them as private individuals. This helps explain the regime’s strict attendance requirements. It is of course impossible to keep the youths from experiencing the private pleasures that attend procreation. But the extreme openness in which the citizens live makes it difficult to escape the stigma attached to the indulgence of their carnal appetites. As Xenophon indicates, the youths sleep in the public square, in military formation, “for the sake of guarding the government buildings and moderation, since this age is in need of the most care” (I 2.9, emphasis added). The regime thus cultivates a strong sense of shame that bolsters their resistance to the desires that detract from their commitment to the virtues considered most noble by the regime. The most notable feature of Persia’s education to virtue is its public schools of justice. Persian boys are sent to school to learn justice, “just as [Greek boys] learn grammar” (I 2.6). Their lessons consist of observing their rulers adjudicating disputes between the boys, “for, of course, just as with men, boys accuse each other of theft, robbery, violence, fraud, slander, and other things of this sort as are likely.” Whoever is convicted of an injustice is punished—as is whoever makes an unjust accusation against another. By observing this process, the boys learn what the laws require, and are made aware of the penalties for disobedience, as well as the penalties for exploiting the courts for private gain. These courts take especial care to punish that for which “men hate each other the most but adjudicate the least, ingratitude (ajcaristivaß)” (I 2.7). Whoever is able to repay a debt but fails to do so is punished most harshly (ijscurw:ß). It is not enough simply to refrain from injuring others, which is the fundamental principle of the laws of most cities (I 2.2); a Persian also must actively seek to repay those who benefit him. Not only does this law conform more fully with the positive requirements of justice understood as giving what is owed, but it is intended to cultivate in the Persians an overarching sense of obligation to their fellows.3 It is also designed to obligate them to the regime itself. The Persians believe that ingratitude is “the greatest leader to all things shameful,” particularly neglect of the gods and the fatherland. Persian justice demands gratitude toward the beings and institutions that are ultimately responsible for the good things enjoyed by the citizens. This gratitude manifests itself as pious respect for and strict obedience to the ancestral laws and its rulers, who are said to descend from the gods (I 2.1). Thus far, Xenophon’s account of Persia does indeed appear to be a description of a lawful republic that surpasses most others with respect to the care it exerts to ensure the moral and political virtue of its citizens. Upon closer inspection, however, we find that Xenophon also raises a number of

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pressing questions about both the regime’s ultimate success in securing the citizens’ virtue, and the nature of this virtue itself. Consider his description of the leaders chosen to oversee each of the four groups of citizens. The boys are overseen by those old men thought to be most able to make them as good as possible (beltivstouß) (I 2.5). The same holds true for the middle-age men chosen to oversee the youths. When describing the leaders of the mature men, however, Xenophon does not indicate that they are chosen for their ability to make these men as good as possible; instead, he states that these leaders are charged with making the mature men “most ready to do what has been ordered and commanded by the highest magistrates.” Likewise, the leaders of the old men are chosen to ensure that they, too, “fulfill their duties completely.” On one level, this account underscores the importance of obedience as the foundation of Persian virtue. In fact, Xenophon later reveals that even the youths’ education is ultimately directed toward ensuring their obedience, for only “those youths who spend their time doing what the laws require” are allowed the honor of graduating to the class of mature men (I 2.15). More importantly, however, by dropping the phrase “as good as possible” from his account of the mature men and the elders, Xenophon encourages us to question whether and to what degree the virtue of the adult Persians is compatible with human excellence as such.4 To promote security and suppress the criminal impulse of its citizens, it is certainly reasonable and necessary for the regime to emphasize the virtue of obedience. Yet, we must wonder whether the contrivances the regime employs to this end do not at the same time curtail the citizens’ capacity for nobler pursuits. The question of whether Persia’s most educated and honored citizens are in fact the most excellent human beings becomes even more salient when we consider Xenophon’s postscript to this account of the Persian republic. After reaching what appears to be the end of his discussion, Xenophon states that it is necessary to go back slightly and consider an additional detail that, when understood in light of what has come before, will quickly make clear “the whole of the Persian regime.” He states that it is an explicit principle of the regime that no one “is excluded by law from honors or ruling; but it is possible for all Persians to send their children to the common schools of justice.” In practice, however, since the Persian education to virtue is so extensive and consuming, only the sons of those citizens who can afford to allow them not to work have the leisure necessary to attend these schools. And since attending these schools is the prerequisite for rising through the ranks of the youths, mature men, and elders (from among whom the highest rulers are chosen), the regime is in effect an oligarchy, with material wealth—not merit—being the fundamental condition of rule.5

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Paradoxically, because of its overwhelming concern with virtue, the Persian regime is ultimately dependent upon conditions and factors that are themselves ambiguous with respect to virtue. The inheritance of wealth does not necessarily guarantee the inheritance of a nature best suited to excelling in the Persian education, to say nothing of pursuing human excellence simply. Without a doubt, the members of the ruling class, the Peers,6 believe that it is their virtue that justifies their right to full citizenship. But in light of this passage we cannot dismiss the possibility that the regime’s explicit concern for the common good is at heart a very partisan concern for preserving the submoral conditions that make possible the political supremacy of a relatively small group of wealthy Peers. In the end, Xenophon’s account of the Persian republic suggests that even the most improved republic—a republic committed to ensuring the virtue of its citizens—faces significant challenges with respect to both fulfilling its own explicit principles and the character of those principles themselves. As we will see, such difficulties become more pronounced in light of Cyrus’ subsequent exploits as founder of the Persian empire. We find not only is there a great tension between Persian virtue and the notions of human excellence that drive ambitious and talented men like Cyrus to seek political glory, but the inherent difficulties and tensions within the Persian republic itself provide Cyrus with much of the leverage necessary to accomplish his great undertaking.

The Critique of Republicanism To understand better these difficulties and how Cyrus exploits them, it is best to turn to the work’s most candid critique of republican virtue, which Xenophon places in the mouth of Cyrus’ father quasi-philosophic father Cambyses.7 While traveling from Persia to Media where Cyrus, the newly commissioned general of the Persian army, has been sent with his forces to aid Persia’s Median allies in repulsing the Assyrian invasion, Cambyses initiates a conversation about the requirements of a good ruler. Appealing to Cyrus’ ambition, Cambyses suggests that his success will depend upon his knowing how to provide the substantive and moral goods that are the foundation of not only a strong army but also a healthy regime in general. As the law-abiding king of the Persian republic, it is not surprising that Cambyses would feel obliged to undertake such a task, especially in light of Cyrus’ ambition, the satisfaction of which might threaten the stability of the republic. Yet Cambyses does not simply reiterate the orthodoxy of Persian laws and institutions. In fact, he exposes difficulties with the Persian education to virtue,

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9

especially the tension between the requirements of Persian justice and the individual good of each citizen. Cyrus, for his part, appears to be most interested in discussing the best tactics to use against the enemy. And Cambyses does eventually offer a number of practical suggestions, such as descending upon them while they are sleeping or eating or restricted due to terrain, ambushing them from a hiding place, and using deceptions like pretended retreats (I 6.36–7). First, however, Cambyses suggests that success against enemies begins with understanding the moral distinction between the treatment of friends and enemies. Consider the exchange immediately following Cyrus’ request to learn how to take advantage of enemies: By Zeus, [Cambyses] said, you no longer ask about an easy or simple (aJplou:n) deed. But know well that it is necessary for one intending to do this to be treacherous, secretive, deceitful, a rogue, a thief, a robber, and take unfair advantage of the enemy in all things. And Cyrus, laughing, said, Heracles! What sort of man, father, do you say I must become! The sort of man, child, he said, who is most just (dikaiovtatovß) and most law-abiding (nomimwvtatoß). (I 6.27)

It is of course unjust and unlawful to take advantage of fellow citizens. Treachery fosters civil discord and threatens to destroy the regime from within; it must be severely punished (recall the Persian republic’s law against ingratitude). But the city would be quickly conquered if the same straightforwardness, respect, and gentility were extended to its enemies. Therefore, unwillingness to employ more nefarious, if not criminal, tactics against an enemy is itself an act of injustice: it is in effect a betrayal of the citizens’ overarching obligation to the city, its laws, and the good of their fellow citizens.8 Cambyses’ reply reflects the conventional notion, famously expressed by Polemarchus in Plato’s Republic (332d), that justice consists of helping one’s friends and harming one’s enemies. Still, even Cyrus is surprised—but not so morally outraged that he is unable to laugh—at the candor with which his father draws attention to the underlying contradictions in this notion of justice. If it is so essential to the survival of the regime that its citizens be willing and able to use violence and treachery against enemies, why, Cyrus asks, are Persian youths taught that it is categorically wrong to harm any man? Cambyses first swears that Persian youths are still taught this with respect to friends and citizens, but quickly qualifies his assertion: he confides that in fact they are taught many evil deeds (polla;ß kakourgivaß) for the purpose of harming enemies when they are taught how to take down wild beasts with

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bows and arrows, spears, and various deceptions (I 6.28–9). But why, Cyrus persists, is it necessary that such lessons in harming men be taught covertly through hunting? Why not employ more open and direct training in the martial arts? Cambyses responds with an account of how, in the time of their ancestors, there was said to be a man who taught the boys justice in the manner Cyrus suggests. This man taught them to lie and not to lie, to deceive and not deceive, to strike and not to strike, and to take advantage and not take advantage. And he was careful to distinguish what must be done to friends from what must be done to enemies—only he did not teach that deception and theft were appropriate only against enemies. Sometimes it is “just to deceive friends for the sake of some good, and to steal from them for the sake of some good” (I 6.31).9 He also taught that it was necessary for the Persian youths to practice these things against each other, just as “Greeks are said to teach how to deceive in wrestling and are said to have the boys practice being able to do this against each other” (I 6.32). One of the strengths of this education was that it had the potential to provide the young Persians with a more realistic training in the arts and strategies of war by pitting their skills and strengths against other human beings as opposed to beasts. More importantly, while this education enhanced their potential for helping their fellow citizens, it also taught that what is lawful is not necessarily equivalent to, and may even be an obstacle to, what is fitting for human beings as such.10 The implications of Cambyses’ account are not lost on Cyrus. Even as a child, he was well aware of the limitations of Persian justice, as we see in Cyropaedia I 3, which describes the effect of his childhood visit to his indulgent grandfather, Astyages, the despotic ruler of the Medes. While there, Cyrus is asked whether he would rather return with his mother to Persia or stay with his grandfather. When he quickly chooses the latter, his mother Mandane poses a question to him that brings to the surface his questionable loyalty to the Persian notion of justice. “But justice—how will you learn it here when your teachers are [in Persia]?” (I 3.16) Cyrus responds that he already “knows this accurately.” He recounts how his Persian teacher once asked him to judge the case of a large boy who had forcibly removed the big coat of a small boy in order to exchange it with his own small coat. Cyrus judged that the larger boy’s actions were just since, in the end, each boy had a coat that was fitting (aJrmovttonta). He was promptly beaten by his teacher, who said that if it were his job to judge what is fitting, he must do as he did, but in judging to whom the coats belong, “it is necessary to consider what just ownership is, whether it is to have what is taken away by force or to have what is made or purchased”; and since “the just is the lawful, and the unlawful, vio-

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11

lent,” one must always judge according to the law (I 3.17). But as even the teacher tacitly acknowledges, the lawful is not always conducive to what is best: the necessarily general and inflexible character of the rule of law limited Cyrus’ ability to respond to the needs of particular individuals in specific circumstances. The difficulty, however, is that once individual judgment replaces the rule of law, there is little to prevent people from using every means at their disposal to satisfy their own desires, however base. Returning to Cambyses’ account of the unconventional teacher, we learn that once the Persian youths were freed from the belief that it is categorically wrong to steal from or deceive friends, some who were “by nature well-suited to taking advantage and deceiving, and who were probably not lacking a natural love of gain,” showed little or no restraint as they attempted to misuse others for their own benefit (I 6.32). Given a freedom and flexibility that allowed them greater opportunity to serve the good of the regime and their fellows, some of the more talented and ambitious youths instead proved to think primarily of their own advantage. Like young men exposed to sex too early, Cambyses asserts, these youths were corrupted by the intoxicating possibilities of such license (I 6.34, cf. I 4.25). In response, the Persian magistrates made a decree, which still stands, that children were to be taught simply (aJplw:V), just like servants, to be truthful, not to deceive, and not to take unfair advantage (I 6.33).11 To suppress the selfish instincts of its most capable citizens, the regime reestablished the strict rule of law and reinstated harsh punishments to make them tamer (praovteroi). Xenophon’s account of this violent, even somewhat “slavish,” education also raises questions about the Persians’ commitment to the common good, as well as about the nature of that good itself. It is not entirely clear whether the Persian notion of “simple” justice is not, at best, a partial and tenuous reconciliation between the common good and that of the individual citizens. Reconsider the fact that the rulers of the boys spend “most of the day” dispensing justice among them (I 2.6, 14). Despite Xenophon’s earlier suggestion that the Persian education obviates the need for punishment, this education turns out to be not so successful in its attempt to eliminate the unjust impulses of its citizens. Drawing particular attention to the boys’ attempts to dishonor their fellows through false accusations,12 Xenophon indicates that habituation to self-sacrificing virtue through regular exercises and salutary models is not sufficient: the city must also rely on routine beatings to continually reinforce its citizens’ submission to the laws. Such need for corporal punishment, however, is not necessarily interpreted by the regime or its citizens as a shortcoming in its education. In a

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later passage, the loyal Persian Aglaitadas, objecting to the jovial atmosphere of Cyrus’ court, underscores the moral dignity and benefits of the regime’s harsh republican education. For the one who contrives a laugh for friends appears to promote things less worthy than the one who makes them weep. . . .Through routine beatings, fathers contrive to make their sons moderate, and teachers contrive good learning, and through beatings the laws turn citizens to justice. Could you say that those who contrive laughter benefit the body or the soul, making them fit for the household or city? (II 2.19)

For Aglaitadas, the city’s harsh moral education is as natural and necessary as a parent’s education of a child. The virtues instilled in children and citizens are beneficial because they maintain the fundamental institutions that sustain the body and give order to the soul. But the life of a good citizen is not simply beneficial; it is also noble. What is more, the nobility of citizenship is established, at least in part, by its compulsive character. Aglaitadas’ assimilation of citizens to sons tacitly suggests that the city evokes a natural sense of awe and devotion similar to that felt by children for their parents. Accordingly, the city’s harsh education does not just make citizens obedient, it also elevates them by drawing forth and nourishing their natural inclination to commit themselves to something greater than themselves. Aglaitadas does not deny, however, that in addition to this inspired attachment to their families and city, human beings are also driven by an equally, if not more, powerful and natural desire to place individual interests above all other concerns. But this does not necessarily undermine the dignity of loyal citizenship. For morally serious republicans like Aglaitadas, civic virtue is also ennobled to the extent that it represents a victory over the baseness of our selfish impulses. The most committed citizens attach great honor to their ability to sacrifice themselves for the greater good by enduring the pains exacted by the city’s laws. Still, Cambyses’ recollection of the speed with which the most promising youths abandoned traditional virtue in favor of the freedom shown them by their unconventional instructor indicates the tenuousness of their belief in the inherent choice-worthiness of the austere virtues instilled by the Persian education. Further, that even, or especially, the most talented youths were seduced by the allure of personal gain—particularly preeminence over their fellows— suggests clear limitations in the ability of even the most rigorous civic education to ensure an abiding sense of friendship among citizens in service to the common good. Indeed, in the passage just discussed, although Aglaitadas re-

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minds his fellows of their quasi-filial bond stemming from their common education, the spontaneous joviality among Cyrus’ companions compels us to wonder whether their impending, unrepublican campaign will prove more conducive to the friendship that is so crucial to a successful regime.13 By the end of Book I of the Cyropaedia, Xenophon has brought to the surface three difficulties with the Persian republic: its implicit oligarchic (as opposed to meritocratic) structure; its inflexible and sometimes “unfitting” notion of legal justice; and the tension between its idea of civic virtue and the ambitions of its most talented citizens. All of these difficulties make attractive the idea of an alternative regime that is better able to unite its citizens in pursuit of a common good that is at the same time individually rewarding and better able to cultivate true political excellence—not simply habitual, self-denying capitulation to the laws. Cyrus’ empire is an attempt at just such a reconciliation. It is an attempt to establish a meritocratic regime in which excellence in the service of a common enterprise, an aggressive, acquisitive military campaign, is acknowledged with substantial individual rewards and promotions; the more individual soldiers contribute to the overall strength of the army, the greater and more glorious their personal reward. The question, to which we will return in chapter five, is whether the virtue his innovations promote is superior, or even equivalent, to that cultivated by the Persian republic? Are Cyrus’ innovations capable of replicating the stability and security established by the Persian laws?

Notes 1. Croiset (1873, 147, 150), Grant (1878, 126–38, 131, 171), Strauss (1939, 509; 2000, 181), Delebecque (1957, 385), Miller in Xenophon (1983, viii), Bruell (1987, 92), Tatum (1989, 79), Nadon (1996a, 364). Aristotle’s praise of Sparta is the starting point for his discussion of the peak of republican virtue (Politics 1294b19, 1293b17). 2. For a more radical response to this difficulty, see Plato Republic 416a–417a. Cf. Machiavelli’s counsel that princes should refrain from usurping the wives and especially the patrimony of their citizens in order to avoid being hated (Prince 17, 19, see also 9). 3. Strauss (2000, 74). 4. On Xenophon’s method of criticism by omission and his mastery of understatement, see Cawkwell (Xenophon 1979, 34–38, 43), Sage (1991, 78), and Higgins (1977, xi, xii, 2, 8–9, 13, 19–20). 5. Bruell (1987, 99), Nadon (1996, 364–5; 2001, 39–40). 6. oJJmovtimoi: literally, “those equal in honor,” similar to o{moioi, the Spartan name for the ruling class.

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7. On Cambyses as a quasi-Socratic figure, see Grant (1878, 133), Bruell (1987, 100), and Gera (1993, 50, 56). 8. See Xenophon Memorabilia III 1.6, IV 2.15–6. 9. In Xenophon’s Memorabilia IV 2.17–8 and Plato’s Republic 334b, similar suggestions are attributed to Socrates. 10. In Oeconomicus 1.15 Xenophon discusses the possibility that utility, not legal notions of property, should determine ownership. See also Aristotle Politics 1269a8–12 and 1286a7–16. 11. See again Cyropaedia I 6.27. 12. On the competition for honor that arises among the “good and noble,” see Xenophon Memorabilia II 6.20–1 and Nadon (1996a, 365). 13. Consider Aristotle’s stress on the importance of friendship and political partnership in a free city (Politics 1295b7).

C H A P T E R

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Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny Machiavelli’s Unconventional Republicanism

Like Xenophon, Machiavelli explores the possibility of a regime that better reconciles individual interest with the common good by circumventing traditional republican notions of self-sacrificing political virtue, by undertaking imperial expansion, and by judiciously accommodating, as opposed to transcending, factional strife. The key difference is Machiavelli’s greater abstraction from the classical political-philosophic emphasis on conventional virtue as the cornerstone of a regime’s strength. The core of Machiavelli’s republican teaching is found in his account of the ancient Roman republic in the early chapters of Book I of the Discourses on Livy. He begins with the classic model of republican government, Lycurgus’ Sparta. Machiavelli praises Lycurgus, who “alone and at a stroke” instituted laws “that would enable [Sparta] to live free for a long time” (I 2.1, 7). Sparta’s strength consisted in the authority of its laws, the stability of its institutions, and its citizens’ selfless commitment to preserving these orders. This stability and civic unity, Machiavelli elaborates, was the result of its mixed constitution. Lycurgus deserves credit for ordering “his laws so as to give their roles to the kings, the aristocrats, and the people,” thus making “a state that lasted more than eight hundred years” (I 2.6). Rome, in contrast, was not so fortunate with respect to its “first orders.” While “Romulus and all the other kings made many and good laws also conforming to free life,” since their “end was to found a kingdom and not a republic,” there was no place for the people in the government (I 2.7). Nevertheless, Rome did eventually acquire a mixed government, and even became,

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in Machiavelli’s words, a “perfect republic.” But the birth of Roman freedom was the result of chance rather than the work of a wise lawgiver. “So many accidents arose in [Rome] through the disunion that existed between the plebs and the Senate that what an orderer had not done, chance did.” The “chance” or “accident” Machiavelli refers to is the animosity between the nobility and the people that led to the creation of the popular tribunes. The Roman republic began when the nobility “became insolent” after the death of the Tarquins and the people rose in resistance and forced the nobility “to yield to the people its part” so as “not to lose the whole.” Machiavelli’s assessment of the birth of Roman freedom challenges the importance classical political theory places on the rationality and longevity of a regime’s founding orders. He also questions the classical antithesis of republican government and civic discord. “Those who damn the tumults between the nobles and the plebs blame those things that were the first cause of keeping Rome free, and . . . they consider the noises and the cries that would arise in such tumults more than the good effects that they engendered” (I 4.1). This condemnation of the cause of Roman freedom stems from a flawed understanding of the relationship between political order and human nature. According to Machiavelli, history and all those who “reason on a civil way of life” demonstrate that anyone who “disposes a republic and orders laws in it [must] presuppose that all men are bad” (I 3.1). But what Machiavelli does not mention is that the classical political theorists who reasoned on these matters also believed that despite such badness humanity can be made good through good laws (I 3.2), if only for a short time. Machiavelli is alone in asserting the fixity of this badness. Humanity is lulled into believing in the possibility of such goodness and the efficacy of orders designed to promote civic virtue only because the malignity of the human spirit “remains hidden for a time” (I 3.1); people simply lack the experience necessary to see it for what it is. To illustrate his point, Machiavelli returns to the origins of Rome’s mixed regime. During their reign, the Tarquins were able to maintain a certain concord between the nobles and the plebs: they kept the nobles in check with the threat they would side with the plebs in the event of factional conflict. Once the Tarquins were dead, however, the Roman nobility put aside their false humanity toward the plebs and “began to spit out that poison against [them] that they had held in their breasts” (I 3.2). The “fitting” response to this danger was a new order to create stability like that which existed while the Tarquins were alive. Machiavelli tells us that to stop the “confusions, noises, and dangers of scandals that arose between the plebs and the nobility” on account of the “insolence” of the nobility, “they arrived at the creation of the tribunes for the security of the plebs.”

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The difficulty with the passage, however, is that it is not entirely clear who “they” are. Someone thinking in terms of the classical notion of good laws might assume that by “they” Machiavelli means the plebs and the nobility reaching an agreement for the greater good of the city. Indeed, in Livy’s account of this incident, prior to the “steps taken towards concord,” i.e., the creation of the tribunes of the people, Agrippa Menenius delivers a speech in which he likens the plebs’ resentment of the nobility to the unjustified resentment the other body parts feel toward the stomach. The other parts of the body believe that the stomach only consumes; they fail to see that in truth it also nourishes (Livy, History II 32.9–12). But Machiavelli deliberately ignores Livy’s account, thus effectively dismissing the suggestion of a fundamental unity among the different parts of the regime. As Machiavelli’s account proceeds, it becomes clear that by “they” he means the plebs working unilaterally to force reform upon the nobility. Fear and desperation rather than good will and concord were ultimately responsible for this “reconciliation.” Since “men never work any good except through necessity,” when the Tarquins, who had restrained the nobles with fear of themselves, were missing, a new law imposing fear-inspiring necessity on the nobility had to be devised to make them good. According to Machiavelli, Rome’s good order depended on the periodic establishment of similar laws designed to restrain, not unite, the different factions.1 That is, Rome’s freedom depended on laws that did not presume to eliminate, but rather to accommodate and manage, the dangers and conflicts within the regime that “[proceeded] from a hidden cause.” We now have a better understanding of Machiavelli’s praise of the “accidental” character of Rome’s orders. Because it was not constrained by the narrow constitution of an “imaginary republic,”2 Rome was able to accommodate the inevitable surfacing of humanity’s intractably malignant spirit. It became “more perfect” through its ability to spontaneously reorder itself in response to periodic crises of factional strife and other “political accidents.”3 Machiavelli even goes so far as to suggest that this ability to reorder itself in response to political accidents actually made Rome less dependent on chance than first appears. The traditional judgment of Rome (the “opinion of many”) is that were it not for Rome’s “good fortune” and military virtue, its defects, that is, the disorder resulting from its apparent lack of good orders, would have made it “inferior to every other republic.” Machiavelli’s response begins with a slight modification of this view: Rome’s good fortune was the result of the good order established by its military virtue. “[W]here the military is good, there must be good order; and too, it rarely occurs that good fortune will not be there.” But then he indicates that this military virtue itself

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can be traced to the laws that emerged in response to the accidents of political conflict. “Nor can one in any mode, with reason, call a republic disordered where there are so many examples of virtue; for good examples arise from good education, good education from good laws, and good laws from those tumults the many inconsiderately damn” (I 4.1). (The plebs, for example, were able to gain the leverage necessary to obtain laws to the “benefit of public freedom” by creating disruptions, crying out against the Senate, physically abandoning Rome altogether, and refusing to go to war.) The implication of Machiavelli’s account is that the true example of a regime succeeding through chance and good fortune is Sparta; the true “accident” was the confluence of the preternaturally wise lawgiver Lycurgus and a people ready to accept and perpetuate his laws. In the following chapter Machiavelli raises the question of who would be the best guard of freedom once it is established, the great who seek to acquire, or the people who seek to maintain what they already possess. In Sparta and its modern equivalent Venice “the guard of freedom” was placed in the hands of the nobles; in Rome, it was given to the many (I 4.2, 5.1). Machiavelli indicates that “if one goes back to the reasons,” one could argue for both positions; however, if one “examines their end,” one would have to agree with the classical tradition insofar as “the freedom of Sparta and Venice had a longer life than that of Rome” (I 5.2). Yet “coming to reasons”—that is, Machiavelli’s new reasons—it seems that “one should put on guard over a thing those who have less of an appetite for usurping it.” And the desires of the people, he argues, “are rarely pernicious to freedom because they arise either from being oppressed, or from suspicion of being oppressed” (I 4.1, see also Prince 9). While the few “have a great desire to dominate,” the many “only desire not to be dominated.” It is tempting to conclude from this that the plebs’ apparent lack of ambition makes them a more decent, honest, and stalwart guard of the city’s freedom. But Machiavelli raises doubts about this unambitious decency of the many. True, the people have “a greater will to live free,” which suggests that it is “reasonable that they have more care for [freedom],” but this is so only because they are “less able to hope to usurp [freedom] than the great” (emphasis added). Were they stronger, Machiavelli intimates, they might prove no more decent than the ambitious few. As his account proceeds, this question of the moral distinction, or lack thereof, between the two factions becomes even more salient. Whoever defends Sparta and Venice would argue that putting the guard of freedom in the hands of the powerful few does two “good works.” First, it allows the great to satisfy their ambition more by “having more part in the republic”; having “this stick in hand, they have cause to be more content” (I 5.2). Second, by

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making them more powerful, it enables them to “take away a quality of authority from the restless spirit of the plebs that is the cause of infinite dissentions and scandals.” Machiavelli does not view the plebs simply as decent defenders of freedom. It turns out that the people possess a remarkably aggressive ambition that clearly threatens the authority of the nobility. Or, as is perhaps more accurate to say, the plebs are far more vehement in their support for those ambitious individuals who represent (or pander to) their interests (e.g., the tribunes of the plebs) than originally suggested. [Those who defend the Spartan model] give as an example this same Rome, where because the tribunes of the plebs had this authority in their hands it was not enough for them to have one plebeian consul, but they wished to have both. From this, they wished for the censorship, the praetor, and all the other ranks of command of the city; nor was this enough for them, since, taken by this same fury (furore), they later began to adore those men who they saw were apt to beat down the nobility, from which came the power of Marius and the ruin of Rome. (I 5.2, 37.1)

In light of this, Machiavelli makes a subtle but significant modification to his original question as to whether the great or the many constitute a better guard of freedom. “And truly, he who discourses well on the one thing and the other could remain doubtful as to which should be chosen by him as guards of such freedom, not knowing which humor of men is more hurtful in a republic, that which desires to maintain honor already acquired or that which desires to acquire what it does not have” (I 5.2). Machiavelli thus retracts his original suggestion that the great are motivated solely by a desire to acquire and the many solely by a desire to maintain; both desires can be found in all human beings. By the end of the chapter he effectively drops his earlier distinction between the desires of the few and the many, and speaks only in general terms. He has “forgotten” his initial inquiry into which particular faction would be better guard of a republic’s freedom, and turns instead to a discussion of the nature of human ambition itself. He “remembers” the discussion as a dispute over “which is more ambitious, he who wishes to maintain or he who wishes to acquire” (I 5.4). What is more, it soon becomes clear that there is little difference even between wanting to maintain and wanting to acquire. Tumults are most often caused by him who possesses, but only because “the fear of losing generates in him the same wishes that are in those who desire to acquire; for it does not appear to men that they possess securely what they have unless they acquire something else new” (I 5.4, 29.3, see also I 46, 37.1; Prince 3). Ambition to dominate is to an important degree, albeit not completely, a manifestation of

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the fear all individuals have of losing those goods (e.g., honor, political office, freedom, but also the most meager of worldly necessities) that by and large can be possessed only tenuously. To return to the example of the many, we thus see how their desire “not to be oppressed” manifests itself as animus towards the nobility, and as ambition to take away from the nobility the authority that they believe it will inevitably use to oppress them. Their freedom depends on their ability to resist the few just as much as the honor of the nobility depends on their superiority to the plebs. The implication of this analysis as regards partisan politics is that inasmuch as the good of one faction cannot be secured except through the suppression of the other, the few and the many are engaged in an ongoing struggle for authority, the roots of which extend past the specific conditions of Roman politics (or those of any city) to humanity’s universal tendency toward aggression in the self-interested pursuit of the elusive goods necessary for it to flourish. But are these malignant partisan humors necessarily destructive to a regime? Machiavelli has already indicated that the tumults in Rome were the cause of its freedom—a certain level of partisan conflict and suspicion is necessary and desirable to keep the nobles and the plebs involved in the governance of the city. Still, such animus is dangerous if allowed to spiral out of control. Can, therefore, these forces be channeled in a way that benefits both factions individually, and thus the regime as a whole? This is the question underlying his discussion, in Discourses I 5, of whether or not a regime should expand its dominion. While considering which is more destructive to a regime, those who seek to acquire what they do not have or those who desire to maintain what they already possess, Machiavelli asserts that whoever examines the whole of the problem “will draw this conclusion from it: you are reasoning either about a republic that wishes to make an empire such as Rome, or about one for whom it is enough to maintain itself.” To build an empire, a regime must “do everything as did Rome,” otherwise, “it can imitate Venice and Sparta” (I 5.3). Machiavelli appears to favor Rome’s expansion over Sparta’s isolationism, given the fundamental similarity between acquiring and maintaining.4 Politics is in essence an endless competition for scarce goods (especially wealth and honor); a regime that expands its dominion acquires new and plentiful sources of these goods, which might satisfy the desires and ambitions of all factions. This is, however, merely a temporary or partial solution. In fact, despite its benefits, expansion can also be a cause of civil discord. On the one hand, avoiding expansion helped Sparta and Venice live “free for a long time without [Rome’s] enmities and tumults” insofar as the popular elements of the city were prevented from gaining too much strength (I 6.1). Expansion requires

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either arming the plebs or admitting foreigners or both. Venice kept the people unarmed so as not to arouse their ambition and give them the means to satisfy it. But if the people are already armed, as they were in Sparta, expansion would necessitate bringing in foreigners, and the material goods to support the new inhabitants. Had Sparta done this, it would have undermined the authority of its nobility and the overall stability of the regime by giving the many the numbers and wherewithal to assert and defend themselves against the wishes of the few. On the other hand, Rome, to the extent that it wished to expand, was forced both to arm the people and admit foreigners into the city, thus exposing itself to the instability Sparta and Venice sought to avoid. “If someone wished . . . [to order a republic that would] expand like Rome in dominion and in power. . . . [i]t is necessary to order it like Rome and make a place for tumults and universal dissensions, as best one can; for without a great number of men, and well armed, a republic can never grow, or, if it grows, maintain itself” (I 6.4).5 Machiavelli’s account of expansion suggests that it is both a response to and a cause of factional conflict. But while expansion inevitably leads to tumults, it is not the only response to tumults (recall Rome’s internal orders). This leaves Machiavelli room to ask again whether a regime could or should avoid expansion. This is an important question considering his concession that, while tumults may have helped to secure Roman freedom, eventually “the controversies between the people and the Senate . . . were the cause of the ruin of a free way of life” (I 6.1). Could Rome, therefore, have been ordered like either Sparta or Venice so as to avoid, or at least mitigate, the enmity between the people and the Senate by limiting its ability to expand? At first glance, Machiavelli appears to treat the question of whether a regime expands or not as if it were a matter of choice for someone “wishing to order a republic anew” (I 6.4, 3). Machiavelli’s answer, however, echoes his earlier suggestion regarding the role chance played in the founding of both Sparta and Venice: the ability to choose Sparta or Venice over Rome depends upon a number of preconditions that cannot be taken for granted. The regime cannot be too powerful, for that would cause others to invade it out of fear. If it is too weak, it invites invasion from those seeking to expand their dominion. “For war is made on a republic for two causes: one, to become master of it; the other, for fear lest it seize you” (I 5.4). There must be equilibrium between the military strength of a regime and that of its neighbors. Moreover, neither side must be under the necessity of expanding for the sake of satisfying the needs of its citizens—just as neither must enjoy such an abundance of goods that it would invite invasion by the other. The maintenance of such a balance would make possible “the true political way of life and the true

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quiet of a city.” Unfortunately, this presupposes a stasis in human affairs that is, to say the least, difficult to find. But since all things of men are in motion and cannot stay steady, they either must rise or fall; and to many things that reason does not bring you, necessity brings you. So when a republic that has been ordered so as to be capable of maintaining itself does not expand, and necessity leads it to expand, this would come to take away its foundations and make it come to ruin sooner. (I 6.4)

Machiavelli’s assimilation of acquisition and preservation means that civic defense ultimately depends on the ability of a regime to expand by preemptively striking and weakening its enemies or those who might become its enemies (see also Prince 3; cf. Cyropaedia VII 5.77). It was precisely this ability that Sparta and Venice lacked; they were ruined through their failure to maintain their conquests.6 After subjecting almost all of Greece, Sparta “showed its weak foundation upon the slightest accident,” namely the rebellion of Thebes and other cities (I 6.4). Similarly, Venice had seized much of Italy, “and the greater part not with war but with money and astuteness,” but once it had to “put its forces to the proof . . . it lost everything in one day.” And in Discourses III 31.3, Machiavelli places particular, if slightly exaggerated, blame on the poor quality of Venice’s orders for their inability to suppress the domestic rebellion caused by this defeat—which was in fact only a “half-defeat” (see Prince 12). What is more, even if “heaven were so kind that [a republic] did not have to make war, from that would arise the idleness to make it either effeminate or divided; these two things together, or by themselves, would be the cause of its ruin.” Since one cannot will a regime, much less its neighbors, to remain quiet and unambitious, Sparta and Venice, despite their longevity, cannot be recommended as model regimes. Because their restrictive constitutions did not allow them to respond to the inevitable domestic and foreign conflicts that all regimes must face, their success was more a matter of chance than of good orders. Expansion is necessary and unavoidable. Again, we see that Machiavelli’s preference for Rome over Sparta is grounded on the belief that not only is it effectively impossible to found a city that can set proper limits on human acquisitiveness, but that such acquisitiveness, and the suspicion and aggression it engenders, is in fact essential to the survival of the city, given the inherent insecurity of political life and the exclusive character of political success for cities, factions, and individuals. There is a fundamental moral ambiguity to Machiavelli’s analysis of international relations. He makes no moral distinction between wars of aggression and defensive wars. In the international realm, acquisition and aggrandize-

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ment are as much defensive acts (and hence morally neutral) as factional aggression and oppression are within the city. This returns us to the implications of Machiavelli’s treatment of Rome with respect to civic virtue itself. In locating the source of the plebs’ political ambition in its fearful concern for its well-being, Machiavelli also dismisses the concept of republican virtue understood as selfless devotion to the common good (as well as the assumption of the inherent moral decency of the many). Still, he acknowledges that the people experience their selfish and ambitious spiritedness as moral indignation; they view their cause as inherently just and righteous. The people believe that they are morally justified in resisting the few, who bear the responsibility for factional conflict through their active oppression. As we have seen, Machiavelli exposes the selfish, submoral foundations of this indignation, and shows that the people bear as much responsibility for civil unrest as the few. Yet he does not deny the vehemence of the plebs’ conviction or underestimate its ability to rouse them to action. The end of Discourses I 5 suggests that this righteousness, which one would expect to find in those who have been unjustly denied the advantages of wealth and authority, is ultimately not much different from the supposed insolence of their oppressors. “[T]he incorrect and ambitious behavior” of those who possess “inflames in the breast of whoever does not possess the wish to possess so as to avenge themselves against them by despoiling them or to be able to enter into those riches and those honors that they see being used badly by others” (I 5.4).7 Along these lines, in Discourses II 2.1 Machiavelli likens republican virtue to obstinately (ostinatamente) defending the city by taking vengeance on those who assault freedom. “For it is known through many examples what dangers [the people] put themselves in to maintain or recover freedom and what revenges (vendette) they took” against their oppressors. Machiavelli praises the way Rome dealt with this difficulty through its law of accusation. Every city, he argues, “ought to have its modes with which the people can vent its ambition, and especially those cities that wish to avail themselves of the people in important things [i.e., building a great military]” (I 7.1). The most “useful and necessary” of such orders is the ability to “accuse citizens to the people, or to some magistrate or council, when they sin in anything against the free state.” Such a law has a number of good effects. Out of fear of being accused, most “do not attempt things against the state”; and those who do are “crushed instantly and without respect.” Further, giving the people a regular and ordinary outlet through which they can air “those humors that grow up in cities” helps prevent small complaints against individual noblemen from festering until they manifest themselves as outright hatred of the nobility as a whole. Formal accusation of a particular

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individual invites the people to concentrate all of its anger, suspicion, and jealousy on one man; hence, his lawful punishment or execution satisfies their desire for revenge and effectively absolves the rest of the nobility of the offender’s crimes, at least for a while (I 7.2). Such an order also allows the “alternating humors that agitate” the city to be vented in a lawful way that does not force the people to seek “extraordinary modes that bring a whole republic to ruin” (I 7.1). Machiavelli has no delusions that partisanship can actually be eliminated. But the regime can maintain the citizens’ confidence in its orders: the citizens will accept a certain level of hardship so long as they believe the city capable of preserving their basic freedom and maintaining a rudimentary system of justice (see I 2.3, beginning). Machiavelli’s assessment of partisan conflict and the fundamental insecurity of political life challenges the conventional wisdom behind classical political philosophy’s concern with the founding constitutions of small, unified republics. In rejecting Sparta as the model of an ideal republic, Machiavelli dismisses the possibility of a genuine civic common good. The effective truth of republican politics is that the most powerful force within a regime is the ineradicable selfishness that prevents individuals and factions from suppressing their own interests for the greater good. As we have seen from our consideration of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, Machiavelli is certainly not the first political theorist to recognize the great difficulty, if not practical impossibility, of transcending or eliminating partisan interests. Where Machiavelli differs from Xenophon and other classical theorists, however, is in his belief that judicious accommodation of such tension between the few and the many is sufficient to establish a flourishing republic.8 Machiavelli’s republicanism embraces the essential selfishness of humanity. Not only does he demonstrate that republican freedom actually grows from factional strife, but also that the maintenance of such freedom, too, depends on the continuing struggle, tempered by orders like the Roman law of accusation, between the few and the many for dominion. That is to say, to the extent that Machiavelli even speaks of the common good in the sense of civic harmony, he intimates that it is the de facto stability created by neither side being able to achieve anything more than sporadic or incomplete victories over the other.9 Finally, it is necessary to return to Machiavelli’s discussion of classical republican theory in Discourses I 5.2, and his conspicuous silence regarding the importance of virtue in the classical analysis of republican freedom. Even when summarizing the argument of those who defend the classical republican model represented by Sparta, which entrusts the preservation of the city’s freedom to the nobles, Machiavelli fails to mention what was for ancient political thinkers the most important reason for preferring the rule of the no-

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bles or aristocrats over the people: their superior education in moral and political virtue. Instead, as we have seen, Machiavelli indicates only that the Spartan arrangement would be beneficial because of its ability to satisfy the desires and ease the fears of the nobility. Managing tumults, not cultivating virtue, is the veritable cause of freedom. Consider also the peculiarities of Machiavelli’s discussion in Discourses I 6.2 of the causes of Sparta’s domestic peace. He begins by suggesting that Sparta was able to remain united for a long time because there were few inhabitants, it did not admit foreigners, and “the laws of Lycurgus were held in repute.” But according to Machiavelli, it was observance of the laws establishing equality of belongings in particular “that removed all causes of tumult.” He says nothing about Sparta’s legendary public education to virtue, and thus tacitly dismisses the importance of the quality “of being gentle or noble for which rank might be given and government might be formed” (Mansfield 1979, 49–50). And by the end of the paragraph Machiavelli stops speaking of law altogether, and posits only two causes of Spartan unity, few inhabitants and closed borders. These two causes can in turn be reduced to one, maintaining the numerical ratio of the many to the few: “since [the Spartans] did not accept foreigners in their republic they had opportunity neither to be corrupted nor to grow so much that it was unendurable by the few who governed it” (I 6.2). It thus appears that in Machiavelli’s account the few ruled not so much by cultivating obedience to Lycurgus’ laws, either in themselves or the people, as by arbitrarily restricting the number of inhabitants in the city—that is, by maintaining the submoral conditions necessary to prevent the people from asserting its will against the few. In downplaying the importance of moral education in classical republican thought, Machiavelli obscures the fact that for classical theorists such as Xenophon and Aristotle, the ultimate end of political life is not merely the vita activa of a good citizen. As we will see in our subsequent discussion of the Cyropaedia, the classical analysis of political virtue did not view the practice of virtue simply as a means to the regime’s survival, but also as an end in itself. For ancient political philosophy, the goodness of a city’s orders, the common good of the city, depends—in part—on the self-sufficient moral virtues that transcend the survival requirements and partisan politics of different regimes.10 But for Machiavelli, the goodness of a city’s orders and the “civic” virtue of its citizens (which we now know is essentially a by-product of their pursuit of selfish interests) are determined almost exclusively by the extent to which such orders and virtue enable a city to endure the difficulties inherent to a city’s struggle for survival.11 Machiavelli thus “lowers” the standards for judging the strength of a city and its citizens. This is an essential component

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of his larger attempt to foster a more pragmatic approach to analyzing politics; he seeks to free the study of politics from what he sees as the intellectual constraints imposed by the classical treatment of moral and political virtue. Xenophon’s account of the Persian republic emphasizes the importance the regime places on its rigorous education to virtue as the foundation of citizenship. However, he also shows that the Peers’ superiority depends, in part, on factors such as wealth and noble birth that are ambiguous with respect to virtue. Cyrus’ egalitarian reforms open the elite ranks of his army to the Commoners with the promise of promotion and reward based on merit, not wealth or birth. Yet, as we will soon see, although this gives the Commoners the opportunity to compete with the Peers on equal terms, they (with the exception of Pheraulas) remain inferior to the Peers in both “body and soul.” No training regimen Cyrus can institute for the Commoners can match the years of education the Peers received in Persia. Although Cyrus seeks to make the desire for material reward a primary motivation for all of his troops, he recognizes the Peers’ love of honor and the courage and fortitude it fosters distinguishes them, as soldiers and commanders, from troops motivated solely by mercenary concerns. In other words, the Peers’ long habituation to virtue makes them more capable defenders of the regime. Even though Xenophon’s exposition of the oligarchic elements of the Persian republic shows that the Peers’ political superiority is in some ways arbitrary, there remains in his analysis a politically significant, if not absolute, advantage to the Peers’ moral education. To be sure, Machiavelli recognizes that the few, with their superior education and broader vision, have certain advantages of “character” over the many. He acknowledges that the Roman nobility often benefited from their greater capacity for recognizing the political benefits of patience and restraint when dealing with the volatile and shortsighted many.12 However, while the superior wisdom and restraint of the few may give them a certain advantage over the many in particular instances, this distinction in their relative capacity for virtue is of minor relevance to the political theorist trying to understand the dynamics of a regime. For Machiavelli it is more important what the few share with the many—the universal and ceaseless human desire for acquisition, regardless of the object. “[N]ature has created men so that they are able to desire everything and are unable to attain everything. So since desire is always greater than the power of acquiring, the result is discontent with what one possesses and a lack of satisfaction with it” (I 37.1). Machiavelli’s critique of classical republicanism is also part of a more comprehensive political teaching that actually calls into question the very distinction between republican and princely and even tyrannical rule. It is

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Machiavelli’s position that healthy, vigorous politics transcends conventional notions of political legitimacy and illegitimacy. Successful republican regimes are often infused with both princely and tyrannical elements. In Discourses I 9.1, Machiavelli argues that “it rarely or never happens that any republic or kingdom is ordered well from the beginning or reformed altogether anew outside its old orders unless it is ordered by one individual.” The founding of any strong regime depends on the decisive action of a powerful, autonomous individual, such as Romulus, the legendary founder of Rome. Discourses I 17.3 also shows the correlation between the order of a regime and the strength of its founder. “Where the matter is not corrupt, tumults and other scandals do not hurt; where it is corrupt, well-ordered laws do not help unless indeed they have been put into motion by one individual who with an extreme force ensures their observance so that the matter becomes good.” The difficulty, though, is that the violence and lawlessness of such an ordering seem to jeopardize the very stability the founder means to secure. I say that many will perhaps judge it a bad example that a founder of a civil way of life, as was Romulus, should first have killed his brother, then consented to the death of Titus Tatius the Sabine, chosen by him as partner in the kingdom—judging because of this that its citizens might, with the authority of their prince, through ambition and desire to command, be able to offend those who might be opposed to their authority.

This fate is avoidable, however, if this “virtuous” individual does “not leave the authority he took as an inheritance to another [individual],” but instead leaves it in the hands of many. When the founder establishes a republic and not a monarchy, the effect excuses the deed. Or in more practical terms, the subsequent stability of the regime depends upon the founder’s ability to translate his extraordinary authority into regular, lawful republican orders. But even in the best-ordered regimes, there is a recurring need for the kind of authoritarianism present at their founding. In emergencies republican government as such lacks the decisiveness, clarity of vision, and capacity for swift action necessary to execute the often-extreme measures required to preserve its own political foundations. Hence even ancient, entrenched republics must have recourse to an extralegal executive authority to act in situations where public counsel would be too slow or too divided to respond adequately to the imminent dangers, domestic as well as foreign, that threaten all regimes. Machiavelli praises the Roman republic in particular for its periodic utilization of the office of dictator. “[A]mong the other usual remedies they made for themselves in urgent dangers, the Romans turned to creating the dictator—that is, to giving power to one man who could decide

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without any consultation and execute his decisions without any appeal” (I 33.1). Discourses II 2 is Machiavelli’s most important discussion of the reconciliation of republican, princely, and tyrannical authority. In the beginning of this chapter Machiavelli distinguishes princely from popular rule, arguing that what suits the prince “usually offends the city and what suits the city offends him” (II 2.1). He further denigrates princely rule by conflating it with tyranny, which also proceeds “[i]n this mode.” When a tyranny is born after a free way of life, the least evil that befalls those cities is “not to go ahead further nor to grow more in power or riches, but usually—or rather always—it happens that they go backward.” In effect, from the republican perspective, there is no superior moral or political virtue that distinguishes a prince from a tyrant; the success of each endangers the well-being of the people and the growth of the city as a whole. Even if there emerges “a virtuous tyrant (tiranno virtuoso), who by spirit and by virtue of arms expands his dominion,” the city does not benefit. For he cannot honor any of the citizens he tyrannizes over who are able and good since he does not wish to have to have suspicion of them. He also cannot make the cities he acquires submit or pay tribute to the city of which he is tyrant, for making it powerful does not suit him. But it does suit him to keep the state disunited and have each town and each province acknowledge him.

This initial defense of republican freedom is based on the premise that freedom is necessary for the health of a city, which Machiavelli defines as imperial and economic growth. “[I]t is seen through experience that cities have never expanded either in dominion or riches if they have not been in freedom.” To illustrate this point, he offers two “marvelous” examples of republics that showed remarkable vigor once the people were freed to pursue, and thus encouraged to defend, their own interests rather than those of the king or tyrant: Athens when it was liberated from the tyranny of Pisistratus;13 and Rome when freed from its first kings. Machiavelli subsequently equates this freedom with the pursuit of the “the common good that makes cities great.” That is, he equates the common good with the individual gain that the city’s victories bring its citizens. Once again departing from the traditional republican insistence on selfless devotion to the regime, Machiavelli points toward the selfish foundation of republican partisanship.14 The “common good” of a republic differs from the particular good of a tyrant or prince only in that the former is based on the particular advantage of the majority of citizens as opposed to the one. The people confuse their own advantage with the common good inasmuch as those who benefit while selfishly pursuing their own good

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are many, while those who are harmed are relatively few.15 “And without a doubt this common good is not observed if not in republics, since all that is for that purpose is executed, and although it may turn out to harm this or that private individual, those for whom the aforesaid does good are so many that they can go ahead with it against the disposition of the few crushed by it.” At the end of Discourses II 2 Machiavelli further refines his presentation of what constitutes the “common good” and how it is achieved. For all towns and provinces that live freely in every part (as was said above) make very great profits. For larger peoples are seen there, because marriages are freer and more desirable to men since each willingly procreates those children he believes he can nourish. He does not fear that his patrimony will be taken away, and he knows not only that they are born free and not slaves, but that they can, through their virtue, become princes. Riches are seen to multiply there in large number, both those that come from agriculture and those that come from the arts. For each willingly multiplies that thing and seeks to acquire those goods that he believes he can enjoy once he acquires. (II 2.3)16

Individual gain is the most immediate benefit of freedom. But the public also benefits from the indulgence of these selfish desires. Economic competition forms the basis of a flourishing society by channeling self-interest and individual ambition into actions that ultimately benefit the society as a whole. “[M]en in rivalry think of private and public advantages, and both the one and the other come to grow marvelously.” Machiavelli thus directly challenges the traditional belief that the unfettered pursuit of wealth is inimical to civic virtue—a view that is manifest in the classical praise of Sparta’s legendary poverty and Xenophon’s account of the Persian republic’s efforts to isolate its citizen-warriors from the clamor and allure of the marketplace. It is also important that Machiavelli’s praise of freedom and prosperity is not synonymous with praise of republicanism as such. Discourses II 2 begins with a renunciation of princely rule and tyranny as incompatible with political freedom and the common good. By the end of the chapter, however, Machiavelli’s criticism of nonrepublican government softens considerably. For one thing, he asserts that republics, even or especially the Roman Republic, do not consistently promote liberty; a growing republic enjoys its rising standard of living at the expense of those countries it must conquer to sustain such growth. “And of all hard servitudes, that is hardest that submits you to a republic. First, because it is more lasting and there is less hope to escape from it; second, because the end of the republic is to enervate and to weaken all other bodies so as to increase its own body” (II 2.4). Republics may benefit a greater percentage of their citizens than monarchic regimes,

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but they are not exempt from the necessity of morally dubious acts, i.e., conquest and imperial domination, to secure their own survival.17 What is more, in the second half of Discourses II 2 Machiavelli appears to have lost interest altogether in specifically condemning tyrannies: in this part of the chapter he makes no mention of tyrants, not even the tiranno virtuoso. Instead, he speaks only—and indeed somewhat favorably—of princes who, while not ruling over free peoples, at least do not ruin their subjects like “slaves.” His only qualification of this remarkably unrepublican, un-Roman defense of princely rule is that the prince cannot be “some barbarian prince, a destroyer of countries and waster of all civilizations of men, such as are the oriental princes.” In the course of the chapter Machiavelli has implicitly assimilated tyrants to nonoriental princes. He has reformed, as it were, tyranny according to the minimal requirements of a humane regime. In effect, the only meaningful distinction Machiavelli draws in this passage is between a humane regime and slavery, which can be imposed by both republics (on other nations) and despots (on their own subjects). He does not deny that life in a free city may be better for the majority of its citizens; but neither does he fully endorse the partisan republican condemnation of tyranny. He judges good and bad government according to more fundamental human concerns than those associated with partisan politics. Inasmuch as a healthy regime can be established by satisfying the submoral conditions of its citizens’ material welfare, Machiavelli sees the possibility of reconciling princely and tyrannical rule with, if not what is best for the people, at least a decent and tolerable existence for them.

Notes 1. For more on the importance of class conflict in Machiavelli’s analysis of Rome, see Coby (1999a, 204–7; 1999b, 609), Bonadeo (1973, 65-66), McCormick (2003), and Pitkin (1984, 85–86). 2. See Prince 15. 3. McCormick (1993) offers an interesting discussion of “accidents” in Machiavelli’s thought. 4. Viroli (1990, 158). 5. Among humanist scholars, Viroli is particularly attentive to the fact that in preferring Rome to Sparta and Venice, Machiavelli “parts company with the humanist and Ciceronian tradition,” which holds that preserving civic concord is “one of the necessary foundations of the vivere politico” (Viroli 1990, 146, 157, 158–60; see also Skinner, 1990, 135–36). Machiavelli “saw that to protect liberty a city must love peace and know how to make war,” and accepted that “if the cost of having a city capable of fighting, and if necessary, expanding, is civil conflict, then the city must be

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prepared to deal with it” (Viroli 1990, 160). In the very next paragraph, however, Viroli appears to dismiss altogether the theoretical significance of Machiavelli’s practical modification of the traditional republican view. “In Machiavelli’s language…politics must order all the other arts which are cultivated in the city with an eye to the common good. Only republican politics can succeed in building a city where virtue is honored and rewarded, poverty is not despised, military valor is esteemed and the citizens love each other and are attached to the public rather than the private good” (ibid., my italics). 6. Cf. Aristotle Politics 1334a2–9, but note Aristotle’s deprecation of foreign conquest on the grounds that mastery over one’s neighbors as slaves is less noble and than rule over free persons (i.e., fellow citizens); and also on the ground that the experience of foreign conquest fosters a desire for despotism within the city (1333b25–35). 7. It must be stressed that this quote does not necessarily refer solely to the many. Indeed, Machiavelli’s pronoun usage does not make it clear to whom the passage refers. But the passage presently under consideration does seem to emphasize how such resentment in an armed multitude is particularly dangerous to the regime. 8. Wood (1972, 287–91). 9. See Fischer’s discussion of glory and the “unsocial sociality” it fosters (1997, 811). 10. As Aristotle’s asserts, the individual “is happy and blessed, yet not through any of the external good things but rather through himself and by being of a certain quality in his nature.” And a similar argument must be made regarding “the best city [which by definition] is happy and acts nobly. It is impossible to act nobly without acting [to achieve] noble things; but there is no noble deed either of a man or of a city that is separate from virtue and prudence. The courage, justice, and prudence of a city have the same power and form as those things human beings share in individually who are called just, prudent, and sound” (Politics 1323b22-35). Hence, according to Aristotle, “the best way of life both for each individual separately and in common for cities is that accompanied by virtue—virtue that is equipped to such an extent as to allow sharing in the actions that accord with virtue” (Politics 1323b401324a2). Cf. Aristotle Politics 1323b22–35 and Nicomachean Ethics1115a33, b21–24. 11. In comparing Sparta and Venice to Rome, Machiavelli considers only their temporal ends (fine) as opposed to their purposes or final causes (scòpi). In a looser interpretation of Machiavelli’s language, Vivanti suggests that by “il fine” Machiavelli means the results obtained (“I risultati ottenuti”) (Machiavelli 1997a, 211 n. 2), thereby inaccurately shifting the focus of Machiavelli’s analysis toward the substantive qualities of the regime. 12. See Discourses I 37.2, I 52.1, and Coby (1999b, 615); cf. Viroli (1998, 6). 13. See Herodotus History 5.77–8. 14. Cf. Skinner’s assertion that Discourses II 2 is “the crucial passage in which Machiavelli spells out the special virtues of republican government,” namely pursuit of the common rather than individual good (1990, 138 emphasis added; 1981, 32).

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15. See Coby (1999a, 259). 16. Consider Machiavelli’s advice in Prince 21. “[A] prince should show himself to be a lover of the virtues, giving recognition to virtuous men, and he should honor those who are excellent in an art. Next he should inspire his citizens to follow their pursuits quietly, in trade and in agriculture and in every other pursuit of men, so that one person does not fear to adorn his possessions for fear that they be taken away from him, and another to open up a trade for fear of taxes. But he should prepare rewards for whoever wants to do these things, and for anyone who thinks up any way of expanding his city and state.” These passages represent an important connection between Machiavelli and subsequent modern philosophers. Consider, for example, Locke’s emphasis on the compatibility between economic growth and political stability (Second Treatise of Government V 37, 46, 50). See Mansfield (1979, 197). 17. See Machiavelli’s account of the rapacious nature of imperial expansion in Prince 16.

C H A P T E R

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The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero

Xenophon’s Hiero or On Tyranny also explores the intersection between legitimate and illegitimate rule. The central question of this work is whether a tyrannical regime can be reformed into a more benevolent one in which the citizens are both secure and prosperous. We are not surprised, then, by Machiavelli’s reference to Xenophon’s treatise on tyranny in Discourses II 2.1. But we are surprised by the initial implications of that reference. Machiavelli cites the Hiero in the first part of the chapter, during his ostensible defense of the traditional assessment of tyranny. He holds up Xenophon’s work as the classic critique of tyranny. “Whoever wishes to confirm this opinion with infinite other reasons should read the treatise Xenophon makes Of Tyranny” (II 2.1). The difficulty is that even a perfunctory review of the Hiero reveals that it is much more ambivalent regarding the defectiveness of tyrannical rule than Machiavelli seems to suggest. Indeed, there are striking similarities between Machiavelli’s revised assessment of tyranny at the end of Discourses II 2 and Xenophon’s presentation in the Hiero. The Hiero even at times seems to offer support for some of Machiavelli’s most unconventional proposals for reconciling tyranny with good government. Why, then, does Machiavelli fail to explicitly acknowledge these similarities, even though he encourages perceptive readers to discover them on their own? (Of all of Machiavelli’s references to Xenophon, only this one takes the form of a direct injunction to read Xenophon.) Machiavelli’s silence on the similarities between his and Xenophon’s account of tyranny constitutes a tacit rejection of Xenophon’s tyrannical teaching. A closer look at Xenophon’s text

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explains Machiavelli’s engagement and subsequent dismissal of it. Despite important similarities, there remain crucial substantive and theoretical differences between the two regarding the ultimate possibility of tyrannical reform. In alluding to these differences, Machiavelli underscores the radical nature of his political teaching, and the importance of his refutation of Xenophon, his closest classical rival, in establishing the novelty of his own thought.1 The most arresting feature of Xenophon’s Hiero is the extent to which it questions the traditional condemnation of tyranny as an illegitimate, and hence fundamentally defective, regime. It is likely that this is what first drew Machiavelli to the Hiero. Xenophon is not the only ancient theorist to recognize that tyranny is not always incompatible with the requirements of healthy regimes.2 But what sets Xenophon apart from other classical theorists is the attention he gives to the possibility of improving tyranny outside traditional notions of moral and political virtue. Unlike Aristotle, for example, Xenophon does not suggest reforming tyranny by assimilating it to kingship, in essence, mitigating the tyrant’s vicious nature by turning him into a king with the attendant moral virtues (see Aristotle Politics 1313a8–1315b10). Like Machiavelli, he never claims that the tyrant can or should become “good” or even “half-good” in the traditional moral sense.3 Xenophon’s account of the reform of tyranny takes its bearings less from the highest political and moral standards of legitimate rulers than from the tyrant’s own concerns regarding his happiness and success as tyrant. This moral ambiguity in the Hiero, which is a dialogue between the tyrant Hiero of Syracuse and the poet Simonides, is reflected in the dramatic action of the first half of the work. The subject, introduced by Simonides, is the advantages and disadvantages of tyranny. In general, Simonides speaks of its advantages, Hiero of its disadvantages. If we compare what Hiero says about the disadvantages of tyranny with what the text reveals about his actual experience as tyrant, we see that Hiero overstates or misrepresents the hardships of tyranny. He understates its pleasures, and does not do justice to the political success and happiness of more capable tyrants like himself. Hiero does this because he thinks Simonides a “wise man,” who might “contrive something” (5.1); he suspects Simonides of harboring ambitions to tyranny—perhaps even his tyranny.4 Hiero’s indictment of tyranny begins with an account of how the tyrant is worse off than the private citizen with respect to the pleasures of the body: the tyrant’s ability to indulge every desire in effect dulls his capacity to enjoy such pleasures. For private human beings, the more difficulty they have in satisfying their desires, the more they savor those pleasures. At the beginning of chapter 2, however, Simonides dismisses this part of Hiero’s argument,

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pointing out that “those reputed to be real men (ajndrw:n)” readily forgo such pleasures for the sake of (among other things) devising great enterprises for the purpose of harming enemies and benefiting friends, the foundation of great political glory (2.1–2). Simonides’ response seems to confirm Hiero’s suspicion that Simonides is just the kind of “real man” who would be attracted to the honors and nobler pleasures associated with tyranny. Hiero thus claims that whatever victories a tyrant may gain, he can never experience the communal pride felt by “men in the cities,” i.e., virtuous citizen-warriors of free cities. “[W]hen cities overpower their opponents in battle . . . it is not easy to say how much pleasure [the citizens] hold in defeating their enemies; how much in the chase; how much in killing their enemies; how they exult in the deed; how they receive a brilliant reputation; and how they rejoice believing they have added to the city” (2.15). The tyrant, though he may indeed take great pleasure in chasing and killing his enemy, cannot openly enjoy such pleasures, because, as Hiero puts it, his primary enemies are domestic insurgents; and in putting them down, “he knows that he will rule fewer men, and he cannot be glad; he knows without a doubt that he does not augment the whole city” (2.17). In this passage, Hiero, like Machiavelli in the beginning of Discourses II 2, contrasts the pride citizens take in their contribution to the city’s military victories with the fear and suspicion created by the tyrant’s efforts to maintain his authority.5 What Hiero fails to mention, however, is the honor that attends the captain (including the tyrannical captain) who, through military genius and personal courage, leads his forces to victory. By shifting the discussion so quickly to the domestic troubles of the tyrant, Hiero passes over the possibility that the tyrant may in fact enjoy even greater glory for his victories than the citizen-warriors of free cities: as absolute ruler, the tyrant is solely responsible for the planning and execution of the action. The inconsistency between Hiero’s indictment of tyranny and his own experience is also evident at the point in the dialogue where Hiero’s denigration of tyranny ends and Simonides’ account of its improvement begins. Following his prolonged description of the tyrant’s inability to enjoy the basic pleasures and security of a conventional ruler, and his inability to enjoy the praise, honor, and willing obedience of free citizens, Hiero asserts that “the tyrant lives night and day as one condemned by all human beings to die for his injustice” (7.10). Simonides provokes Hiero by asking “why . . . if being a tyrant is so wretched, and you realize this, do you not rid yourself of so great an evil, and why did no one else ever willingly let a tyranny go, who once acquired it” (7.11). Hiero responds with his most forceful account of the tragic situation of the tyrant yet. “[I]n this too is tyranny most miserable, Simonides: it is not

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possible to be rid of it either. For how would some tyrant ever be able to repay in full the money of those he has dispossessed, or suffer in turn the chains he has loaded on them, or how to supply in requital enough lives to die for those he has put to death? Rather if it profits any man, Simonides, to hang himself, know . . . that I myself find this most profits the tyrant” (7.12–3). But Hiero has not committed suicide. And it would be possible to rid himself of tyranny—he cannot be unaware of the fact that many tyrants have enjoyed long lives in exile (albeit not always by choice). Both Simonides’ observation that no tyrant has willingly given up his rule and Hiero’s own apparent complacency undermine Hiero’s claim that the injustice of tyranny is a crucial concern for the tyrant. The unjust deeds of the tyrant may indeed force him to take extraordinary precautions, but, clearly, so long as he remains secure in his rule, his crimes do not weigh heavily on his conscience. What provokes Hiero to make these claims is Simonides’ response, or lack thereof, to Hiero’s lengthy account of the crimes that supposedly make tyranny so tragic (2.3–6.15). As Hiero tells it, no citizen, law, or sacred institution is safe from the measures a tyrant must take to ensure his rule (4.11). Simonides does not condemn—or even acknowledge—such injustice. Instead, he shifts the discussion by marveling at the great suffering people are willing to undergo for the sake of honor. “Honor . . . seems to be something great, and human beings undergo all toil and endure all danger striving for it. You too, apparently, although tyranny has as many difficulties as you say, nevertheless rush into it headlong in order that you may be honored” (7.1–2, 1.14-16, 8.1, 11.9). This statement signifies, at least to Hiero, that not only does Simonides continue to have aspirations to tyranny for the sake of honor, but also that Simonides is wholly unmoved by the conventional moral disdain for the grave injustice of tyranny. Simonides’ strategic response plays a crucial dramatic role in the dialogue. Hiero’s recognition of Simonides’ unscrupulousness, combined with his suspicion of Simonides’ ambition and wisdom, effectively reduces the tyrant to silence: he now realizes that he would be unable to dissuade (without resorting to violence) Simonides from the ambitions he attributes to him. But at the same time, and more importantly, it also suggests to Hiero the wise poet’s competence to teach him how to improve his tyranny without undertaking any moral reforms that would fundamentally alter the nature of his rule or his character.6 That is to say, Hiero is intrigued by the advice that might be offered by this wise man who appears to understand the real pleasures of tyranny and seems willing to look beyond moral convention.7 And indeed Simonides’ subsequent lesson to Hiero is based on the premise that even though tyranny begins as unlawful, vicious rule over unwilling subjects, this

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does not necessarily prevent the good of the tyrant from being reconciled with the good of his subjects and the city as a whole.

Friendship and Tyranny In practical terms, the reformation of tyranny relies on a highly improbable confluence of wisdom and political power; no tyrant is likely to take on such a task without the encouragement and guidance of wise individuals. But how much influence would the wise individual have over the soul of someone inclined towards tyranny? The reform of tyranny depends on the disposition or character of the tyrant: the tyrant has to want to change. Hence it makes sense that Simonides’ advice, whatever benefits it might bring the subjects of a tyrant, is ultimately directed toward the happiness of the ruler (11.15). What Hiero claims to lack most, but considers essential to a ruler’s happiness is the love or friendship (filiva) of his subjects (3.5–9, 7.9, 8.1, 7.3). Accordingly, he asserts that the greatest disadvantage of tyranny is that the tyrant cannot trust that the praise and attention he receives is genuine and not a product of fear or flattery (1.14, 1.37, 6.3, 7.5-8). Most of Simonides’ suggestions regarding the reform of tyranny, therefore, are attempts to show Hiero how he can not only mitigate the hatred usually felt for tyrants, but also cultivate the kind of political friendship between ruler and ruled that is necessary for willing obedience. In more general terms, Xenophon’s account of Simonides’ advice and its reception by Hiero is a consideration of whether and to what extent friendship can provide a satisfactory foundation for the improvement of tyranny for both the tyrant and his subjects. Politely challenging Hiero’s argument that the good of the tyrant and the good of the people are mutually exclusive, Simonides suggests that a tyrant actually can increase his own glory and profit by using precisely those things that make him envied and hated—his wealth, authority, and even his mercenary bodyguard—to benefit rather that oppress his subjects. This concern for the common good begins with his subjects’ economic self-interest. One of the surest ways to bolster his own revenue is to make the property of all citizens profitable (11.1–4, cf. Cyropaedia VIII 4.36). By enriching his “friends” he would enrich himself and would ascend from ignoble competition with the private men of his own city to “the most noble and magnificent contest among human beings,” the competition among rulers of different cities to ensure the vitality and happiness of their citizens (11.7). (Along these lines, Simonides suggests Hiero should “consider [his] fatherland to be [his private] estate” [11.14]). To encourage such productivity, Hiero must make it a priority to reward innovation—particularly in agriculture (9.7). Striking is the

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similarity between Simonides’ advice here and Machiavelli’s concern with the intimate relationship between individual economic prosperity and the “common good.” Of all ancient texts “only the Hiero recommends the characteristically modern project of increasing abundance through fostering inventions” (Glenn 1992, 191). Machiavelli and Xenophon agree that the pursuit of individual economic gain—properly regulated, of course—provides a peaceful outlet for natural human competitiveness. But perhaps more importantly, such machinations and the benign competition they foster are necessary for the domestic tranquility that is essential to the tyrant’s very survival. Among an industrious population “moderation [follows] much more closely upon the absence of leisure” (9.8; cf. Cyropaedia II 1.29). Simonides is aware, however, that such prosperity and the “friendship” it inspires demand a significant degree of institutional support. The prosperous city depends on solid orders to ensure its defense and stability. But establishing such institutions is particularly difficult in tyrannical regimes given their illegitimate and unlawful foundations. The unorthodox character of Simonides’ institutional reforms is most apparent in the way he attempts to reconcile the interests of the people with Hiero’s own need for a mercenary bodyguard. According to Hiero, the tyrant must treat all of his subjects as potential enemies.8 This puts the tyrant in a precarious position, caught between his need for the city and his need to act in ways that bring it harm. “Still, the tyrant is compelled to be a lover of the city, for without the city he would not be able to preserve himself or be happy. But tyranny compels them to trouble even their own fatherlands. For they do not rejoice in making the citizens either brave or well-armed. But it is more pleasant to make foreigners more formidable than citizens and to use the former as bodyguards” (5.3, 8.10). In response, Simonides suggests that by appealing to the people’s desire for security— including or especially security of possessions and wealth—the tyrant might persuade them to accept, and perhaps even welcome, his mercenary guard. The personal protection the guard affords the tyrant can be extended to his subjects, protecting them from each other (10.3–4) and from “the secret and surprise attacks” of foreign enemies (10.7–8). Once more, Simonides emphasizes the material benefits of such generosity on the part of the tyrant: his guard would be most useful in providing “confidence and safety for the husbandmen and property of herds and flocks in the country, alike for [Hiero’s] own privately and for those throughout the country” (10.5). Simonides also suggests that Hiero’s bodyguard could help secure a rudimentary system of justice. The people, Simonides proposes, would be more inclined to accept, even welcome, Hiero’s mercenary guards if they knew

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that they would do no harm at all “to one who commits no injustice,” would punish those who wish to do evil, and would come to the aid of those who are unjustly wronged (10.8). Such efforts to protect the citizens from each other would be especially welcomed insofar as they provide greater opportunity for material gain: preventing trespasses, the tyrant would be promoting in particular the kind of justice essential to contractual relations. The most important, if indirect, benefit of these services is that they would help generate in the citizens a certain enthusiasm for defending the regime, which is conventionally considered incompatible with tyranny. Toward the beginning of their conversation, Simonides affirms the great benefit that would come from a citizen militia willing to fight, out of a sense of duty and honor, on behalf of the city—a militia comprised of citizens who consider “fatherlands [to be] worth very much” and are willing to guard their fellow citizens “without pay” (4.3–4). Oppressed and impoverished subjects have little or no interest in preserving the regime; those who are secure in their persons and goods, on the contrary, have a keen interest in protecting the city. And with the proper encouragement from the tyrant (e.g., the prudent distribution of prizes for good arms, good discipline, horsemanship, and prowess in war) his subjects would be more likely to “set out on an expedition with greater speed, whenever required, striving for honor,” as well as to “contribute money more promptly when the moment for this came” (9.6–7). There is nonetheless a limit to the kind and degree of courage and civic virtue Hiero could expect from his subjects. At one point Simonides suggests the value of Hiero’s mercenary soldiers to bolster the citizens in battle. “Surely on a campaign, what is more useful to the citizens than mercenaries? For [mercenaries] are likely more ready to toil, run risks, and stand guard for the citizens.” (10.6) Although Hiero’s subjects may come to possess the skills of war, and may be more enthusiastic defenders of the regime than is common among the subjects of tyrants, they are unlikely to become the kind of citizen-defenders we see in such regimes as the Persian republic. At most they would be an auxiliary force to the mercenary guard. Lacking a traditional republic’s entrenched legal, religious, and educational institutions, it is unlikely that the tyrant could foster the same kind of habitual, unhesitating obedience and self-forgetting courage characteristic of true citizen-warriors. However useful, the civic virtue of Hiero’s subjects would remain at heart mercenary. It would never rise to the level of selfless devotion to the regime as such.9 What is more, even if the tyrant were able to instill such virtue in his subjects, it still would not be in his interest to do so. Simonides makes this clear when he declares that while the tyrant might be able to mitigate the hatred

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generated by his bodyguards, he cannot dismiss them altogether. Considering Simonides’ proposals, Hiero asks whether “once a ruler wins friendship [by promoting the private interests of his subjects] he will no longer need a bodyguard at all.” Simonides emphatically exclaims, “yes, by Zeus! . . . he will need it. For I know that just as with horses, so it is inbred in some men: as much as they hold the necessities in abundance, by so much are they more hubristic” (10.2). Though Hiero’s mercenary guard might become a welcome protector of the peoples’ welfare, their first purpose remains to instill “the fear . . . that would make . . . men more moderate” (10.3). In the end, because the tyrant lacks the legitimacy conferred by established, lawful political institutions—because his subjects feel no overriding moral obligation, as citizens, to respect his authority, there is little to prevent a particularly ambitious and talented individual from thoughts of insurrection except fear of violent reprisal (recall Discourses I 17.3). The question, however, is whether Xenophon believes such limits to the political virtue and obedience Hiero could expect from his subjects, along with the violent foundations of Hiero’s rule, constitute grounds for dismissing tyranny as an irretrievably defective regime. Xenophon presents a compelling argument for the practical benefits of republican justice and lawfulness, as well as suggesting that there is a genuine, if limited, moral validity to the republican notion of noble self-sacrifice. At the same time, however, his account of Old Persia shows that even the most lawful regime relies heavily on physical coercion to establish and maintain such lawfulness. Xenophon also shows that there are limits to even the best republic’s ability to secure the individual good of its citizens and the conditions necessary to fully realize its own goal of justice and political virtue. Moreover, Xenophon gives serious consideration to the public benefits derived from Cyrus’ authoritarian orders. Cyrus’ autonomy gives him an ability to accommodate particular circumstances in such a way that he always has the opportunity to choose what is most beneficial, which is impossible under the strict rule of necessarily general laws. A ruler who strives to secure what is beneficial for his subjects lays the foundation for the kind of political friendship that, while not necessarily obviating the need for a bodyguard and awesome displays of military might, helps mitigate the odiousness of the harsher aspects of absolute rule. In light of this, we cannot dismiss out of hand the possibility that Xenophon considers fear-inspired moderation— imposed as a harsh, yet not vicious, manifestation of the ruler’s concern for the security of his regime—to be a foundation for the increased prosperity— and hence happiness—of the tyrants’ subjects. The Hiero as a whole allows us to see in a particularly revealing light the salutary aspects of effective,

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though illegitimate, politics. Simonides’ description of the kind of authority the tyrant might be able to enjoy compels us to take seriously the possibility that the mantle of traditional political legitimacy may not be wholly necessary for a stable regime that is beneficial to both ruler and ruled. In this sense, Xenophon’s account of reformed tyranny echoes Machiavelli’s suggestion at the end of Discourses II 2 that even the subject of a moderate tyrant can enjoy, if not the blessing of republican liberty, at least the security and stability necessary for material prosperity. But we are still faced with two questions that bear on the underlying intention of Xenophon’s treatment of tyranny. Does the Hiero demonstrate that the reformation of tyranny Simonides articulates is actually possible? And does the Hiero clearly establish that such a reformation of tyranny is necessary or desirable to the tyrant as such? Xenophon gives no indication that Hiero implemented—or even attempted to implement—Simonides’ proposals. What is more, the Hiero is not an account of an unsuccessful tyrant actively seeking the advice of a wise man with expert knowledge of how to improve his rule. On the contrary, Hiero—the claims he makes in his attempted rhetorical misdirection of Simonides aside—is a successful tyrant who appears to be more or less satisfied with both the security of his authority and the pleasures he derives from it. This suggests that the Hiero is more than simply an unconventional attempt to reconcile tyranny with the effective requirements of stable, prosperous cities. These doubts about Simonides’ practical influence on Hiero’s actions as tyrant causes us to wonder whether the Hiero does not ultimately reveal certain obstacles to the reform of tyranny that are linked to the requirements and pleasures of tyranny.

Eros and the Tyrant Hiero’s discussion of erotic love found near the beginning of the work raises the most significant doubts about Hiero’s ability and willingness to follow Simonides’ advice. There is no reason to doubt that Hiero genuinely desires the particular affection bestowed upon benevolent rulers by their subjects. But this does not necessarily mean that for Hiero the love of his subjects is more enticing than other aspects of his tyrannical rule, namely his ability to satisfy his “erotic urge for literal possession and consumption” of other human beings, both subjects and enemies (Newell 1983, 902). At the very least, there is a tension—of which Hiero may not be fully aware—in his soul between his desire to be loved as a benevolent ruler and a more sinister erotic longing, the kind that Simonides indicates “comes very close to producing desires for tyranny” (1.26). To what extent does this darker aspect of Hiero’s character

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stand in the way of his adoption of the reforms necessary to transform his regime into one characterized more by generosity and prosperity than by fear and oppression? Hiero himself makes a distinction between the pleasures of reciprocal affection (filiva) and the desire for sex, “that which nature perhaps compels a human being” to want most from “the beautiful” (1.33); and he argues that the baseness of the latter is mitigated only by the former. Without reciprocal affection, the “pleasure taken from unwilling boys” is “more an act of robbery than sex” (1.36). But Hiero does not seem to be as troubled by his lack of reciprocal love as he claims. For one thing, we have to remember that at this early stage in the dialogue, Hiero is still suspicious of Simonides’ motives in speaking of the pleasures of tyranny, and is thus crafting arguments intended to dissuade a gentleman from pursuing the pleasures of tyranny. In fact, Hiero’s earnest discussion of the tyrant’s lack of mutual affection begins only after Simonides intimates that as tyrant Hiero can more easily satisfy his desire for his beloved Dailochus, “the one they call the fairest” (1.31). In contrast, Hiero’s first and therefore, presumably, most genuine complaint is that the tyrant’s enjoyment of sex with boys is compromised not by his lack of reciprocal love, but by his lack of erotic longing (e[rwß). He claims the pleasures of sex “give much greater enjoyment when accompanied by erotic longing” (1.29). But “erotic longing . . . is much less willing to arise in the tyrant” (1.30): this kind of desire is stimulated not by those ready at hand (i.e., fearful subjects), but by those not yet conquered. What is most important about Hiero’s complaint, however, is not that a tyrant’s success eventually leads to a boring sex life (which it may indeed have done in Hiero’s case), but that what Hiero enjoys most in the pursuit of the beloved is its tyrannical element. Consider Hiero’s remark that tyrants do not even enjoy genuine affection from family and wives, i.e., those who are “‘inclined by nature and compelled by law’” to love them (3.9, emphasis added). This implies that even under ideal circumstances there is an unruly element to love (including filiva, which is less maddening than e[rwß) that must be constrained by laws and institutions. Hiero’s pleasure in possessing the beloved is secondary to his pleasure in taking the beloved, especially when he resists: the more elusive the prey, the more arousing the chase, and hence the more fulfilling the capture. Whatever he might intimate about his decent intentions regarding fair youths, the pleasure Hiero derives from this erotic chase does not appear to depend on reciprocal affection and the pleasant conversations to which such affection leads. (In this discussion Hiero mentions the pleasures of conversation and companionship once; he explicitly refers to sex [ta;v ajfrodivsia] five times.) As Hiero plainly states, not only does he find “fights and quarrels” to

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be most sexually provocative (1.33), but the pleasure he derives from the capture of recalcitrant lovers is in essence the same as that which he derives from war. And the status of this pleasure is clear: “To take from unwilling enemies I myself believe is most pleasant of all things” (1.34).10 The predatory aspect of Hiero’s erotic nature has significant implications for his relationship to his subjects in general. It is true that at the end of the dialogue Simonides alludes to the possibility of a healthy regime built both on friendship and erotic longing; the reformed tyrant’s benefactions might make him both loved (filoi:o) and desired (ejrw:/o) by his subjects (11.11). The difficulty, however, is that this statement does not account for the specific manifestation of Hiero’s own erotic desires. If his desire for the spontaneous affection (filiva) of those he pursues is compromised by the more aggressive aspects of his erotic nature, and if he derives as much pleasure from combat and war as his statements suggest, we must also suspect that his attitude toward his subjects is determined, not completely, but to a crucial degree, by the rapacious aspect of his nature. Hiero does not seem to be as bothered by the fact that “for the tyrant peace is never made with those subject to his tyranny” (2.11) as he tries to suggest. It is reasonable to accept Hiero’s claim that his inability to win the affection and willing obedience of his subjects is the greatest disadvantage of tyranny. Yet it is not necessarily clear that winning these goods would be superior to the visceral pleasures he already derives from his political authority—capturing and possessing the goods and persons of others. Or to put it another way, it is not clear that Hiero would be willing to entirely forgo these latter pleasures for the sake of the former. By promoting the material welfare of his citizens, Hiero may succeed to a certain extent in offsetting the vicious effects of his indulging in more violent pleasures. However, reform of his regime on the order Simonides suggests could only be completed with a fundamental reordering of his soul and the hierarchy of his passions. The tension between Hiero’s desire to be loved by the city and the pleasure he takes in tormenting it reflects an underlying incoherence in his understanding of his own good as well that of humanity in general. While Hiero seems to be aware on some level that the indulgence of his more rapacious passions may be akin to doing “himself an injury” (1.32), the dialogue does not suggest that he is so troubled by this disorder in his soul as to undertake the degree of self-examination necessary to cultivate the self-restraint and benevolence required by Simonides’ proposed reforms—the dialogue is not, after all, The Education of Hiero. To the extent that the reforms outlined by Simonides depend on the disposition of the tyrant to institute such changes, and in light of the questions the Hiero raises about the tyrant’s character, we now see a crucial similarity

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between Xenophon and Aristotle’s teaching concerning tyranny. While Xenophon refrains from an explicit comparison of the tyrant’s defects with the virtues of a legitimate king, both he and Aristotle ultimately see the question of reforming tyranny as tied to the question of the moral character of the tyrant as such. Aristotle expresses this concern in his equivocal statement that the tyrant might only be capable of becoming “half-vicious,” while Xenophon does so through his implicit (the Hiero is hardly preachy) exposition of the underlying rapacity of Hiero’s nature. In exposing this disorder in the soul of the tyrant as an obstacle to political reform, Xenophon alludes to the essential connection between political rule and humanity’s natural inclination to search for a universal, coherent order of human goods, which is manifest in citizens’ willing obedience to what they perceive as the righteousness and justice of lawful rulers. This underlying concern with the moral relations between ruler and ruled, reflected in Xenophon’s focus on friendship as a possible foundation for tyrannical reform, sets his account of tyranny apart from Machiavelli’s. In Machiavelli’s thought, as will become apparent when we turn to his more specific discussion of princely rule in the following chapters, the strongest foundation for successful rule is not love or friendship, but force. Although Xenophon recognizes the necessity of force, he also indicates that force must be tempered by the kind of political friendship that is the necessary, though not sufficient, condition for willing obedience. Further, he suggests that the ruler’s capacity for such friendship depends on a certain moral harmony in the soul that makes him more inclined to benevolence than to violence; the people love the ruler to the extent this harmony manifests itself in the ruler’s magnanimity and beneficence. In contrast, Machiavelli argues that the judicious and timely use of force is sufficient to instill in the people the kind of obedient awe necessary for glorious rule. This emphasis on force over love is also reflected in the fact that he goes much farther than Xenophon in obfuscating the distinction between tyranny and princely rule, and remains essentially silent on the relative hierarchy of passions in the soul of the prince/tyrant.11 For Xenophon, there remains a crucial distinction between the tyrant Hiero and Cyrus: whereas Hiero rose (to use Machiavelli’s language) through force and fraud alone, Cyrus begins as and remains the legitimate Persian commander and heir to the throne. Cyrus’ legitimate title plays an essential role, particularly in the early stages of his career, in establishing his moral, and hence political, authority in the eyes of the Persians and many of their allies. This still does not mean Xenophon believes the distinction between tyranny and kingship to be absolute. Many of Cyrus’ actions show that with respect to the greatest political feats, the line between legitimacy and illegit-

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imacy is not always clear. Throughout his reign Cyrus is willing, and to an extent compelled, to supplement his legitimate authority with the strategic use of more nefarious tactics. Cyrus may be the legitimate Persian ruler, but the majority of his empire is acquired through duplicitous usurpation and outright conquest.12 And even his status as legitimate representative of the Persian laws does not prevent him from bending and even transcending them in the service of his own ambition. At the height of his powers, Cyrus declares himself to be “a law that sees” (VIII 1.22)—unlike his father, the Persian king Cambyses, who is the first to do what is ordered by the city, and whose “measure is not his soul, but the law”(I 3.18). The question thus becomes whether Cyrus can reconcile his legitimate authority and the absolute power that is critical to satisfying his thirst for glory. That is to say, like the Hiero, the Cyropaedia considers whether it is possible to establish rule that is both absolute and benevolent. One crucial advantage Cyrus has, however, is that he is moderate and generous in a way that is uncharacteristic of most tyrants. In contrast to Hiero, for example, Cyrus is unwilling to let himself be moved by erotic longing and beauty. Not even Panthea, a woman so beautiful “that such a woman has not been begotten nor born from mortals in Asia” (V 1.7), can distract him from his responsibilities. With her husband gone on a diplomatic mission, she is Cyrus’ to do with what he wishes. Yet Cyrus refuses even to view her beauty in person, much less enjoy her sexual favors. “[I]f hearing from you that she is beautiful persuades me to go see her now, even though I do not have much leisure, I fear that she in turn will much more quickly persuade me to come to see her again. Consequently I would perhaps sit gazing at her, neglecting what I need to do” (V 1.8). Cyrus admits that he is not immune to the allure of sex and beauty, but he is able to master these desires. He is not enslaved by the maddening drives of the erotic tyrant. He readily forgoes the immediate satisfaction of selfish pleasures whose fulfillment may compromise his ability to govern, either by taking him away from his duties, or by provoking the moral contempt of his subordinates. Even as a child Cyrus displayed this self-mastery in the pursuit of honor. During his first visit to Media, Cyrus quickly comes to appreciate the grandeur and luxury of his grandfather’s court. As a lover of beauty and honor, Cyrus gladly accepts Astyages’ lavish gifts and eagerly adopts the superficial adornments that contribute to his grandfather’s majesty. But he is not impressed with all of the luxuries of Astyages’ court. In particular, he shuns the hedonistic pleasures of the Medes’ grand banquets. Having grown up on the strict Persian diet of bread and greens, Cyrus sees eating as simply a means to satiety, not something enjoyable in itself. But his austerity and

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moderation is not simply a habit instilled by his Persian education. He also has a much more sophisticated understanding of the benefits of self-restraint. At one dinner his grandfather presents Cyrus with a large platter of meat. But rather than enjoy it himself, Cyrus distributes the contents among his grandfather’s servants to reward them for their service and deference. Contrary to his earlier statements, Cyrus clearly understands the appeal of these delicacies to the Medes and uses this to his advantage. He eagerly sacrifices whatever immediate pleasure the Median food may bring him for something more desirable and useful, the gratitude and obligation of others. Cyrus thus combines elements of his Persian moral education with the opportunities afforded him by his grandfather’s wealth and authority. Even though he is the favored grandson of a despotic ruler who “has taught all the Medes to have less than himself” (I 3.18), he does not arbitrarily or wantonly exploit his privileged position. Rather, he builds his reputation by making manifest his willingness to use his influence with his indulgent grandfather to benefit others (I 4.12–4, 26). Such benevolence and patronage remains a foundation of his rule throughout his lifetime. Through his entire time, he made especially manifest, as far as he was able, benevolence of soul; for he believed that just as it is not easy to love those who seem to hate, nor to be well-disposed towards those who are ill-disposed, so also those known as loving and as being well disposed, would not be able to be hated by those who held that they were loved. (VIII 2.1; see also I 4.2, 5.1; IV 2.38–46; V 1.1, 2.9–12, and Due 1989, 37)

Such attempts to win the love and willing obedience of his subjects through great benefaction reflects Cyrus’ larger concern with maintaining his moral authority, despite his gross transgression of Persian law, and despite the aggressiveness of his imperial conquests. Although his ultimate goal is complete mastery, Cyrus is very concerned with distinguishing his rule as guided and restrained by piety, moderation, and honesty. Consider the following passage in which Cyrus establishes both his political superiority and righteousness in a speech refusing the hospitality and daughter of potential ally Gobryas, an Assyrian feudal lord intent on defecting from the Assyrian king. Gobryas, I think there are many human beings who would not be willing either to be impious or unjust, nor would they be false voluntarily; but because no one is willing to give them much money, tyranny, fortified walls, or children who are worthy of love, they die before it becomes clear what sort of people they were. But you have now put in my hands fortified walls, every sort of wealth, your power, and your daughter who is worthy of possession, and you

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have made it become clear that I would not be willing to be impious concerning guest friends, unjust for the sake of money, or voluntarily false in contracts. Be assured that as long as I am just and am praised by human beings because I seem to be so, I shall never forget this but will try to honor you in return with everything noble. (V 2.9-11)

The honor Cyrus seeks is necessarily exclusive. Accepting Gobryas’ gifts and the hand of his daughter would suggest a certain equality between the two, or that Cyrus is obligated to Gobryas as one is to those who are wealthier and more powerful.13 What Cyrus wants, of course, is not Gobryas’ indulgence, but his obedience. And he appreciates how important his manifest virtue is in securing respect for his authority. He recognizes that what is most valuable in this transaction is the opportunity to display himself as free from the desires that cause less continent, more capricious rulers to be hated and unable to secure the awe and reverence of their subjects. As we will see in the next chapter, however, Xenophon’s final assessment of the success of Cyrus’ rule hinges on more than the quality of Cyrus’ personal virtue.

Notes 1. Newell (1988, 109). 2. Thucydides describes the tyranny of Hippias (and his brother Hipparchus) as “not otherwise oppressive to the many” (History VI 54). See also Polybius, who describes the natural corruption of good regimes into their bad counterparts (e.g., kingship into tyranny); in light of the naturalness of this cycle, prudent statesmanship includes a certain accommodation of all forms of regimes (Histories VI 5–9; cf. Machiavelli Discourses I 2). Consider also Polybius’ description of the Roman republic as being held together in part by fear between the few and the many (Histories VI 11–18), and note that the difference between a regime dominated by fear and one characterized by mutual concord is the distinction between tyranny and kingship (VI 4.2, 6.11–12). 3. Cf. Aristotle Politics 1315a8–10, and again Thucydides History VI 54, which asserts that Hippias and Hipparchus “maintained themselves beyond reproach; and to the greatest extent these tyrants pursued virtue and understanding.” 4. See also Hiero 1.1, 2.1–3 and Strauss (2000, 40–4). 5. See Plato Republic 344a–b, 562a–569c, and Xenophon Memorabilia IV 6.12. 6. Hiero 7.13–8.1, Strauss (2000, 55–57). 7. The fact that Hiero allows Simonides this “victory” in speech is further evidence that Hiero is more confident in his authority than he seems to suggest. It also suggests a certain intellectual curiosity in Hiero that we do not see in Cyrus, who dines not with wise men, but with slavish subordinates and his eunuch guard. 8. See Cyropaedia VIII 1.46, 5.24.

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9. See Glenn (1992, 190). 10. Notice how Hiero emphasizes that this is his own preference (e[gwge nomivzw), whereas in speaking of the pleasures associated with filiva, he speaks more in terms of what he “presumes we all know” (Hiero 1.29), and of what nature “possibly” compels human beings to enjoy (1.33). 11. Machiavelli never uses the word “soul (anima)” in The Prince and Discourses (Mansfield 1998, 4, n. 5). 12. Glenn (1992, 185). 13. Gera observes that the “regular scheme of values in the Cyropaedia does in fact pose a problem: for every happy benefactor there must be a humiliated recipient” (1993, 106). Nowhere is this more apparent than in Cyaxares’ futile protests against Cyrus’ machinations to strip him of his authority (Cyropaedia V 5.25–27). See also Nadon (2001, 98).

P A R T

I I

PRINCES AND PHILOSOPHERS

C H A P T E R

4



The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics

At its peak, Cyrus’ Persian empire is the greatest in the known world. The final chapter of the Cyropaedia provides as clear a statement of Cyrus’ unparalleled political might and glory as can be found anywhere in the work. Cyrus’ kingship itself bears witness that it was the most noble and greatest in all of those in Asia. For it was bordered on the east by the [Indian Ocean], on the north by the Black Sea, on the west by Cyprus and Egypt, toward the south by Ethiopia. But as large as it came to be, it was governed by the sole judgment of Cyrus; and he honored and was attentive to those under him just as his own children, and his subjects showed pious reverence to him as a father. (VIII 8.1, cf. I 1.4–5)

In the next sentence, however, we learn that “when Cyrus died his sons immediately fell into dissension; cities and nations immediately revolted; and everything took a turn for the worse.” The sad fate of the Persian empire is even more striking in light of Cyrus’ great concern with securing the longevity of his empire and hence immortal glory for himself as its founder. My sons and all of my friends here, the end of life is now for me close at hand— I know this clearly from many things. When I die, it is necessary that you speak and do everything concerning me as being happy. For as a child I seem to have enjoyed the fruits of everything considered noble for children, and when I was a youth, those things for youths, and when I was a grown man, those things for men. And with the advance of time, I seemed to perceive my strength to be

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always on the increase, so that I never perceived my old age being weaker than my youth, and I know of nothing I endeavored or desired, but failed to achieve. And I observed friends becoming happy on account of me, and my enemies becoming enslaved on account of me. And my fatherland, which before lived privately, I now leave the most honored in Asia. Of what I obtained, I know of nothing that I did not preserve . . . .Now, if I die, I leave you alive, sons, you who the gods granted to be born to me. I leave my fatherland and my friends happy. Consequently, how should I not justly acquire for all time the memory of being blessedly happy? (VIII 7.6–9)

Scholars who view the Cyropaedia as an encomium of an ideal ruler have found it difficult to accept that Xenophon would have deliberately undermined the glory of the heroic founder of the Persian empire by describing in such stark terms the collapse of the institutions he spent his life establishing. Some have even speculated that the “postscript” was actually written by someone other than Xenophon.1 The majority of contemporary scholars, however, believe that, as odd as the final chapter is, there is insufficient historical, philological, or manuscript evidence to dismiss it as inauthentic.2 But if Xenophon is the author of this chapter, what explains its apparent inconsistency with the substance and tenor of the rest of the work? One argument is that Xenophon was simply a careless writer and editor of his own work.3 Another is that there is an unresolved tension in Xenophon’s own thought between his awareness of political-historical reality and what is an almost naïve moral idealism.4 But whatever Xenophon’s shortcomings as a writer and thinker, the general consensus is that his primary intention remains to praise the remarkably successful rule of a benevolent and virtuous ruler.5 And because the final chapter calls this success into question, most scholars tend to downplay, to a greater or lesser extent, its significance with respect to understanding the Cyropaedia as a whole.6 But does Xenophon himself see any inconsistency between the final chapter and his concerns and intentions in the rest of the work? Remember Xenophon’s suggestion that “going back” and reconsidering what at first appears to be his unmitigated praise of the Persian republic in light of troubling observations about its less-than-genuine egalitarianism will help us “understand the whole” of the regime (I 2.15). It is therefore reasonable to suspect Xenophon intends the disturbing final chapter to be an indication that we must go back to the beginning of the Cyropaedia and reexamine his judgment of Cyrus, his virtue, and the success of his rule.7 In the introduction to the work, Xenophon suggests that the example of Cyrus shows that establishing stable rule over human beings is not a difficult task, if only it is done “intelligently” (I 1.3). Hence, to reopen the question

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of Cyrus’ success is to reconsider the wisdom of his administration, which is itself ultimately a reflection of his fundamental understanding of the requirements and limitations of political rule. To what extent do his clever and impressive contrivances to secure his majesty in fact contribute to the eventual dissipation of his empire? And to what extent is his understanding of political rule itself influenced and perhaps distorted by those aspects of his character (especially his overwhelming love of glory) that drive him to seek universal imperial authority? We must not lose sight of Cyrus’ greatness. The fact that this decline does not occur until after Cyrus’ death underscores the singularity of his talents and authority.8 Cyrus’ ability to overcome virtually all human obstacles in the founding of his empire suggests an almost divine quality to his rule. Nevertheless, Cyrus’ greatness does not preclude that certain of his policies might be significantly flawed.9 His failure to establish laws and institutions capable of maintaining the strength and integrity of the empire after his death suggests another dimension to the work as a whole: Xenophon also intends the Cyropaedia to be a critique of political life as such. The flaws in Cyrus’ regime suggest that, on the one hand, even the greatest ruler is subject to limitations inherent in politics itself that make mastery of the political art difficult, if not impossible. On the other hand, the shadow such flaws cast over Cyrus’ glory suggest that political excellence may not be ultimately satisfying with respect to the highest aspirations of the most politically ambitious, the longing for immortal glory.

The Birth of an Empire Cyrus begins planting the seeds for the eventual degeneration of his empire from the moment he first takes command as general of the Persian army. It is at this point that he begins his machinations to transform it from a small defensive force into the imperialistic war machine he will need in order to satisfy his greatest ambitions. In order to institute his reforms, Cyrus must assume a position of unquestioned authority that transcends the Persian laws. The first and biggest obstacle Cyrus faces is winning the support of the Persian Peers. The primary goal of the Persian education is to instill in its citizens a dedication to the practice of virtue for the sake of the common good. The foundation of this virtue is self-sacrificing obedience to the ancestral laws, particularly those pertaining to the martial arts. Such selfless devotion to the common good is necessarily predicated upon the belief that political virtue constitutes its own reward; the Peers must believe that their sacrifices and toil (and beatings) contain an inherent dignity and nobility that super-

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sedes the satisfaction of individual desires. The paradox, however, is that the cultivation of great political and military prowess awakens the desire for individual honor and aggrandizement. It is unclear, therefore, whether the Peers are attached to the regime solely as a good in itself. Republican virtue is just one of several means to fulfilling the highest aspirations of the most talented and ambitious citizens, as evidenced by Cambyses’ account of Persia’s experimental lapse from its traditional moral education. It is precisely this latent tension between the Peers’ attachment to virtue and their selfish desire for individual glory that provides Cyrus with the leverage necessary to undermine their moral commitment to the laws and principles of the Persian republic, and transfer their primary loyalty to himself. He helps them realize that while their service to the regime is a manifestation of their excellence, it does not constitute a sufficient reward for that excellence. In essence, Cyrus flatters their underlying but heretofore unarticulated belief that their superior virtue and education entitle them to greater reward and honor. Cyrus begins his remarkably frank speech to his newly commissioned officers by acknowledging their moderation and obedience. “Men, friends, I did not choose you after testing you now for the first time, but from childhood I have watched you enthusiastically working at what the city believes (nomivzei) to be noble, and wholly abstaining from what it supposes to be base” (I 5.7). At first, this statement seems to imply that the Peers could be expected to accept their assignment and Cyrus’ command without question, expecting as their reward nothing more than the knowledge that they are fulfilling their duty. But Cyrus’ subsequent arguments intimate that the Peers’ original sense of duty is an insufficient foundation for their participation in the upcoming campaign. He even goes so far as to question the inherent goodness of the life of the virtuous Persian itself. “I consider our ancestors to have been no worse than we. At least they too strove to accomplish the things that are considered to be the works of virtue. But what good they acquired by being such, either for themselves or for the Persians in common, I am not yet able to see” (I 5.8). Asserting that the Peers’ ancestors were no worse—and hence no better— than they, Cyrus suggests that their reverence for and imitation of their ancestors is based on a misguided equation of the ancient and the good; this has blinded them to the shortcomings of ancient virtue with respect to securing what befits the virtuous individual. He illustrates this point by appealing to the Peers’ unacknowledged resentment of the fact that, in at least one respect, their great sacrifices to preserve the city benefit the basest factions of the regime more than themselves. In effect, they receive no particular reward

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or compensation for their efforts—not to mention the fact that they must continue to live the singularly unpleasant life of the Persian soldier. “And yet I think that no virtue is practiced by human beings so that those who become noble get no more than the base. Instead, those who abstain from immediate pleasures do not do so in order that they might never experience enjoyment, but they make preparations through their continence so that in the future they might have much greater enjoyment” (I 5.8–9). Cyrus thus implies that what ought to define the Peers’ superiority is not the selflessness of their service to the city, but the quantity and quality of the extrinsic rewards their virtue makes available to them. Soldiers practice the arts of war “not so they will never stop fighting,” but so that they might “attach much wealth, much happiness, and great honors to both themselves and their city” (emphasis added). Skilled orators (like Cyrus) practice speaking not so that they may never cease speaking, but in order to “persuade human beings to accomplish many and great goods (pollav kai; megavla ajgaqa;).” And just as a farmer does not sow his field only to allow his crops to lie fallow, the Peers would be foolish to continue to practice virtue without reaping its rewards. The Peers’ quick and unanimous acceptance of Cyrus’ command confirms the allure of such rewards and the tenuousness of their commitment to the more aristocratic notion of virtue as a good in itself.10 Though it is clearly advantageous for Cyrus to exploit the deficiency of Persian virtue with respect to satisfying the Peers’ selfish desires, his intention is not simply to reduce the Peers’ notion of virtue to its mercenary core. He does not completely undermine their belief in the inherent nobility of virtue. Following what we might call the moral nadir of his speech, Cyrus begins a tacit withdrawal from at least the tenor of his earlier arguments. He ceases to speak explicitly of the more tangible rewards of virtue, namely wealth, and (re)emphasizes the manliness, nobility, and honor associated with the Persian education to virtue. But men (a[ndreß)11 let us not suffer [the folly of not reaping the rewards of virtue], but since we are conscious of having practiced noble and good deeds (kalw:n ka;gaqw:n e[rgwn) since childhood, let us go against the enemy, who, I know clearly, are too inexperienced to compete against you. [Y]ou adorn your souls with the most noble (kavlliston) and most warlike possession of all; for you all rejoice in being praised more than in all other things, and lovers of praise must necessarily take on with pleasure every labor and every danger. (I 5.11–12)12

Cyrus knows that despite their susceptibility to his initial promise of personal gain, the Peers nevertheless remain conscious of themselves as Peers: they

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continue to believe that they are distinguished from the baser Commoners by their superior education and virtue. Cyrus does not want to completely disabuse them of this belief, so he flatters it. “But let us go forth with confidence, since the appearance of unjustly desiring the things of others is gone. For now our enemies are coming, beginning the unjust deeds. And our friends call us to be auxiliaries. What is more just than defending ourselves or more noble than aiding friends?” (I 5.13) Cyrus does not withdraw his earlier argument in favor of reaping the personal rewards of virtue; it remains the foundation of his attempt to free his officers from strict obedience to Persian law. Yet, he is careful not to let the Peers believe that they are motivated simply by selfish desires. He reminds them of their moral obligation to their Median allies and thus assures them that it is not greed that brings them to Media, but justice. So should they profit from defeating the unjust Assyrians, this would in no way detract from the righteousness of their cause or their dignity as noble men. Because of the justice of their campaign, they can relish the spoils of war as a noble reward for their virtue.13 But there is another dimension to Cyrus’ emphasis on the Peers’ justice and nobility. He knows that his arguments about the extrinsic rewards of virtue are not adequate for maintaining the Peers’ support for his authority. Despite his suggestion that the profits of war will bring them greater happiness in the future, he knows this arrangement may prove insufficient precisely because the Peers are likely to recognize that they might not be victorious. Cyrus himself alludes to this with the suggestion that he might be overstating the military advantage conferred by the Peers’ rigorous training. “If I say these things while knowing the contrary to be true, I deceive myself. For if you fail to be such as I say, the shortcomings will fall to me” (I 5.13).14 Simply put, there is no guarantee that they will live to enjoy the profits of their efforts in battle. Cyrus therefore supplements his appeal to their desire for gain by arguing that an honorable death is a noble compensation for one’s sacrifice. Cyrus must keep alive in them the belief that the practice of virtue, at least on some level, constitutes its own reward. To further bolster the Peers’ confidence, Cyrus reassures them of the gods’ support for their campaign. “But I think this also gives you confidence, that I make this expectation [of victory] without having neglected the gods. For having been together with me many times you know that I always try to begin with the gods not only in great matters but even in small ones” (I 5.14). This invocation of the gods reveals much about the nature of Cyrus’ authority itself. Cyrus’ apparent descent from the gods entitles him to the Persian throne; it is the foundation of his original legitimacy (I 2.1, IV 1.24).15 In the present context, however, Cyrus’ allusion to his privileged relationship with the gods shows

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how he can and must manipulate this legitimacy so as to increase his autonomy as ruler of an empire over which he, not the Persian laws, will hold absolute authority. In effect, he tells the Peers that however far they may stray from the old Persian ways, the gods will not abandon them; the legitimacy of his rule does not depend upon his strict obedience to the particular orders of the Persian magistrates, but is grounded on the support of the gods whose will supersedes the authority of the Persian rulers and whose favor is sustained by his personal piety. However necessary, the Peers’ support is not sufficient for the founding of Cyrus’ great empire. Once he arrives in Media Cyrus institutes a number of reforms in the organization and operation of the Persian army as a whole that are designed to increase its fighting strength, and more importantly, to increase his own authority and ability to utilize the army for his own design. His first reform is to arm the Commoners like the Peers. According to Persian law, the Commoners are deployed as spear-throwers and archers while only the Peers are allowed to enter (i.e., can afford to enter) the ranks of the more effective heavily armed foot soldiers. Contrary to these orders, Cyrus seeks to draw upon the unrealized fighting strength of the Commoners. The biggest challenge for Cyrus is to convince the Peers to accept this plan. The Peers’ heavy arms help them to “rule easily over other Persians” despite their numerical inferiority (II 1.3). Cyrus is in effect asking them to surrender this cornerstone of their political strength. He begins by flattering their belief in their superior moral education and military prowess. It is their armor and “preparedness of soul” that makes them capable of engaging the enemy at close range (II 1.11). The Peers’ virtue also makes it not simply necessary, but right that they rule over and educate the Commoners. “[S]o it is our task to whet their souls. For it belongs to the ruler not only to make himself good, but also to care to make those he rules as good as possible.” Despite these flattering remarks, however, the core of Cyrus’ argument is an appeal to the Peers’ more ignoble fear for their own safety. Cyrus alerts the Peers to the fact that had they been ambushed on their way to Media, the Commoners would not have been able to assist them since their light arms render them capable of fighting only from a distance. He thus draws the Peers’ attention to the most immediate concern of any army that is outside the city’s walls, its simple survival. If the Commoners are to be useful to the Peers, they need to have arms similar to their own. The Peers are convinced. As Xenophon reports, “they were all pleased, believing that they would go into the contest with more [men]” (II 1.12). Once again, Cyrus has used the Peers’ self-interest as leverage in expanding the boundaries of his authority beyond the letter of Persian law.

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But were the Peers ever in much of a position to oppose Cyrus in this matter? Despite Cyrus’ expressed concern for their welfare, there is nevertheless an implicit coerciveness underlying his appeal. He seeks to win the Peers’ support only after he convinces his uncle Cyaxares, out of his own coffers, to manufacture the Commoners’ heavy arms. In fact, these arms are “almost ready” when the Peers and Commoners arrive in Media (II 1.10). Cyrus is about to arm the 30,000 Commoners—whose bodies, he reminds the Peers, “cannot be faulted” (II 1.11)—whether the 1,000 Peers support him or not. However, Cyrus neither desires nor needs to make this threat explicit. Instead, he relies on the Peers’ own recognition of the Commoners’ resentment of them, a tactic that has the added benefit of underscoring the legitimate aspect of Cyrus’ command. As an unnamed Peer observes, the Commoners have more respect for Cyrus as “the son of [the] king and [the army’s] general” than they do for the Peers, whom they view more as equals who happen to enjoy an arbitrary and unfair advantage over them (II 1.13). That the Commoners will be rearmed is inevitable; what is left for the Peers is to ensure that this occurs as peacefully and advantageously as possible. Their best or only option is to ally themselves with Cyrus and support his proposals in the hope of securing his protection. As the unnamed Peer politely puts it, “the arguments of those most capable of doing good and evil especially resonate in the souls of those who hear them.” With respect to the Commoners, Cyrus wins their support by exploiting their dissatisfaction with their inferior position in the regime. Placing the heavy arms before the Commoners, Cyrus proclaims that because they were born and raised in the same place as the Peers, and are no worse in body, it is not fitting for them to be worse in soul. He promises that if they take up their new arms and face the same dangers in battle as the Peers, they will “be held worthy of similar [rewards]” should something “noble and good” come from the upcoming campaign (II 1.15). To help convince the Commoners that they will be capable of competing with the Peers on equal terms, Cyrus downplays the importance of the Peers’ extensive training. The advantage lies in the weapons themselves rather than in the skills of the user. “[With these weapons] we must strike those opposed to us, not even needing to guard against missing as we strike” (II 1.16). These arms are so effective that no one will be able to distinguish himself except by daring, which the Commoners already “nourish in secret” (II 1.17). But Cyrus does not appeal simply to the Commoners’ desire for gain and belief in their own native abilities. At the end of his speech he tells them that those who do not take up these arms and enroll themselves in the same order as the Peers are to “remain in servile arms” (II 1.18). Thus, even if the Commoners should recognize that Cyrus’

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claims regarding their likely success are exaggerated, they are unlikely to decline his “offer”; he has made refusal tantamount to a shameful admission of deserved servility and poverty. Not surprisingly, all of the Commoners accept their promotion, believing that anyone who does not will “justly live in want for all time” (II 1.19). What remains is to turn these inexperienced troops into a viable fighting force. Cyrus is aided in this endeavor by the looming threat of the enemy, who were “said to be approaching, but had not yet arrived” (II 1.20). With the enemy close at hand, the Commoners, who are no longer allowed to fight with arms familiar to them, certainly have an incentive for becoming proficient in the use of their new weapons. To further encourage them, Cyrus once again appeals to their resentment of their inferior status back home in Persia. He institutes a meritocratic system of promotion based upon the performance of martial duties rather than birth or wealth. Believing that “in whatever things there were rivalries among men, they were much more willing to practice these things” (II 1.22), Cyrus proposes numerous contests to cultivate the following qualities: obedience to the rulers; willingness to labor; eagerness for danger (while maintaining good order); knowledge about soldierly things; love of beauty concerning arms; and love of honor in all of these things (cf. Hiero 6–7). Promotion is the reward for individual excellence, and, in the case of those who are already in positions of command, for properly instructing their subordinates. Cyrus’ meritocratic system motivates individual soldiers to excel in their duties; however, it is not adequate for developing the necessary sense of fellowship among the soldiers, particularly between the Commoners and the Peers. Certainly, the threat of the Assyrian army is a significant incentive for the Commoners and Peers to unite in mutual self-defense (see also Cyropaedia III 3.10, VI 1.7). Nevertheless, given the inherently competitive nature of Cyrus’ meritocratic system of promotion, and the Commoners’ lingering resentment of the Peers (who still hold all positions of command), a complete reconciliation between the two factions remains elusive. This is evident in the explicit enthusiasm one ambitious Commoner expresses for the opportunity to engage the Peers in a “democratic struggle” for the honors that were previously theirs alone (II 3.11). To encourage the troops and their commanders to conceive of themselves as part of a greater whole, therefore, Cyrus institutes a system of strict equality with respect to the necessities, and decides to distribute certain rewards and honors in an egalitarian manner. He rewards entire squads, companies, and platoons with prizes that are “fitting for a multitude” (II 1.24); namely, inviting them to dine with him and making sure that what “was set at the table was always equal between himself and those he invited to dinner” (II 1.30).

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Another contrivance he employs is to billet each company in a single tent. This has a number of salutary effects. If an individual sees his fellows similarly provisioned, he cannot claim that he has received less, and thus cannot claim that he is any less obligated to fulfill his duties. Tenting together also encourages familiarity, which promotes a heightened sense of shame among them. “Those who are unknown somehow seem less restrained, just as if they were in the dark” (II 1.25, recall I 2.4, 9). Having a company tent together in what is essentially its military formation also helps soldiers maintain order in battle; they become like “sticks and stones that need to be fitted together: however they happen to be cast down, it is easy to fit them together again, if they are marked to make it clear whence each piece has come” (II 1.28, see also V 3.47). Xenophon adds that Cyrus believes that men who mess together are less willing to abandon each other, for “even beasts that are fed together have a fierce yearning [to reunite] if someone separates them from each other.” This idea is echoed in Cyrus’ policy of constantly exercising his troops, which makes them not only stronger and more capable of toil, but also more gentle toward each other, just like “horses that labor together” (II 1.29). By instituting fundamental equality throughout the army and removing the material obstacles to this goal, Cyrus comes closer to fulfilling the Persian republic’s explicit egalitarian principles than the regime itself.16 And once that baseline equality is established, the meritocratic character of his system of promotion has the potential to better realize the republic’s goal of promoting the virtue of every citizen. But Xenophon’s account also raises questions about the specific character of the virtues Cyrus ultimately seeks to cultivate in his subordinates. Cyrus’ comparison of his troops to beasts of burden makes us question whether the qualities he wants them to possess are consistent with the highest standards of the Persian republic, much less with human excellence simply. Despite his earlier suggestion that it is no longer fitting that the Commoners be inferior in soul, and that they ought to receive an education similar to that of the Peers, there is no indication that he even attempts to replicate the most notable feature of the Persian education—its schools of justice. In fact, the virtues of justice and gratitude are not even mentioned in this section of the work; rather, the Commoners’ education appears limited to imitating the Peers’ capacity for labor and ability to maintain military order (II 1.26–27, 29, 2.6-9, 3.21). Perhaps more important is the ambiguity surrounding Cyrus’ treatment of the nobler men in his service. Consider the following description of Cyrus’ egalitarian approach to men of the highest and lowest ranks.

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He always made the army’s servants equal sharers in everything. It seemed to him no less appropriate to honor the servants in military affairs than heralds or ambassadors. For he believed it necessary for [everyone] to be loyal, knowledgeable regarding military things, and intelligent, besides being zealous, swift, obedient, and without confusion. And moreover, the [qualities] that those believed to be best hold, Cyrus thought it necessary that the servants hold, and that they practice not refusing any deed, for they should believe it fitting to for them to do what the rulers command. (II 1.31)

That Cyrus intends to honor and educate servants like ambassadors and Peers makes us wonder whether he does not conversely look upon ambassadors and Peers as he does servants: as men whose primary virtue is unhesitating obedience rather than the more noble qualities of proud gentlemen. It is particularly striking that love of honor (filovtimon), which figured so highly in his first speech to the Peers, has disappeared from Xenophon’s description of the virtues Cyrus now seeks to cultivate (cf. I 5.11–12, II 1.22 with II 1.31). Cyrus’ need for unquestioningly obedient soldiers stands in tension with his ability to foster the qualities that drive noble, independentminded men (like himself and the honor-loving Peers) to excel. To put it another way, it is becoming increasingly apparent that the fulfillment of Cyrus’ own ambition, to secure ever-greater political authority, requires that such ambition be suppressed in others, particularly those most capable of competing for the honor that attends absolute rule. There is a more practical and immediate difficulty arising from Cyrus’ reforms: those reforms designed to secure the loyalty and good order of his troops also have the potential to undermine the willingness of both the Peers and Commoners to fight their best on his behalf. Cyrus’ egalitarian restructuring of the army allows him to cultivate the talents of exceptional Commoners such as Pheraulas, who even as a child found it not only natural but also pleasant to “strike with a sword everything I could without being caught” (II 3.10). The difficulty, however, is that Pheraulas, a man “unlike the lowborn in both body and soul” (II 3.7), turns out to be exceptional among the Commoners. Once the Commoners’ training begins, the Peers can only laugh at their petty demands for strict equality, and their mindless, overly literal obedience to the orders of their commanders. Cyrus laughs along with the Peers at this obtuseness; but in keeping with his concern for acquiring obedient subordinates, he also points to the underlying benefits of their simplicity. “By Zeus and all the gods, what sort of men do we have as companions! They are so easily won by attention that with even a small amount of relish many of them can be acquired as friends. Some are so obedient, that they obey before they even know what is ordered. Indeed, I do not

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know what it is more necessary to pray for than to have soldiers such as these” (II 2.10). Nevertheless, Cyrus knows the negative effect the manifest inferiority of the Commoners could have on the efficacy of his troops as a whole. Despite this inequality in talents, the Commoners have already interpreted Cyrus’ previous egalitarian reforms to mean that they deserve equal shares of whatever goods might come from battle, regardless of their actual contribution. On the one hand, this expectation of equality could undermine the Commoners’ incentive to excel in battle. After all, if the proceeds of victory are distributed equally, why would one Commoner desire to fight harder and risk more than his fellows (see II 2.22)? On the other hand, this expectation of equality also arouses great resentment among the Peers. Because the Peers’ previous education makes them better soldiers, and because they continue to believe in the superiority of their souls, they find the idea of sharing equally with the inept and vulgar Commoners abhorrent. As Chrysantas puts it, “There is nothing more unequal among human beings than thinking the bad and the good to be deserving of equal things” (II 2.18). If the Peers are not rewarded for their greater contribution, what incentive do they have to fight their best, especially now that they have been enticed to view the practice of martial virtue not simply as a good in itself, but also, if not more, as a means to extrinsic rewards? Further, they might come to resent Cyrus who brought about these very conditions that threaten the Peers’ assumptions regarding their superiority. Cyrus must therefore contrive to maintain the Peers’ respect for his authority while providing both the Commoners and Peers with sufficient motivation to excel. His task is all the more difficult insofar as he must flatter the Peers’ sense of entitlement without undermining his authority over the Commoners, who see him as an ally against the Peers. Cyrus’ solution is an attempt to judiciously balance his authority as legitimate representative of the Persian laws with the precedent set by his previous translegal reforms. After listening to the Peers’ complaint, Cyrus suggests that they together propose a vote to the Commoners over whether or not to assign honors “looking to the works of each” (II 2.18). Chrysantas is surprised that Cyrus wants to put this question to a vote, especially in light of the fact that he had instituted his previous reforms by proclamation. Cyrus responds, “but, by Zeus . . . these things are not similar. For what they acquire while on campaign, they will hold, I think, to be theirs in common. But the command of the army they still believe from home to be mine fairly, so that they do not believe, I think, that I do anything unjust when I appoint the officers” (II 2.19). His authority to appoint officers by proclamation is derived from his initial mandate from the Persian rulers. But his standing as representative of

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the Persian laws is by itself not enough to maintain his authority, especially with respect to the newly armed Commoners. This is not simply because his reforms supersede, even contradict, the orders of the Persian republic: those orders may never have commanded the complete respect of the Commoners in the first place. We recall that underlying Cyrus’ attempt to encourage the Commoners to join the ranks of the heavily armed Peers was the intimation that the Persian regime, while not directly responsible for their poverty and lack of education, nevertheless is somehow deficient inasmuch as it neglected to help them realize their right to a fair share in the regime. Cyrus wins the Commoners’ support by effectively demonstrating his willingness to set aside Persian laws in order to benefit the Commoners. But once he shows himself willing to question the legitimacy of the Persian laws, he cannot retract, on the grounds that it is within his prerogative as the representative of those laws, what is— in the eyes of the Commoners—his promise to make an equal distribution of all goods. Cyrus’ decision to put this question of the distribution of the spoils of war to a vote shows he recognizes that the more his orders stray from the Persian laws, the more his authority depends upon his subordinates’ trust in his individual judgment. This trust in turn rests on their belief that his judgments and orders are and will continue to be consistent with their own good. This of course will not always be the case. But because Cyrus formalizes his new orders through a popular vote, if his commands turn out not to be completely in harmony with the Commoners’ interests, they must themselves assume some of the blame for their role in approving these orders. More importantly, the way Cyrus orchestrates this vote suggests that his underlying intention is in fact to increase the scope of his own authority in a manner that actually makes him less dependent upon the will of the Commoners. He begins by reminding them of the tangible rewards of victory: if they are zealous and prevail, all of the enemy’s good things will become theirs since “all the things of the conquered are always laid before the conquerors as prizes” (II 3.2). However, victory is possible only if every soldier “has in himself [the conviction] that if each one is himself not zealous, nothing that needs to happen will happen” (II 3.3). In addition, should anyone think that he may remain soft and rely upon the efforts of his fellows, “the things that bring suffering will come upon all of them at once.” Each man ought to be willing to perform at his best not only out of desire for individual gain, but out of fear of defeat. Cyrus’ heightened emphasis on the threat of defeat is an implicit withdrawal from his earlier (rhetorically effective but factually questionable) argument that the Persians’ heavy arms are so effective that victory is all but

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inevitable. Because of their lack of skill and training, the Commoners will be fighting at a disadvantage. Therefore, their primary, if not only, incentive for fighting their best is essentially fear of a stronger enemy. And even this fear may not be sufficient for motivating the Commoners. “And God made things somewhat like this: he set others as commanders over those who do not work at commanding themselves to labor after good things.” The Commoners remain effectively inferior to the Peers; they need the Peers to help them overcome their own deficiencies by making them diligent. But to make the best men willing to exert this care, the rewards of victory must be distributed according to merit. If the best can expect to be duly rewarded for their efforts, not only will they strive to fight their best, but they will in turn motivate their subordinates to ensure that their opportunity for gain is not jeopardized. Cyrus’ invocation of the divine makes it clear that whatever lingering reservations the Commoners (and perhaps the Peers) may have, they cannot express them without exposing themselves as willing to defy the gods.17 When Cyrus finally calls for a vote, he forces dissenters to admit that the bad and shameful deserve to share equally with the good. “Now then, let anyone stand up here and speak to this point, whether he thinks virtue will be more practiced among us if he who is willing to undertake the greatest labors and to run the greatest dangers will also obtain the most honor, or if we see it makes no difference to be bad” (II 3.4, see also II 2.20). By recasting the notion of equality to mean that the bad and the good are deserving of equal things, Cyrus removes the moral foundation for any objection to his proposal. Proving once again to be a reliable proxy-in-speech for Cyrus, Chrysantas makes clear the bind in which Cyrus’ argument places dissenters. “I do not think that you offer this argument supposing that it is necessary that the bad share equally with the good, but testing us to see if there will be some man willing show himself as supposing that he should share equally in the things obtained by others who practice virtue, although he himself does not practice what is good and noble” (II 3.5).18 Cyrus leaves the Commoners little choice but to concede, publicly at least, that distributing rewards according to merit is not simply necessary for survival of the army, but right and just. In effect, he compels them to accept their subordinate condition by demonstrating both the practical necessity of these reforms and the baseness and impiety associated with opposing them. He thereby strengthens his mandate to reorder the army without having to rely on the Persian laws and without having to make concessions to the Commoners’ expectation of strict equality. Cyrus appears to have addressed the Peers’ concerns about sharing the proceeds of their noble efforts with the many, and has reestablished a means for encouraging their pursuit of excellence. And to the extent that the well-

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trained Peers are more likely to benefit from this merit-based system than the Commoners, Cyrus largely avoids offending their belief in their superiority over the many. But Cyrus’ new merit-based system of reward is intended to do more than simply appease the Peers. Now that Cyrus has established his right to judge the Peers according to their contribution to the campaign (the same standard to which he holds the Commoners), they can no longer assume that their status as Peers guarantees their superior rank. Their position depends on them proving their superiority. Thus, in making the pursuit of honor a competition between the outnumbered Peers and resentful Commoners, Cyrus creates the need for a common judge who is, or is at least believed to be, impartial, and whose authority and judgment supersede that of both groups, to say nothing of the Persian laws themselves, which are of course guaranteed to favor the Peers (II 3.8, 12, 15; Nadon 2001, 74-75). Cyrus’ previous demonstrations of liberality and egalitarianism in honoring his troops establish his credentials for this position. At the same time, however, Cyrus has also subjected the Persians’ (especially the Peers’) pursuit of virtue to significant qualifications. The Persians’ efforts are now ultimately guided and limited by Cyrus’ judgment of what is expedient for them to pursue—namely obedience and good order in battle (II 3.21–24). He has implicitly denigrated the other virtues the Peers are supposed to possess as a result of their Persian education. Cyrus has lowered the standards of human excellence: the Peers “aristocratic” virtue has been subverted and effectively replaced by excellent service to Cyrus. Whatever distinction they may obtain as individuals has meaning only insofar as it is obtained in obedience to Cyrus’ commands and devotion to his cause.19 The consequences of this implicit redefinition of virtue become apparent as Cyrus’ empire reaches its peak with the final defeat of the Assyrians.

The Conquest of Babylon and Imperial Virtue An important similarity between Xenophon and Machiavelli is the consideration each gives to building a thriving regime on the back of imperial expansion. Both look to imperial expansion, with its ever-increasing opportunity for martial glory and material gain, as a potential solution for the natural scarcity of goods and honors that is the source of so much political conflict within a regime. Cyrus’ imperial conquests had another salutary purpose: insofar as his soldiers were fighting a common enemy, his campaign fostered a crucial sense of unity and common purpose among his troops. In the beginning, Cyrus recognizes that encouraging a certain level of competitiveness among his troops helps bring the newly armed Commoners up to fighting strength, as well as

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energizes the complacent Peers. But, if left unchecked, such competitiveness would be harmful to the overall strength of his army. He saw, in addition, that since they were ambitious in those things in which they competed, many of the soldiers were even envious of each other, and also wished for these [reasons] to lead them out into enemy [territory] as quickly as possible, knowing that common risks make allies friendly-minded towards each other; and in this [situation] they no longer envy either those who deck themselves out in their arms or those who desire reputation. Further, troops of this sort even praise and applaud those similar to themselves, believing that they are co-workers for the common good. (III 3.10–11)

With the capture of Babylon and the defeat of the Assyrian army, however, Cyrus loses the (unintentional) aid this potent enemy gave him in maintaining the solidarity of his growing empire (VII 5.26–33). This is also the point where Xenophon’s narrative shifts from Cyrus’ military exploits to his efforts to preserve his empire and his authority—to maintain himself “as he thought fitting a king” (VII 5.37, 55). The difficult task Cyrus faces is consolidating his imperial authority without jeopardizing the strength and loyalty of his subordinates. The problem is that the changing requirements of his rule are in tension with the kind of moral commitment necessary in his subordinates to maintain the health of his empire as a whole. The capture of Babylon would seem to represent, at least for the Persians, the final overcoming of the austere life of the Persian citizen: they now possess great tracts of land, servants, and other luxuries. Nevertheless, Cyrus makes it clear that there are conditions attached to this success. So as not to succumb to the immediate pleasures and luxury sought by “bad human beings,” which would quickly deprive them of “all good things” (VII 5.74), they must continue to practice the same, or many of the same, self-sacrificing virtues they practiced back in Persia, especially moderation, continence, and strength (VII 5.75, cf. III 3.8, VI 2.38–46). There is, however, a crucial difference between the conditions under which the Persian Peers ruled in the earlier republic and the circumstances in which Cyrus’ magistrates now find themselves: the Peers (not to mention others in Cyrus’ court) have come to view virtue less as good in itself than as a means to external rewards, namely the wealth and honor denied them by the harsh requirements of the Persian republic. The Peers were raised to view as inherently choice-worthy those virtues that made them dutiful and effective guardians of the regime. Now they are more likely to see such self-sacrificing virtue as an obstacle to their enjoyment of the goods Cyrus had promised them and are now so near at hand. To put it another way, it is possible, as Cyrus himself acknowledges, to

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turn his own earlier objection to the sacrifices demanded by the Persian republic against his present argument for the continued practice of moderation. He asks rhetorically: “What is the benefit of us having accomplished what we desired, if it is still necessary to endure hunger, thirst and labor and take pains to remain diligent?” (VII 5.80, 2.11). Cyrus therefore must establish a satisfactory foundation for the practice of virtue among his magistrates without losing the loyalty he built on earlier promises of great gains and rewards. Cyrus’ task is complicated by the fact that the ultimate goal of his concern for his subordinates’ virtue is to make them better able to serve him as bureaucratic intermediaries, administrators of distant territories, and caretakers of his immense wealth (VII 5.36, 70, 3.1; VIII 1.9–15). He begins by proclaiming that self-restraint and diligence actually increase one’s pleasure in the end. Just as hunger is the greatest sauce for food, so “labors are a sauce for the good things” (VII 5.81). God provides the goods desired by all human beings, but such goods are really only pleasurable for those who ready themselves to enjoy them through the practice of virtue. Without the accompaniment of virtue, Cyrus asserts, nothing could be “so costly as what is prepared so as to be pleasurable.” But is this notion of pleasure compelling? How does it compare to the rewards the Persians have been imagining will be the result of their efforts? Even Cyrus eventually backs off from his initial suggestion that the practice of virtue is desirable because it increases pleasure. Arguing instead that virtue is primarily desirable because it helps one avoid greater pains, Cyrus tacitly admits that virtue is painful; but it is a lesser pain than others. Moderation and continence will keep the magistrates “inexperienced in the harshest of all things; for not to have taken good things is not so harsh as it is painful to take them and then be deprived of them” (VII 5.82). Cyrus remains silent about the pleasure of taking and keeping good things. Cyrus also recognizes that his appeal to the magistrates’ self-interest is insufficient not simply because of the specific conception of pleasure he puts forth, but because of the weakness of this kind of argument in general. Hence he supplements his argument for the continued practice of virtue with an appeal to the Peers’ sense of justice and obligation. To better understand the grounds for this argument, it is helpful to consider Xenophon’s earlier account of the speeches made by the Assyrian king and Cyrus to their respective armies before meeting each other in battle for the first time.20 The Assyrian’s speech is a direct appeal to the rational self-interest of his troops. He reminds them that the upcoming contest is “over your souls, over the land in which you were born, over the houses in which you were raised, over your women and children, and over all of the good things you possess”

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(III 3.44). But if virtue is practiced for the sake of preserving the goods that give meaning to one’s earthly existence, goods whose enjoyment depends upon one’s survival, one’s commitment to virtue itself becomes subordinate to the calculation of whether the benefits of virtuous action outweigh the risks. This difficulty is most salient in battle: a soldier who allows others to run the risks necessary for victory increases his own chances of remaining alive to enjoy the fruits of that victory. And in case of defeat, those who flee the battle at least still have a chance of one day reclaiming what was originally theirs. The Assyrian king attempts to address this difficulty. As you love victory, stand and fight. For it would be foolish for those who wish to conquer to turn the blind, unarmed, and handless parts of their bodies to the enemy while fleeing. And it would be foolish if someone who wished to live were to attempt to flee, knowing that the victors are saved but those who flee are killed more than those who remain. And he would be foolish if someone who desires money were to embrace defeat. For who does not know that those who are victorious both preserve what is theirs and take in addition the things of the defeated, while the defeated throw away at the same time themselves and all of their things? (III 3.45)

Cyrus’ speech—which, notably, he makes only after learning the content of the Assyrian’s—implicitly reveals the insufficiency of his opponent’s appeal to his troops’ self-interest. Cyrus understands that willingness to make great sacrifices in battle depends upon the belief that such sacrifices are required and ennobled by graver and more universal principles than one’s own rational self-interest. Martial heroism depends on a prior, overarching commitment to noble conduct as such—a commitment supported by law and a habitual concern with shame and honor. Would one word spoken on a single day . . . fill the souls of those hearing it with reverence, or hinder them from the shameful, or to persuade them that they must take on every labor or every danger for the sake of praise, or to hold firmly in their judgment that it is more choiceworthy to die fighting than to be saved fleeing? Is it not, . . . if these beliefs are to be written in [the hearts] of human beings and to become steadfast, necessary in the first place that laws be established of the sort through which honor and a free life will be provided for the good and humiliation and pain and an unlivable lifetime will be laid upon the bad? (III 3.51–2)

In his first speech to the Peers before setting off for Media, Cyrus undermined their specific attachment to the particularly austere virtues of Persian citizenship; but he nevertheless took care not to destroy completely their

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more general conviction that they are superior to the multitude to the extent that they are willing to make noble sacrifices for the sake of others. Prior to the battle with the Assyrians, Cyrus redoubles his effort to cultivate this willingness to risk their lives in battle by extolling the glory that will justify and ennoble their sacrifices. Though he has awakened them to the idea that virtue ought to be practiced for the sake of the individual rewards denied them by the republic, he maintains that these rewards are also choice-worthy insofar as they reflect the risks run and sacrifices made to obtain them. Cyrus’ troops prevail over the Assyrians. This does not necessarily mean, however, that Cyrus has succeeded in reconciling the tension between the selfish motives he promotes and the selfless virtue he needs to maintain. In fact, this tension becomes even more pronounced after the conquest of Babylon. In taking Babylon, the Persian army effectively defeats the enemy whose strength and size gave their campaign the air of danger necessary for cultivating martial heroism; it was the presence of this vital, dangerous enemy that gave shape to the noble component of their virtue. Now that this threat is gone, the allure of the individual rewards of victory begins to overshadow the soldiers’ desire to sacrifice their own interests to a larger cause. With this difficulty in mind, Cyrus, recalling his initial claim that theirs was a defensive war of necessity, reminds the magistrates of the divinely sanctioned justice of their cause. “Now the gods, it is necessary to think, will be with us, for we are not unjust in our plotting, but after having been plotted against, we took vengeance” (VII 5.77). The circumstances surrounding the two claims to justice are not the same, however. Cyrus’ campaign has extended far beyond his original mandate to defend Persia and the Medes; it has become a war of imperial expansion. What is more, it is difficult to argue that Cyrus’ continued conquests, those occurring after Babylon is captured and the Assyrian king is deposed, can be justified under the premise that such expansion is, as he calls it, “vengeance for past wrongs” (cf. VII 5.70 and VIII 6.19–21 with I 5.13). This explains Cyrus’ endeavors to preserve the air of righteousness surrounding the capture of Babylon and, more importantly, the measures he and his magistrates must take to protect it against a hostile population. He subsequently supplements, and thereby modifies, his original argument regarding the justice of their actions. “Know that it is necessary to practice virtue much more than before we acquired these good things; know well that when someone holds the most, then the most people envy and plot against him and become his enemies, especially if he has possessions and service from the unwilling, just as we do” (VII 5.77). The “vengeance” of which he speaks now includes the preemptive measures necessary to preserve their acquisitions and authority

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against what may only be the possibility of a threat from what are essentially enslaved subjects. He redefines the parameters of injustice to include not only overt acts of aggression, but also the mere contemplation of resistance or insurrection.21 This attempt to justify the Persian army’s occupation of Babylon seems to create more problems that it solves. In blurring the distinction between acts of self-defense and outright self-interested aggression, this formulation of justice calls into question the sincerity of Cyrus’ earlier claims regarding the moral distinction between the actions of his army and those of the Assyrian. Near the beginning of the work, Xenophon describes how the Assyrian king musters support for his invasion of Media, at least in part, by casting his aggression as self-defense. “These nations [Media and Persia] were great, strong, and united towards the same end, that they had made marriages with each other, and that they would be likely, unless someone should reduce them first, to come to each one [of the nations allied to Assyria] nations and subdue them in turn” (I 5.3). But the difficulty with Cyrus’ argument extends beyond the fact that his rhetoric echoes that of his enemy. Cyrus’ emphasis on the magistrates’ need to take positive measures to preserve their rule may indeed encourage them not to overindulge in the luxuries they might otherwise be inclined to seek as conquerors of Babylon; nevertheless, his argument still has not established a reliable basis for the kind of selfless moral devotion to the regime characteristic of citizens of the best republics. So he presses on. Toward the end of his long speech to the new masters of Babylon Cyrus asks what excuse do they have to allow themselves to slip in the practice of virtue. Is it not wrong to think that vice befits happiness? Is it not fitting that a ruler be better than the ruled? He reminds them of their assumed superiority to the multitude and the ignominy that would come from being dependent upon such lesser men. “Also know this, that we have made preparations to maintain many as guards of both our houses and our bodies. How would it not be shameful if we think it right to obtain safety by using others as spear-bearers, while we will not be spear-bearers on our own behalf?” (VII 5.84). But does this argument really invoke the kind of noble sentiments that previously guided the Peers? In the first speech to the Peers, Cyrus reminds them that they have in their souls the most noble and warlike possession of all, a willingness to undertake the greatest risks for the sake of honor. The converse implication of this statement is that should they decide to flee from such risks, they would bring great shame upon themselves by succumbing to their desire for physical safety. To the extent that the Persians were at that time facing a superior enemy, the necessity of having to choose between

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safety and heroic sacrifice was imminent; they would have ample opportunity either to prove their courage or have their cowardice exposed. Now, however, as masters of a defeated city, now that “‘most labor-loving (filoponwvtatoß) war has gone to rest” (VII 5.47), it is difficult to claim they are engaged in a truly heroic military struggle.22 The virtues required to acquire an empire are different from those necessary to maintain it. “[I]t is a great deed to achieve an empire, but it is still much greater to keep it safe after taking it. For taking has often occurred for one who has practiced daring alone; but holding what one has taken, this no longer happens without moderation, nor without self-control, nor without much care” (VII 5.76, recall II 1.17). The choice is no longer between shameful fear for one’s safety and noble concern for honor—what is now shameful is to fail to practice the virtues that help one “obtain safety.” Once more, it is difficult to see Cyrus’ formulation of virtue as pointing to principles higher or more transcendent than individual self-preservation. “Moreover, it is necessary to know well that there is no such guard as that one himself become noble and good” (VII 5.84). The noble and the good now serve self-preservation.23 But the greatest threat to the virtue of Cyrus’ subordinates does not come from their new status as an occupying force—it comes from Cyrus himself. For Cyrus, the obedience of his subordinates is ultimately more important than their moderation, continence, or martial skill. Reconsider the implications of his assertion that as one’s authority and possessions increase, so do one’s enemies (VII 5.77): according to this formulation, anyone who serves under or possesses less than another is capable of envy or resentment and hence must be treated as a potential enemy. While Cyrus’ army has more than the captured Babylonians, Cyrus has more than everyone. In a sense, he must look upon all of his subordinates, especially his closest advisors (his “friends”), as potential rivals. These are not impoverished and persecuted men whose loyalty can be bought by relatively small benefactions, as is the case with Cyrus’ eunuch bodyguards and the low-born Persian spear-bearers he deploys around his palace (VII 5.65–67). They are proud men who believe in the solidity and autonomy of their own judgment; they are so high-minded and ambitious as to harbor thoughts that they are themselves “competent to rule” (VIII 1.46, 5.24). They too desire the exclusive glory that comes only with absolute rule. To satisfy his own ambition, Cyrus must suppress it in his subordinates; for his subordinates to gain such honor for themselves, Cyrus must fall. Seen in this light, his own magistrates now represent the most potent threat to his rule. To a great extent, then, Cyrus’ attempt to inculcate virtue, especially obedience, in these men is at the same time an attempt to weaken their ability to challenge his rule.

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Of course, Cyrus is unable to articulate this, given his need to appear not to be issuing direct commands (see VII 5.71–72, 31; VIII 1.4). Fortunately, Chrysantas—Cyrus’ self-appointed spokesman, whom Cyrus promoted to colonel as reward for his obedience in battle (IV 1.4)—steps in and, expressing a desire to clarify what Cyrus “seems to have made less clear than it must be,” reminds the magistrates of the importance of obedience in acquiring and maintaining the goods that they now possess. “What other good could be brought to completion by those who do not obey their betters24?” (VIII 1.2, see also IV 1.3-5; II 1.22–24, 30). Even among cities not ruled by monarchs, he suggests, the one “which is especially willing to obey its rulers is least compelled to submit to its enemies” (VIII 1.4). However, obedience is beneficial only when the ruler is knowledgeable and acts in the best interest of the regime and its citizens. A “good ruler is no different than a good father”: a good ruler’s forethought and concern for the welfare of his “children” allows them to “pass [their] lives in happiness” (VIII 1.1). Cyrus, Chrysantas assures his audience, “will not be able to find anything in which to use us for his own good but not for ours, since the same things are advantageous for us, and our enemies are the same” (VIII 1.5). This conflation of what is good for Cyrus with what is good for the magistrates allows Chrysantas to make an important distinction between the obedience of slaves and that of freemen. “We must differ from slaves in this manner: whereas slaves serve their masters involuntarily, if we consider ourselves worthy of freedom, we must do voluntarily what appears to be most worthwhile” (VIII 1.4). Chrysantas’ argument, however, is not entirely convincing. Xenophon tells us that “many”—but not all—who stand up speak “to the same effect” as Chrysantas (VIII 1.6). Other magistrates know that what is good for them is not the same as what is good for Cyrus, and that Cyrus will not always use them in a manner that is also beneficial to themselves. There will be times when his positive benefactions will not be enough to ensure his subordinates’ loyalty. Cyrus knows this. Thus, he also pursues more nefarious means to secure his authority against the threat posed by the more independent-minded magistrates. One of his first contrivances is to ensure that they always be in attendance at his court. “[F]or he believed that those who are present are not willing to do anything evil or shameful on account of being in the ruler’s presence and knowing that whatever they should do will be seen by the best” (VIII 1.16, recall I 2.4,9 and II 1.25). If someone does not report, Cyrus assumes that it is because of some incontinence, neglect, or injustice. Consequently, to compel attendance, he orders that whenever someone is absent, someone else who is present is entitled to take what belongs to the missing magistrate and

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“claim that he was taking what belongs to himself” (VIII 1.17). Naturally, when the absent party learns of this unjust confiscation, he promptly returns to complain. Cyrus puts off hearing this complaint for a long time and withholds his judgment still longer, thereby forcing the absent man to wait indefinitely at the palace gates until the decision is handed down. Xenophon tells us that Cyrus “believed that in this way he habituated them to serve, and did so in a less hateful way than if he compelled them to report by punishing them himself” (VIII 1.18). By delegating the actual act of confiscation to another, Cyrus avoids the appearance of handing down direct orders and punishments. He may even be seen as a champion of justice when he restores the absent man’s property (cf. Hiero 9.2ff.). Still, the most important effect is to strengthen his authority over the magistrates. This system makes it clear to the magistrates that they possess their property, indeed every good thing they enjoy, only at Cyrus’ discretion, only inasmuch as it is beneficial for Cyrus to allow them to do so (see also VIII 2.15–19). This arrangement enables Cyrus to “exchange a useful friend for a useless one” (VIII 1.20)—by no means does it necessarily make Cyrus more useful to his friends. This passage also reflects a significant shift in the standards by which Cyrus judges and rewards his subordinates. Immediately after the capture of Babylon Cyrus distributes houses and government buildings to those he “believed were partners in what had been accomplished,” allocating such rewards “just as had been resolved, the best to the best” (VII 5.35, also IV 1.2, II 2.17–3.16). Now, however, the best assignments—those that are “easiest and most profitable”—are awarded not to those who perform nobly in battle, nor even to those who demonstrate excellence in managing Cyrus’ affairs, but to those who are simply “present” in court (VIII 1.19; cf. VII 5.60–64, 66-68). Cyrus’ assimilation of honor with profit and leisure has the effect of undermining the magistrates’ commitment to the moderation, continence, and diligence that he claimed were so important to the survival of the empire. While Cyrus, at least for now, has not altogether ceased his attempt to cultivate these virtues, inculcating obedience and attentiveness in his subordinates has become his primary concern. “As for obeying, he thus thought it would be especially abiding in those surrounding him if he openly honored those who obeyed more than those who thought they offered the greatest and most laborious virtues” (VIII 1.29). Xenophon gives us a glimpse of the effect on the magistrates’ virtue. Cyrus, by “displaying moderation to a greater extent,” attempts to make others practice it as well (VIII 1.30). Xenophon indicates, however, that he succeeds only in making them respectful (aijdw) and decorous (eujkosmivan) (VIII 1.33), which is quite significant in light of Cyrus’ own distinction between

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moderation (swfrosuvnh) and respect: “Those who show respect flee what is shameful where it is visible [to others], but the moderate do so even where it is invisible [to others]” (VIII 1.31). Xenophon assures us that we would not find anyone acting hubristically “at his gates,” and that we “would have believed that they in truth lived nobly.” But his conspicuous silence about their moderation makes us wonder what happens when these men are out of Cyrus’ sight. The threat posed by the magistrates’ individual ambition is compounded by the fact that they are “both armed and gathered together” (VIII 1.46). Unlike those Cyrus has taken as slaves, it is not possible for him to disarm or exile the magistrates. Taking away their weapons and making them unwarlike would be unjust and the “dissolution of rule”; not allowing them to approach and being openly distrustful would be the “beginning of war” (VIII 1.47). But he can prevent their unification. Because “it is clear . . . that there is no phalanx stronger than one assembled from allies who are friends” (VII 1.30), Cyrus contrives to ensure that the “strongest become friends more to himself than each other” (VIII 1.48). Careful consideration of the means by which Cyrus “seemed to us to set forth to become loved,” however, reveals that his ultimate aim is not so much to make the strong love him as to enervate and emasculate these best men. We recall Chrysantas’ assertion that a good ruler is like a good father. Xenophon himself adds that Cyrus was called “father” when he died, a name “clearly of one who confers benefits rather than of one who takes things away” (VIII 2.9). On one level, this nickname is a reflection of the apparent selflessness and philanthropy that helped Cyrus gain the confidence and loyalty of his subordinates throughout his rise to power. And indeed, Cyrus takes great advantage of his newfound wealth as ruler of the Persian empire to court his subjects. Xenophon points out in particular how he generously rewards his subordinates with the banquets, jewelry, robes, and horses that only a king can provide (VIII 2.7–8; recall Astyages’ gifts to the young Cyrus at I 3.2–3). But these gifts come at a price. This is especially apparent in Xenophon’s description of the lavish feasts that soon become the focus of court life. Cyrus uses food to pacify “those he was preparing to be slaves” (VIII 1.43). Slaves are not permitted to practice any of the labors of freemen, nor possess weapons; but Cyrus does ensure that they are always well fed and well watered, just like “beasts of burden.” Freeing them from these bodily concerns makes them better able to serve their superiors (VIII 1.44). Xenophon indicates that amply provided with the necessities, they “called him father, as did the best, because he took care that they might without dispute pass their time as slaves forever” (emphasis added). With this one sentence Xenophon qui-

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etly, but unmistakably, suggests that Cyrus no longer makes a meaningful distinction between the noble—whose concern for such higher goods as honor and authority might have at one time helped them moderate their baser desires—and slavish individuals motivated primarily by their carnal appetites. The “paternal” care he takes for everyone beneath him reduces all of his subordinates to docile children. He now honors all “who wished to gratify him,” regardless of whether they be magistrates, guards, or servants, in the same manner, by offering them food from his own table (VIII 2.3). The affection Cyrus seeks from the magistrates is not the love of genuinely free and highminded men (cf. VIII 3.21). In accepting such honors from Cyrus, the magistrates surrender their dignity and autonomy, not just as noblemen, but perhaps even as human beings: as Xenophon reports, Cyrus not only believes that “there is no benefit for human beings . . . that is so charming as the sharing of food and drink” (VIII 2.2), but that feeding human beings from his own table “engender[s] a certain good will, just as it does with dogs” (VIII 2.4, emphasis added). At the very least, Cyrus’ ideal companion resembles little more than a court jester (VIII 4.12). The other intended effect of Cyrus’ “paternal” benevolence is the creation of active enmity among his subjects, even between fathers and sons. “Who else, by the greatness of his gifts, is said to make [people] prefer him over brothers, fathers, and children?” (VIII 2.9, see also VII 5.59–60). His “generosity” gives him an unparalleled ability “to take vengeance on enemies who were a journey of many months in distance” (VIII 2.10). “By giving gifts and benefits” to those who come to him with information that is “opportune for him to learn,” he establishes an extensive network of informants—“the socalled Eyes of the King and Ears of the King.” Because everyone has reason to suspect his fellows as informants, there is a pervading sense of fear about saying or doing anything not advantageous to Cyrus, to say nothing of conspiring with others. Also worthy of consideration are the contests Cyrus holds. Like he had done throughout his command, Cyrus “wished to implant a competitiveness [among his subjects] over noble and good works” (VIII 2.26). But whereas his earlier efforts were designed to promote military strength and spiritedness, the only notable effect of his current efforts is that they “injected both strife and competition” (VIII 2.26, cf. II 1.22, VI 2.4–6). Cyrus exploits this rivalry in his distribution of prizes and honors. At dinner he sat “whomever he honored most” on his left hand, the next honored on his right, the third most honored next to the man on his left, and so on (VIII 4.3). Such seating assignments, however, are not permanent, but dependent upon the individual’s service to Cyrus. “Cyrus thus made it clear who were best for him . . . he made

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it customary to advance by good works into a more honored seat, and if one slacked off, to retreat to a more dishonored seat” (VIII 4.5). Not only is an individual’s current status apparent to all, but when someone is rewarded with a better seat, it is necessary that another be exiled to a less honorable position. Since no one rises without arousing the envy of others, no one falls without there being someone else, other than Cyrus, on whom resentment and anger can be focused. Cyrus’ efforts to cultivate this enmity extend to judicial matters as well. He establishes it “like a law” that whenever a judgment is required in a dispute, the two parties must agree upon the judges. To say the least, this arrangement is not conducive to quick resolution of disputes, and is likely to create as much animosity as it resolves. Each party will of course seek judges who are friends, but after the verdict (if the parties do in fact come to agree on the judges) these friendships are themselves compromised. The loser “would hate those who had cast their judgments against him,” and the winner “would pretend to be victorious because of his justice, so that he would hold that he did not owe gratitude to anyone” (VIII 1.27).25 The Persian republic sought to remedy the tension between the individual and the common good with its law against ingratitude; Cyrus seeks to exploit it. The greater the competitiveness and envy among his subjects—the less they look upon each other as fellow-citizens working toward a common goal—the more Cyrus benefits in terms of services done exclusively for him, and the more he weakens their ability and willingness to band together to overthrow him. “Those who wished to be first in Cyrus’ friendship would also be envious of each other, so that most of them wished each other out of the way more than they did anything for their mutual good” (VIII 2.28, see also VI 4.16). Cyrus’ shrewd policies are indeed remarkable, for they enabled him to build and maintain his vast empire. However, their salutary effect does not extend beyond his death. More accurately, to the extent these policies encouraged dissension, softness, greed, and gluttony among Cyrus’ subjects, they actually contributed significantly to the immediate degeneration of his empire upon his death. As Xenophon puts it, the only remnant of the Persians’ previous moderation and continence is that they still refrain from spitting or blowing their noses (VIII 8.8; cf. I 2.16, 8). They no longer labor before meals as was the Persian custom; instead, their entire day, from breakfast until bedtime, is one big feast (VIII 8.9–11; cf. I 3.4–5, 10–11; V 2.16-17, VII 5.74, 80–81). The magistrates have thus become so effeminate and weak that even though they have “shields, swords, and scimitars, just as if they were going to do battle in Cyrus’ time,” they are no longer “willing to go to close quarters” (VIII 8.22-23). What is more, because the magistrates in their dis-

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solution have even replaced the imperial guard with “doormen, cooks, saucemakers, wine-pourers, bathers, waiters . . . assistants for going to bed, assistants for getting up, cosmeticians who apply [facial] paint, anoint, and arrange other matters, . . . enemies move about the country more easily than friends” (VIII 8.21–2). But it was Cyrus himself who first introduced the magistrates to the luxuries he had previously warned against. The emphasis he had once placed on continence and moderation as the foundation of the magistrates’ authority is in sharp contrast to his later practice of indulging them with food from the royal kitchen, which, as Xenophon confirms in great detail, “really differs greatly in its pleasure” (VIII 2.4–6). And it was Cyrus who first arranged for the magistrates to spend the entire day attending court instead of practicing their martial skills. Xenophon goes on to assert that whereas Cyrus honored those who ran risks on his behalf, “either acquiring new territory or accomplishing something else “noble and good,” subsequent kings routinely honor those who commit acts of impious betrayal and infidelity. “Now if someone like Mithridates betrays his father Ariobarzanes, and if someone like Rheomithres leaves his wife, his children, and the children of his friends with the Egyptian king and sets off after taking the greatest oaths and then transgresses them in order to do something that is advantageous in the king’s opinion, these are rewarded with the greatest honors” (VIII 8.4). But as we have seen, it is not so clear that there is in fact the kind of moral distinction between the actions honored by Cyrus and those honored in subsequent regimes that this passage seems at first to suggest. After all, Cyrus himself instituted the practice of rewarding the deceptiveness of those who inform on their fellow citizens for the king’s advantage. And one of the intended effects of this practice was that his subjects come to prefer him to their own fathers, brothers, and even children. Finally, the corruption of the Persians can be seen in the deplorable state of their education to justice. Cyrus declares that the Persian magistrates must practice “all of the very things we did there [in Persia],” and must “provide [themselves] as patterns for our children” (VII 5.85). This education, however, takes place not in Old Persia according to its ancient laws and institutions, but in Babylon under Cyrus’ supervision. Moreover, while Xenophon suggests that this “Persian” education under Cyrus differs from the current, corrupt education (VII 5.86), he has tacitly shown us how the roots of the current corruption can be found in Cyrus’ regime. Xenophon claims that whereas in Cyrus’ court the children were taught justice by hearing cases adjudicated, they now “see that whichever side bribes more wins” (VIII 8.13). But again, it was Cyrus himself who first encouraged parties in

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legal dispute to seek the most favorable judges for themselves. In the end, Xenophon confirms the questionable nature of the education to justice under Cyrus: in his court, Xenophon states, the children only “seemed” (a[ndreß) to learn justice.

Conservatism and Moderation: Xenophon’s Republicanism Revisited To repeat, despite the clearly harmful consequences of Cyrus’ administration, there is no denying his unsurpassed political abilities and amazing achievements. Indeed, that he was able to maintain the stability of his empire despite its institutional and moral defects actually underscores his unique capacity for effective, if at times morally ambiguous, rule. His empire stood almost exclusively on the strength of his personal authority—which by the end of the work appears to come as close to divine rule as is humanly possible. However, Xenophon’s account of Cyrus’ empire as a whole does constitute a defense of sorts of republican government. Cyrus’ success was based on a rare confluence of outstanding natural capacities, noble birth, education (in both Persia and Media), and opportunity.26 The emergence of one such ruler is rare enough; for him to be succeeded by someone of equal, or even near-equal, abilities is virtually impossible. (Neither of Cyrus’ sons inherits his father’s talent for ruling; both fail to achieve anything near his greatness.)27 It is, therefore, unreasonable to look towards the rule of such individuals as a viable solution to the problem of political instability described in the first chapter of the Cyropaedia. In contrast, the ancient laws and institutions of conservative republics such as Persia enjoy a transcendent authority and constancy that allows them to withstand the fluctuations in the capacities of their rulers. In a strong republic, the regime survives the ruler. In this sense, traditional republicanism may very well be the best practical, if tenuous, solution to the inherent difficulties of political life. The degeneration of Cyrus’ magistrates also provides us with a renewed appreciation for republican virtue. Cyrus’ cosmopolitan, meritocratic empire circumvents a number of significant difficulties within the Persian republic: most notably, the tension between the regime’s de facto oligarchic structure and its explicit principles of fundamental equality; and the conflict between its notion of self-sacrificial civic virtue and individual prosperity. Insofar as Cyrus builds his army by rewarding his subordinates according to genuine merit rather than class, ethnicity, or nationality (II 2.26), his rise demonstrates the possibility of a regime that is not limited by the arbitrary constraints imposed on human excellence by the necessarily restrictive laws of

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closed republics. But as we have seen, he ultimately fails to maintain a viable foundation for the kind of political virtues necessary to preserve the health of his empire and the dignity of his subjects. He fails to establish laws and institutions capable of ensuring, in any lasting way, the most important characteristic of the steadfast citizens of Old Persia: a commitment to the regime and the moral principles it represents as ends in themselves, as ends worthy of the greatest sacrifice. In Cyrus’ mature empire, neither the Peers nor any of the other magistrates serve the regime as noble men devoted to a cause more precious than their own comfort and safety. They are little more than loyal servants whose service to the regime is effectively indistinguishable from fulfilling Cyrus’ merely personal wishes in exchange for selfish and base gratification.28

Notes 1. Miller (Xenophon 1983, pr.), Watson and Dale (Xenophon 1855, 281), Holden (Xenophon 1890, 196–97), and Hirsch (1985, 91–97). 2. See Eichler (1880), Gera (1993, 300), Sage (1991, 69 n.17), Due (1989, 21), Tatum (1989, 222, 4), and Nadon (2001, 140–41). 3. Ferrari (1995, 783), Gera (1993, 299). 4. Tatum (1989, 224, 234), Gera (1993, 299–300). 5. Gera (1993, 300, 296–97), Higgins (1977, 57–59), and Tatum (1989, 224, 215). 6. Gera argues that the penultimate chapter, in which Cyrus dies peacefully with his empire intact and at the peak of its greatness, would have been a far more fitting conclusion to the work (1993, 300). Miller (Xenophon 1983, pr.) views the last chapter as such a threat to the “perfect unity” of the Cyropaedia that he goes so far as to recommend that one not read it at all. 7. Nadon (2001, 141–42), see also Too (1998, 287–89). 8. Tatum suggests that Xenophon’s description of the decline of the Persian empire may be a rhetorical attempt to criticize the shortcomings of his Persian contemporaries (1989, 220). See also Gera (1993, 299), Higgins (1977, 57, but cf. 125–26). 9. Gera asserts that while “Cyrus’ good character and virtue guarantee the wellbeing of his empire. . . the despotism he inaugurates is a poor legacy insofar as it lends itself to corruption and undermines stable institutions” (1993, 298). She does not go far enough in considering how the flaws in Cyrus’ regime may reflect significant limitations in what she calls his “enlightenment.” 10. Strauss (2000, 182), Bruell (1987, 97, 99), Newell (1983, 897), and Nadon (2001, 60). Compare the parallel account in Herodotus History I 125–30. Note, however, that in Herodotus’ account Cyrus presents this life of luxury as an alternative to the Persians’ current slavery to the Medes, not as an alternative to a life of selfless aristocratic virtue. This difference underscores Xenophon’s desire to make the problem of virtue a central theme in his work.

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11. In the part of his speech that describes the tangible rewards of virtue (I 5.9–10), Cyrus speaks not of “real” or “manly” men (a[ndreß), but only of human beings (ajnqrwvpoi). See also IV 2.25. 12. Johnstone (1994, 220–22) and Due (1989, 179) discuss the capacity for labor (povnoß) as a virtue in the lives of noble Greeks. 13. Compare this passage with Xenophon’s account in the Oeconomicus of the perfect gentleman, Ischomachus, who is willing to seek gain only insofar as it can be done in a noble and lawful manner. “I pray to [the gods] and act in such a way that it would be lawful (qevmiß) for me to pray to acquire health, bodily strength, honor in the city, good will from my friends, noble (kalh:ß) safety in war, and noble (kalw:ß) increase of wealth” (11.8). See also Xenophon’s account of Proxenus in Anabasis II 6.16–20. 14. The Persians’ military deficiencies become particularly apparent when we consider the advantage that Cyrus and the other characters elsewhere attribute to horsemanship, a skill the Assyrians possess and the Persians particularly lack (Cyropaedia I 3.3, 15, 4.4, 6.10; III 3.23; IV 1.11, 3.4–8; Nadon 2001, 100–8, 58–59; cf. Tatum 1989, 85–86). 15. I say “apparent” descent from the gods because Xenophon alludes to the possible illegitimacy of Cyrus’ birth: he reports that “it is said” (levgetai) that his father was Cambyses of the race of the Persides, descendants of the demigod Perseus. In contrast, he states that “it is agreed” (oJmologei:tai) that his mother was Mandanae, daughter of a despot. (I2.1) From the beginning of the work, Xenophon focuses the reader’s attention on the question of the legitimacy of Cyrus’ rule. 16. Nadon (2001, 69). 17. Other examples of Cyrus’ use of fear of the gods to override his troops’ fear of the enemy include Cyropaedia III 3.58 and IV 2.15. 18. On Chrysantas’ reliable obsequiousness, see VII 4.11. 19. Tatum (1989, 204–5), Glenn (1992, 197). 20. On the significance of this speech, see Nadon (2001, 144). 21. Nadon (2001, 128). 22. Consider also the relative ease with which Cyrus’ army captures Babylon, whose defenders were drunk from the night’s festivities and hence offered little resistance (VII 5.15–35). 23. Nadon (2001, 129). 24. The word translated as “betters,” kreivttosi, can also mean stronger or more powerful. 25. Consider Machiavelli Discourses I 16.3. 26. Sage (1991, 75), Due (1989, 19), Bruell (1987, 92), and Strauss (1983, 128). 27. Xenophon makes no mention of Cyrus’ sons until the penultimate chapter of the work, and we learn little or nothing of their education. See Sage (1994, 167–68). 28. Bruell (1987, 100).

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There is, however, a difficulty with Xenophon’s apparent endorsement of traditional republicanism. The Cyropaedia may direct Xenophon’s readers to a more politically responsible appreciation for the demands of republican government, but the path Xenophon takes also teaches us to be at least skeptical of the kind of unquestioned devotion characteristic of true republican patriots such as the Persian Peer Aglaitadas (recall II 2.11–16). Xenophon has shown us that while republican government may have its roots in the natural impulses of human beings to devote themselves to a greater good, it is ultimately unable to reconcile perfectly the demands of republican virtue with the kind of political excellence manifest in Cyrus’ grand exploits. What is more, if Xenophon were concerned primarily with defending the integrity of republican regimes by showing the defects of the political alternatives, then it is unlikely he would have gone to such lengths to make Cyrus’ initial exploits so appealing. In the end, Xenophon shows us that neither a life devoted to republican virtue nor imperial conquest proves capable of fully satisfying the noblest longings of those ambitious individuals attracted to political glory. The Cyropaedia is more than simply a comparison of the political merits of different regimes; it is also, if not primarily, an exploration of the sufficiency of political life itself.1 The fundamental question to which the Cyropaedia points is whether political life on the whole is consistent with human excellence as such. Hence, it makes sense that Xenophon would first need to open our eyes to that particular combination of ambition and excellence that drives men

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like Cyrus to forsake traditional republicanism in order to rule on the greatest scale imaginable: after eliciting the grandest ambitions of his most talented readers, Xenophon is in a position to lead such readers beyond their political prejudices and their limited notions of the human good that inform these beliefs. Xenophon thus opens the door to the true “education” of the work, as it were, a more comprehensive study of the human good that transcends the limitations of political virtue. This is also a theme of the Hiero, and it is useful to begin with the implicit critique it offers of political life from the perspective of the wise man. The ambiguity surrounding Hiero’s ability and willingness to implement Simonides’ reforms reflects Xenophon’s concern with traditional political morality as a necessary component of stable regimes. But the Hiero is not simply a vindication of conventional political wisdom. By presenting his teaching on tyranny in the form of a dialogue between a tyrant and a wise man, Xenophon invites us to compare the relative merits of the political and non-political goods each seeks. Central to this inquiry is the question of the kind, status, and source of the honor that would be available to the reformed tyrant. Simonides asserts that if Hiero succeeds in reforming his tyranny, “all of those present will be your ally, and those absent would desire to see you, so not only would you be loved, but also desired by human beings (uJp= ajnqrwvpwn)” (11.11). By the fact of his own visit to Hiero, Simonides acknowledges that wise individuals like himself are curious about the way tyrants live and rule. As regards the gratitude of subjects, however, Simonides intimates that Hiero can expect to be loved only by human beings, as opposed to real men (a[ndreß.2 In one sense, this is hardly surprising given Hiero’s earlier admission that it is common practice for a tyrant, out of fear for his own security, not to allow the good, the brave, or the wise to live in his city, among his subjects.3 But even if this were not the case, we have to wonder whether such individuals, the wise in particular, would be so attracted by the pleasures and rewards of tyranny as to want to become tyrants themselves. As we have already seen in Simonides’ practical suggestions, any love that might be shown toward the reformed tyrant would be the result primarily of the tyrant’s success in furnishing the many with the basic security and material prosperity desired by most human beings. To a large degree, then, the tyrant’s excellence as a ruler is contingent upon his attention to the basest, most common notion of the human good.4 And when Simonides fails to suggest that Hiero’s potential allies include anyone beyond “all of those here” (i.e., the human beings over whom he already rules), he intimates that the tyrant’s excellence is further compromised with respect to the scope of his victories and of his benefaction. While a tyrant, or any ruler for that matter, might be

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able to provide his citizens with the goods they desire, he cannot do the same for citizens of other cities. The good of his city necessarily conflicts with that of other cities, if for no other reason than that he must repulse foreign invaders. Thus, just as Hiero’s desire to be loved would bind him to the ordinary needs of his subjects, so his success and happiness would be limited to and by his city. This is in contrast to the transpolitical, self-sufficient character of the excellence sought by wise individuals. “[T]he limits of love coincide normally with the borders of the political community, whereas admiration of human excellence knows no boundaries” (Strauss 2000, 89). Simonides is free to search for human excellence, in all of its forms, in any regime, including tyrannies. Just as Simonides chooses not to live as a dutiful citizen of any one regime, so he chooses not to rule, despite his superior knowledge of ruling. The grounds for this decision are suggested in what Simonides does and does not say about the choice-worthiness of honor. Simonides distinguishes between the love sought by Hiero and other versions of political honor. For example, when Simonides initially speculates about the great honors tyranny is capable of providing, he makes no reference to being loved by the many (2.1–2, cf. 8.1). Simonides also praises the kind of honor that extends beyond particular communities. At the beginning of the dialogue he states that the most pleasant praise comes not from subjects compelled by political necessity, but from those who are “most free” (1.16). There is even a further ambiguity in Simonides’ praise of the higher honors that Hiero might gather from these victories. Though he suggests that the competition between rulers to make their cities happy and prosperous is “the most noble and magnificent contest among human beings” (11.7), he does not say that this is the greatest contest simply, or even that it is the greatest contest for the real man.5 Simonides’ implication is that the greatest good is not political honor, and certainly not more meager political goods such as security or basic prosperity; in fact, the greatest good would seem not to be the product of a contest at all. Indeed, when we reflect on how competition presupposes exclusive rewards, we are led to think of other human goods, like wisdom, the universal character of which makes it beneficial to all. Along these same lines, when we compare the pursuit of political honors to the pursuit of wisdom, we recognize the superior self-sufficiency of the latter. The wise man’s search for universal and transpolitical wisdom renders him less subject to the contingencies and limitations that accompany the pursuit of honor or love in the political arena. The central theme of Cyropaedia I 6, Xenophon’s account of the conversation between Cyrus and his father Cambyses,6 is the requirements and aims

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of good rule. But this discussion of what constitutes good rule is framed by a more fundamental inquiry, instigated by Cambyses, into the limitations of political virtue and its ambiguous relation to human excellence. The conversation begins with a reminiscence about Cyrus’ theological education. Cambyses, we learn, purposely taught Cyrus to interpret divine omens for himself so that he would be able to take counsel from the gods without the assistance of soothsayers, who might wish to deceive him with fraudulent prophecies (I 6.2).7 With respect to the gods themselves, Cyrus learned that those who remember the gods when they are flourishing are more effective in obtaining what they need than those who come to them only in times of need (I 6.3, see Memorabilia I 4.18). Similarly, the gods are far more inclined to aid the educated and diligent than the ignorant and indolent (I 6.5, 1.28). As Cyrus recalls, it is simply not right to expect help from the gods in obtaining military victory, deliverance from danger, or a fruitful harvest without first learning the skills necessary to procure such goods for oneself (I 6.6). What the gods sanction and reward are the very preparations that humans must make to preserve themselves. Seeking the gods’ counsel is, in an important sense, equivalent to searching for the earthly knowledge that would enable humanity to provide for itself. The first question that this passage implicitly raises is whether there actually exists such knowledge capable of replacing humanity’s reliance on divine providence. The second is to what extent is the ambitious Cyrus capable of and committed to acquiring such knowledge. Moving forward, Cambyses indicates that the pursuit of human autonomy is also central to the question of what it means to be a good man simply. But did you forget, son, those points by which you and I at some point calculated how it is sufficient and noble work for a real man (ajndri;) if he is able to take care such that he himself becomes verifiably noble and good and provides himself and his household with the necessities in sufficient abundance? While this is a great work, next, to know how to rule over human beings (ajnqrwvpwn) so that they will have the necessities in abundance and so that they all will become such as is necessary, this certainly appeared to us at that time to be marvelous. (I 6.7)

By placing rule of one’s household among the necessary components of a virtuous life, Cambyses suggests that cultivating individual virtue includes the search for knowledge of human necessity as embodied in the requirements of the household. It is also clear that becoming “good and noble oneself” is a distinct activity from managing one’s estate. (Notice that making

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other members of the household good and noble is not listed as a priority for the gentleman.) However necessary, managing one’s estate well is not sufficient for one’s own flourishing. Rather, a gentleman must also undertake a far more comprehensive search for knowledge of human greatness. And insofar as genuine knowledge of human virtue is itself a kind of excellence, making oneself good and noble not only transcends (without forgetting) the needs of the household but also constitutes an end in itself. But what about political virtue? Cambyses appears to draw an analogy between a good ruler and a good household manager, and between a city and a large household. But whereas household management was necessary to the life of the virtuous man, it is not clear Cambyses considers political rule to be a necessary or even desirable component of the life of a “real” man. Ruling well is undoubtedly “marvelous,” and is likely to bring great fame, but Cambyses conspicuously fails to call it either sufficient or noble. What, then, are the grounds for Cambyses’ tacit denigration of political virtue? It might be that political rule is inessential to a virtuous life. But it could also be that political rule and the love of honor that underlies political ambition are somehow obstacles to genuine understanding and practice of human excellence. Consider Cyrus’ telling response to his father. [I]t seems to me to be an immensely great deed to rule nobly. And still even now it appears to me to be this way, when I calculate by examining ruling itself. But when I look at other human beings and seeing those who, despite the sort they are, endure in their rule and those who, despite the sort they are, will become our antagonists, it seems to me to be very shameful to be intimidated before men such as these and not be willing to go against them as antagonists. (I 6.8)

Cyrus speaks only of ruling nobly; he overlooks the greater part of Cambyses’ discussion of individual virtue. This is not to say that Cyrus is wholly unconcerned with virtue.8 Nevertheless, his comments reveal that his concern with virtue is determined by and hence subordinate to his love of political glory, which is in his eyes more the product of foreign conquest than of efficient housekeeping or theoretical reflection. The specific virtues he is concerned with are important to him only insofar as they give him an advantage over current and potential rivals. Whereas inferior rulers (including his uncle Cyaxares) are distinguished from their subjects by their wealth and leisure, Cyrus believes that a ruler “ought to differ from the ruled not by his easy living but by taking forethought and by being enthusiastic in his love of labor” (I 6.8, see also 6.17–18).

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In an effort to show Cyrus how his concern for honor may limit his political judgment, to say nothing of his understanding of human virtue simply, Cambyses asserts that in some respects Cyrus’ contest is not against human beings, but against “things themselves” (I 6.9). Cyrus’ political strength, his ability to benefit his friends and harm his enemies, is fundamentally dependent on the basic welfare of his forces. For you will both get more from whomever you ask if you do not seem to be in need. Furthermore, you will also be blameless in the eyes of your soldiers. In this way you will also get more respect from others. And if you wish to do good or harm to others with your power, your soldiers will serve you more while they have what they need; and be assured that you will be able to speak more persuasive words at just the moment when you are especially able to show that you are competent to do both good and harm. (I 6.10)

Cambyses gets his point across, and Cyrus vows to never neglect supplying his army with the necessities. However, Cyrus does not necessarily see the problem in the same terms as his father. “But that one should have power with which it is possible, by doing good to one’s friends, to be helped in return, and to try to take vengeance on one’s enemies, and that one should then neglect to provide [the necessities with it]—do you think that this would be any less shameful than if someone who has fields and workers with which to work the fields, then left the land unworked and thus unprofitable?” (I 6.11). Cambyses indicates that a ruler cannot be successful if he neglects the less glorious aspects of maintaining a strong army. Like a thriving household, a strong army begins with care for the basic necessities of life—political success begins with a more fundamental knowledge of human welfare. The thrust of Cyrus’ response is that a successful ruler would never bring shame on himself by overlooking any aspect of his command, however mundane. Again, Cyrus’ understanding of the relationship between human necessity and political rule is subordinate to his concern for honor and mastery. There is another difficulty regarding the relationship between politics and the human good that emerges from Cambyses’ comments. Throughout his life, Cyrus displays a genuine and spontaneous eagerness to help his friends. Yet, this benevolence has its limits. Not only is it colored (though not wholly obscured) by his desire for personal glory, but it also is not necessarily consistent with what is good for all human beings. Cambyses’ insistence that a good commander must concern himself with provisioning his forces reminds us of his emphasis on the self-sufficiency of the gentleman’s private estate. There is, of course, a big difference between a prosperous estate and Cyrus’ army: the “self-sufficiency” of the latter comes in large part from the extor-

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tion of weaker nations, both friends and foes. Cambyses makes this point in a question to Cyrus. “From whom is it more probable that there arise such a source [of necessities] than from one who has power? . . . What sort of nation, then, of those around here, do you think will not serve you, both because they wish to gratify you and because they fear they might suffer something?” (I 6.10). What is more, the gratitude and honor Cyrus seeks from his soldiers depend on a policy of imperial aggression. It is not enough that his soldiers not blame him—as Cambyses suggests they would if they were not well supplied with the necessities. “For the things which they have been told they would receive, none of the soldiers will be grateful to me, for they know on what terms Cyaxares brings them in as allies. But whatever is taken in addition to the things promised, they will award honor for these things and probably gratitude to the one who gives them” (I 6.11, emphasis added). Political virtue may at times contain or reflect elements of human virtue in the highest sense, i.e., comprehensive knowledge of what is universally good for human beings. But it remains essentially an inferior or compromised form of virtue. From the political perspective, comprehensive human virtue is not the object of political virtue, but merely one of its many (contradictory) components. An excellent ruler may at times succeed in securing manifest, universal goods for others, but the provision and preservation of such goods is ultimately contingent upon considerations of political strategy. So long as Cyrus remains attached to glory, and hence dependent on his ability to benefit and harm9 others, he is unlikely to be inclined or in a position to search for the kind of comprehensive human goods that Cambyses suggests ought to be the concern of the truly virtuous individual. The tension between the requirements of politics and what is good for human beings as such becomes even more apparent as the conversation turns to the question of how a ruler can maintain enthusiastic obedience in his subordinates. Much of this discussion focuses on the kinds of goods human beings expect from political rulers, and how rulers can supply such goods given the difficulties inherent in politics itself. Cyrus introduces this subject with the assertion that the best way to promote enthusiasm is to put “hopes into human beings” (I 6.19), a technique that he has and will continue to employ to great advantage (I 5.7–10; II 1.23; IV 3.3ff., 1.4). There is a potential problem with this approach, however. Cambyses observes that, just as with dogs, “[i]f someone deceives [humans] often about the expectation of good things, whenever he speaks of some true hope, he will not be able to persuade them of this.” Cambyses thus emphasizes the great need for prudence in the ruler, who must be able to discriminate between false hopes and true, obtainable goods. He must be able to discover, articulate, and provide

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his subordinates with the substantive benefits, e.g., health, security, and prosperity, for which humans turn to the city and its rulers. Hence Cambyses admonishes Cyrus “to refrain from speaking of what [he] does not know clearly.”10 In response, Cyrus’ swears that his father “speaks nobly” and agrees that ruling in this way seems “more pleasant.” Yet his republican upbringing has also taught him that obedience is a combination of reward and punishment, praise and compulsion. For you [Father] taught me this from childhood, since you forced (ajnagkavzwn) me to obey you. Then you handed me over to the teachers and they did this same thing. Then, when we were young men, the rulers took vigorous care for this same thing. And the majority of the laws seem to me to teach these two things most of all: to rule and to be ruled. And considering these things, I think I see in all of them that what most encourages obedience is to praise and honor the obedient and to dishonor and punish the disobedient. (I 6.20; see also 3.17, 2.6–7, 14)

This reminds us of Aglaitadas’ praise of the Persian laws as a harsh but loving parent who raises loyal and proud children committed to the dignity of the family through a combination of coercion and inspiration (II 2.23–27). Cambyses acknowledges that such a combination of institutional rewards and punishment can maintain obedience. But he does not pursue the matter—he recognizes the extent to which Cyrus has already begun to undermine Persian justice in the minds of his officers. Besides, there is nevertheless a “shorter road” to what is most desirable, willing obedience.11 “[H]uman beings,” he argues, “obey most pleasantly whoever they think is more prudent than themselves regarding their own advantage” (I 6.21). The sick eagerly summon those they believe can heal them, and sailors willingly obey those they believe can pilot their ship to safety. In fact, Cambyses proclaims, people cling so strongly to what they believe is best for them that neither punishments nor gifts can persuade them to change their minds. Cambyses, the wise man, thus alludes to the great potential embodied in Cyrus’ nascent authoritarianism: Cyrus may be able to do what he, as lawful king of Persia, cannot—build a regime in which what is beneficial for human beings and political order (based on willing obedience) is reconciled in a way not possible under the strict rule of law, which depends so heavily on compulsion (cf. I 6.31–34). Cyrus interprets this to mean that nothing is more effective in cultivating loyalty than “to seem to be more prudent than the ruled,” and subsequently

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asks how a ruler can achieve a reputation for prudence as quickly as possible (I 6.22). But once again, Cambyses asserts the need for genuine knowledge— there is no shorter road to seeming prudent than to become prudent in truth. For if you wish to seem to be good, when you are not a good farmer, or a horseman, or a doctor, or a flute-player, or anything else whatsoever, consider how many things you must contrive for the sake of appearing good. And even if you should persuade the many to praise you, in order to get a reputation, and acquire beautiful adornments for each of these skills, you would deceive just for the moment and for a little while afterwards but when you should give a test, you would be refuted and revealed as a boaster.12

He thus reiterates the need for Cyrus to apply himself to the study of human necessity, just as he applied himself to learning tactics (cf. I 6.14). Yet it quickly becomes apparent that prudent rule is not simply a technical art like flute-playing or battlefield strategy, which can be mastered through study and practice. Nor is it an amalgamation of the various arts. The prudent ruler must possess in addition both a comprehensive understanding of the human good and the foresight to know whether and how particular decisions will be beneficial in the future. Of course, given the inevitable and unpredictable fluctuations in human affairs, this is effectively impossible. Consequently, one of the most essential components of political prudence is recognizing the limits of the human intellect to anticipate all needs and situations. Greater prudence leads to a more humble assessment of one’s own powers, including an awareness of humanity’s dependence on divine providence. “But whatever cannot be learned or foreseen by human forethought, you would be more prudent than others to learn through divination” (I 6.23).13 Cyrus’ response challenges his father’s assertions. Cyrus claims that to be loved by the ruled—which he includes among the “greatest” things—a ruler must take the same road as when he seeks to be loved by friends: he must be observed doing good for them (I 6.24). Cambyses tacitly concedes that successful rule may not necessarily depend on the kind of comprehensive knowledge that he has thus far been advocating. Admitting that “it is difficult to be able to always do good for those one would wish,” Cambyses acknowledges the difficulty of discovering, much less securing, universal, noncontradictory human goods within the political arena. This is particularly true in the case of Cyrus. The satisfaction of his selfish ambition requires not only that he be willing to sacrifice the lives of individual citizens, but, more importantly, that he be able to make his subjects themselves willing to make such sacrifices.14 The rational articulation and

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single-minded pursuit of what is good for all human beings that Cambyses first proposed as the necessary focus of the good ruler is not sufficient to secure such loyalty from Cyrus’ subjects. Actually, Cyrus must acquire the love of his subjects despite his limited ability to secure their benefit. One way to gain this “love,” Cambyses candidly admits, is for the ruler to appear to rejoice in their good fortune, suffer in their misfortune, be fearful lest they be defeated, and take forethought so that they are not defeated.15 It is important that the ruler appear to endure a greater share of labors and such burdens as the heat of summer and cold of winter. This emphasis on appearance suggests a certain underlying deception of the ruled by the ruler. Although the ruler must endure hardships more manfully than the ruled, his burden is lightened by the fact that “similar labors do not affect similar bodies of the private man in the same way. . . . Honor lightens the labors somewhat for the ruler as does knowing that his actions do not go unnoticed” (I 6.25). With this admission that the discovery and provision of real benefits for one’s subjects is often impossible given the conflicting requirements of political life, Cambyses allows that, in practice, political success rests on factors other than genuine or complete understanding of the human good. Consider his curious suggestion, immediately following his admonition that Cyrus refrain from speaking of what he does not know clearly, that “sometimes others have been able to achieve [loyalty and enthusiasm] through speeches”(I 6.19). Despite his initial assertion of the superiority of the genuinely prudent ruler, he acknowledges the success of rulers who have taken advantage of more conventional practices, in this case the use of political rhetoric. It now seems that human beings are less like dogs than Cambyses first suggested: human beings, the political animals, often are persuaded by rulers who arouse their hopes by speaking of what are often vague, elusive, and perhaps even false goods.16 Political rhetoric is effective because humanity longs for goods, e.g., security, prosperity, and honor, the foundations of which are not readily apparent. Human beings want, even need, to believe in the inspiring speeches of ambitious rulers who seem to promise goods that they cannot secure with their own hands. At I 6.22, Cambyses offhandedly remarks that if Cyrus were to seek to gain an unsubstantiated reputation for prudence he could, at most, hope to deceive others regarding his prudence for a short time and “a little while longer.” But Cyrus’ own actions demonstrate that even the short time such boasting is successful may be sufficient for leading great armies to accomplish the most astonishing deeds.17 Cyrus is not particularly troubled by and is quick to take advantage of Cambyses’ admission regarding the doubtful existence of a universal political good. In Cyrus’ eyes politics remains at heart a struggle between rulers of dif-

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ferent cities for the glory of conquest and dominion. Consequently, he believes that what is most prudent for a ruler with a well-equipped and enthusiastic army is to strike the enemy as soon as possible (I 6.26, III 3.9). Having failed to convince Cyrus otherwise, Cambyses is compelled to admit as much: “Yes, by Zeus. . .[a ruler ought to act in this manner] at least if he intends to take advantage.” His only objection is that Cyrus might be too rash in seeking combat. He should make a more cautious and sober assessment of his own vulnerability. “[I]nasmuch as I thought myself to be better and to hold better followers, I would be more on guard, just as in other cases in which we attempt to make most secure the things we consider most valuable to us.” But this attempt to moderate Cyrus is, in essence, an appeal to what Cyrus considers to be an essentially cowardly concern for (simply) maintaining a healthy and obedient defensive army. It has little effect on his eagerness to proceed (cf. VII 5.76). Cyrus’ only response is to press Cambyses for more advice on how to strike the enemy as quickly and effectively as possible. At the end of their conversation, Cambyses returns to the question of whether the unaided human faculties are capable of making human beings self-sufficient, whether human wisdom and diligence could sufficiently replace divine providence. His parting advice to Cyrus is a reiteration of the need for the kind of prudence that manifests itself as cautious realization of one’s limits. But learn from me also these things, son, the most important. . . . Never run a risk contrary to the sacrifices and auguries, either those for yourself or those for the army; and bear in mind that human beings choose their actions by conjecture and do not know from which the good things will become theirs. . . . Human wisdom no more knows how to choose what is best than if someone, casting lots, should do whatever the lot determines. Yet the gods, son, being eternal, know all that has come to be, all that is, and what will result from each of these things. And, of the human beings who seek counsel, to whomever they may be propitious, they give signs as to what they ought to do and what they ought not. If they are not willing to give counsel to all, it is no matter for wonder, for there is no necessity for them to care for anyone or anything unless they want to. (I 6.44–46, 23; cf. 18)

Cambyses’ advice is in keeping with what we have learned from this passage about the fundamentally contradictory demands of political rule, and the limits of political wisdom with respect to satisfying those demands. There are indications elsewhere in the work that suggest that Cyrus, too, recognizes such limitations, at least on some level. Throughout his reign, Cyrus takes particular care to instill piety in his subordinates by displaying his own piety

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to the highest degree (I 5.14, 6.1; II 1.15, 3.4, 4.14, 19-20; IV 5.14–17; V 1.29, 2.35; VII 5.72, 77, 1.1, 3.1). On the one hand, to be sure, the deference his manifest piety is calculated to inspire is politically advantageous to himself— even to the point that the distinction between his subjects’ worship of the gods and obedience to his commands is blurred. Indeed, Xenophon does not make it clear whether they imitate Cyrus more because they believed that they “would be more happy if they served the gods just as he who was both happiest and ruling did,” or because “they believed that doing these things would please Cyrus” himself (VIII 1.24, 39). Pleasing Cyrus may be as or even more important than pleasing the gods. Cyrus “calculated that if all his partners were pious, they would be less willing to do something unholy towards both each other and himself, believing himself a benefactor of his partners” (VIII 1.25, following manuscript x.). On the other hand, we cannot dismiss Cyrus’ overt displays of piety as simply good strategy. This passage does not deny a genuine fear of the gods either in Cyrus’ subordinates or in Cyrus himself. Cyrus may cunningly use the piety of his subordinates for his own political ends, but Xenophon’s account also implies that Cyrus himself senses— though is certainly not paralyzed by—his own limitations in pursuing goods (namely, total mastery over human beings) that remain subject to forces beyond human control. Cyrus’ awareness of his underlying vulnerability and his longing to overcome the unpredictability of human affairs appears, in part, as hope for divine providence and fear lest he (or his magistrates) should anger the gods who alone have the capacity to provide and deny such assistance. As Cyrus confesses on his deathbed, “in the past, I fared just as I prayed I would, yet a fear accompanied me lest in the passage of time I should see or hear or suffer something harsh, and it did not allow me to think so very highly of myself or to take extravagant delight” (VIII 7.7). Such observations—and indeed the Cyropaedia as a whole—raise serious doubts about the possibility of a universally beneficial art or “science” of politics capable of securing the noncontingent goods necessary for genuine human self-sufficiency. The Cyropaedia is surely a testimony to Cyrus’ unrivalled military and administrative genius, but Xenophon’s account of Cyrus’ all-consuming desire and efforts to secure what ultimately turns out to be a tainted legacy indicates that Cyrus never truly achieves the immortal glory that is the highest manifestation of political mastery and autonomy. His success is ultimately dependent on so many events and circumstances (human, natural, and possibly even divine in origin) that are not guided by any necessary concern for his or anyone else’s welfare. But does the fact that such knowledge of the human good cannot be found in the political arena necessarily mean that it is completely inaccessible to

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human beings? This question is never conclusively answered in the Cyropaedia; Xenophon leaves open the possibility that the highest aspirations of human beings are ultimately beyond human power. Nevertheless, in light of Cambyses’ implicit comparison of Cyrus’ political ambition with a less political, more intellectual concern with what is genuinely good for humanity, the work at least points to the possibility that one can make significant progress toward a more satisfying understanding of the human condition—even or especially if that understanding includes a fuller awareness of humanity’s limitations. One might conclude that Cambyses is simply pious and believes that all human endeavors are ultimately dependent upon divine support. It is true that he emphasizes the power the gods have over human affairs when he suggests that for human beings to succeed it is necessary that the gods not oppose them (I 6.18). But he does not explicitly state that divine support is necessary for human success. Moreover, when we consider Cambyses’ assertion that the gods are under no necessity to care for us, we find further support for his suggestion at I 6.23 that for all practical purposes human wisdom and diligence are more reliable means of providing what is good for us than relying upon divine providence. In the course of their conversation, Cambyses attempts to lead Cyrus to a more circumspect understanding of the insufficiency of the political goods he seeks. Yet we can see from Cyrus’ answers that to the extent he is driven by a largely unreflective attachment to political glory he is not inclined to subject himself to the rigorous and politically detached self-examination necessary for such wisdom about the hierarchy of human goods. Accordingly, he does not see that this wisdom is the domain not of politics but of philosophy, which in Xenophon’s thought is represented by the independent and selfsufficient theoretical life embodied by Socrates, as revealed in his so-called “Socratic” (as opposed to his “political”) works.18 Despite this distinction between Xenophon’s political and Socratic writings, however, there is an important link between the Cyropaedia and these other works. Granted, Socrates is not mentioned by name in the Cyropaedia, but his presence is strongly felt at various points in the work. As noted already, there are a number of similarities between Cambyses’ advice and things Xenophon has Socrates himself say. And reconsider Cambyses’ description of the stranger who once taught the Persian youths that justice was based on an overarching concern for the human good rather than rigid legal definitions of property (I 6.34). Compare this to Socrates’ discussion with Critoboulus in the Oeconomicus regarding the possibility that material possessions may constitute wealth only inasmuch as the possessor knows how to use these things in a beneficial manner (1.7–15; see also Plato Republic

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331c–332c). Further, in Cyropaedia III 1.38–40 Xenophon describes how an unnamed companion of Tigranes, son of the Armenian king, was put to death by the king for usurping his son’s affections. This reminds us of Xenophon’s account of Socrates’ own fate—being sentenced to death for, among other things, corrupting the youth. What these accounts of Socrates, or the Socratic stand-ins, have in common is that they explicitly or implicitly defend Socrates by suggesting that this “corruption” is the natural result of what is actually a decent and moderate concern for wisdom and skill over ignorance and violence. Before Tigranes’ companion’s execution, he urges Tigranes to forgive his father. Tigranes’ father, this man said, was acting only out of ignorance, not malice (III 1.38–40). In Xenophon’s Apology of Socrates to the Jury, Socrates defends himself against Meletus’ accusation that he persuaded the youth to “obey himself [Socrates] rather than their parents” by reminding Meletus that as regards health, human beings in general regularly obey skilled doctors rather than their parents (20; cf. Cyropaedia I 6.21). And in the Memorabilia, Xenophon rhetorically asks how Socrates can be charged with corrupting the young and making them violent, “unless attending to virtue is corruption.” [Socrates taught that those] who train themselves in prudence and hold that they will be competent to teach the citizens what is advantageous are least likely to become violent, since they know that enmities and risks attend the use of violence, while through persuasion the same results come about without risk and with friendship. For those treated violently hate as though they have been robbed, but those persuaded are friendly as though they have been gratified. Violence thus does not come from those who train themselves in good sense. Rather, such practices belong to those who have strength without judgment. (Memorabilia I 2.1)

For those readers of the Cyropaedia who have become disenchanted with Cyrus’ accomplishments and his problematic, contradictory notions of virtue, Xenophon’s allusions to Socrates help reveal the difficulties of political life and thus lead his most inquisitive readers a first few steps down the path toward a more philosophic understanding of the human good and truly self-sufficient virtue. One particular description of Socrates from Xenophon’s Memorabilia best illustrates how Socrates embodied the possibility of such excellence and how he inspired a longing for it in his companions. Of those who knew Socrates, what sort he was, all those who desired virtue still even now continue to yearn for him most of all, because he was most beneficial in the care of virtue. To me, then, being of the sort I have dis-

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coursed of, he was so pious that he never acted without the counsel of the gods; so just that he harmed no one, not even in the smallest thing, but was the most beneficial to those who dealt with him; so continent that he never chose the pleasant instead of what was best; so prudent as to not make mistakes in judging the better and the worse nor be in need of another, but was sufficient unto himself in the judgment of these things; and competent also to say and define such things in speech; and competent as well to test others and refute them when they made mistakes, and to turn them towards virtue and nobility and goodness; he was such as a most good and happy man would be. (Memorabilia IV 8.11)

But whatever heights of human excellence Xenophon’s account of Socrates represents, there remains a fundamental difficulty: as the preceding references to Socrates indicate, Socratic philosophy remains in need of a defense in the eyes of the city. Despite the inherent tensions and conflicts within political life, most human beings remain unable or unwilling to let go of the goods—which range from the most meager prosperity and security to the greatest political glory—that they see as fundamentally connected to the city, its laws, institutions, and tutelary gods. This suggests that the philosophic education to which the Cyropaedia implicitly points is accessible to only a few of the brightest and most talented individuals. And so long as the majority of citizens do not see the broader implications for the human good of a philosophic liberation from such contingent and arbitrary goods, they remain skeptical of, if not hostile to, those who embody or defend the philosophic life. They see philosophy as a serious threat to the fundamental order of the city and the virtue of its citizens. Xenophon is certainly aware of this difficulty, as is evident in his explicit emphasis on Cyrus’ virtues, and in his defense of the dignity of republican politics in the Cyropaedia.19 Of course, in defending the conventional understanding of political and moral virtue to the degree he does, Xenophon is not simply protecting philosophy from attack by the city. As discussed previously, Xenophon recognizes that the traditional understanding of virtue, flawed though it may be, is nevertheless grounded in the natural order that we initially encounter in the hierarchy of the family and the properly managed household, and is thus fundamental to humanity’s struggle to improve the human condition. Nevertheless, Xenophon’s ability, as a philosopher, to benefit the city is ultimately limited by his awareness of the gap between the inevitably contradictory beliefs and requirements of the city and the philosophic understanding of the universal and transpolitical nature of human excellence. The more philosophy succeeds in liberating citizens from their misguided and contradictory notions of human excellence, the closer it

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comes to destroying the beliefs necessary to sustain the laws and institutions of a secure regime. For Xenophon, this is an irresolvable tension. This is not the case with Machiavelli. When we turn to consider Machiavelli’s response to Xenophon, we find he has a much different response to the question of the influence philosophers can have over politics. Machiavelli is far more optimistic regarding not only the extent to which philosophy can actively direct political life toward salutary ends, but also the extent to which it can change the basic foundations of political thought itself. At the same time, however, Machiavelli’s new understanding of the role of philosophy in politics depends upon a fundamentally different understanding of the human good that informs the philosopher’s attempt to shape political life.

Notes 1. Bruell (1987, 101), Nadon (2001, 179, 161–63). 2. See also Simonides’ emphasis on “human beings” at 8.1 and p. 80, n. 11 above. 3. Glenn (1992, 190). 4. Cf. the love Cyrus expects from his eunuch guards in return for his benefaction (VIII 5.67). 5. Cf. Hiero 7.3 and consider the implications of Simonides’ suggestion that Hiero’s reformed tyranny would bring him “the most noble and most blessed possession to be met with among human beings, happiness without envy” (11.15, emphasis added). There is no indication that this is the greatest thing for the real man or the wise man, much less the greatest thing simply. See Strauss 2000, 94, 99–100. 6. Xenophon never uses Cambyses’ proper name in this chapter, thus emphasizing that Cambyses is speaking less as the King of Persia than as a wise man concerned with the more general problems of political ambition and human virtue. 7. Gera suggests that Cyrus behaves like a perfectly pious Greek; but she also notes that unlike other Greek leaders documented in Xenophon’s Anabasis, not one of (the elder) Cyrus’s plans is altered because of good or bad omens (1993, 56–58). 8. Nadon (2001, 165) suggests that Cyrus likely believes he already possesses sufficiently the requisite individual virtues of which Cambyses speaks. 9. On cruelty as a necessary component of a military commander, reconsider Cyropaedia I 6.27; see also Xenophon Memorabilia III 1.6 and Strauss (1983, 128). Cf. Proxenus’ shortcomings as described in Xenophon’s Anabasis II 6.16–20. 10. Following manuscripts y and R. 11. Cf. Oeconomicus 4.19–20. 12. Cf. Oeconomicus I 7. 13. Cf. Oeconomicus 1.10–2 with 5.18–20. In the first passage Socrates encourages Critoboulus to look upon knowledge and diligence as the sole and sufficient condition for acquiring and maintaining a household. In the latter passage, he finally ad-

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mits that unforeseen forces—human and natural—make even the most knowledgeable and diligent farmer dependent upon divine assistance. See also Memorabilia I 1.6–9, Strauss (2000, 98–99, 124), Nadon (2001, 168). 14. Nadon (2001, 170). 15. Consider Cyrus’s advice to Abradatas to encourage his subordinates “with [his] countenance” (VII 1.18). 16. Consider the vagueness of some of Cyrus’s own promises (I 5.9, II 1.11–12). 17. “Cyaxares quickly discovers the deceit behind his nephew’s request to borrow cavalry, but nevertheless finds himself completely undone” (Nadon 2001, 171; Cyropaedia IV 4.9, V 5.32–36). 18. Sc., the Memorabilia, Oeconomicus, Symposium, and Apology of Socrates to the Jury. 19. Cf. Anabasis V 8.26: “It is noble, just, pious, and more pleasant to recount the good things rather than the bad.” Decency may require discretion, but notice that Xenophon does not deny that recalling the bad things might be useful—to say nothing of being pleasurable to one seeking absolute knowledge (Bruell 1987, 115, n. 45). Consider Oeconomicus 4.16–25 with Ambler (1996, 111); cf. Tatum (1989, 105). Xenophon’s desire to defend Socrates is another possible reason why he places not Socrates, but the wise poet Simonides in the role of advisor to tyrants (Strauss 2000, 66–68).

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Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule

In Prince 14, Machiavelli proclaims that a prince who wishes to win praise and glory needs to “read histories and consider in them the actions of excellent men.” The prince then ought to imitate one of these excellent men, “as they say Alexander the Great imitated Achilles; Caesar, Alexander; Scipio, Cyrus.” Though Machiavelli provides three examples of great princes and their imitators, he names only one text in which we would find an account of one of these great men, Xenophon’s Cyropaedia (or as Machiavelli puts it, “the life of Cyrus written by Xenophon”). Machiavelli singles out Xenophon’s work for special consideration because of the virtues it inspired in Scipio: “Whoever reads [this work] will then recognize in the life of Scipio how much glory that imitation brought him, how much in chastity, affability, humanity, and liberality Scipio conformed to what had been written of Cyrus by Xenophon.”1 This emphasis on the Cyropaedia suggests that it is for Machiavelli the classic articulation of princely virtue. In Prince 15, however, Machiavelli boldly challenges the moral and political virtues that Xenophon and other classical writers sought to cultivate in princes. Contrary to what Scipio learned from Xenophon’s Cyrus, Machiavelli proclaims that in fact a prince should not aspire to such ideals of moral goodness. For “a man who wants to make a profession of good in all respects must come to ruin among so many who are not good.” Announcing his departure from the orders of others, Machiavelli follows with one of his most notorious maxims: “It is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according

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to necessity.” Grounding his advice on what he calls the “effective truth” of politics rather than on traditional morality, Machiavelli implies that however glorious Xenophon’s Cyrus may appear, Xenophon’s text does not teach sufficiently the harsh truths of political success; it does not provide an adequate model for great rulers. In effect, Machiavelli criticizes Xenophon for failing to convey that political excellence depends on a combination of courage, cunning, and worldly prudence that is not constrained, and hence not weakened, by the dictates of moral goodness. Insofar as Xenophon’s account of Cyrus fosters in men like Scipio a misguided belief in the omnipotence of moral virtue, it makes them dependent on and subject to the unreliable or inconsistent goodness of others. But is this an accurate account of Xenophon’s teaching, or even of Machiavelli’s understanding of Xenophon’s teaching? Our own study of the Cyropaedia in previous chapters, of course, has revealed it to be a much more sophisticated and subtle account of political rule that acknowledges not only the efficacy of nefarious politics, but also the potential deficiencies of traditional notions of virtue. Indeed, one of the fundamental questions Xenophon explores in the Cyropaedia is the possibility that the pursuit of political ambition by talented rulers like Cyrus can serve as the vehicle for establishing glorious and prosperous regimes, even or especially when such ambition stretches, if not exceeds, the boundaries of traditional moral and political virtue.2 But more importantly, as his account of Cyrus’ use of deception in Discourses III 13 shows, Machiavelli himself appears to be aware of the complexity and ambiguity of Xenophon’s writings. Machiavelli recognizes that Xenophon encourages at least his more perceptive readers to see the distinction between genuine virtue and the politically expedient appearance of such virtue. He draws our attention to the fact that Xenophon actually understands, and even teaches, to a degree, the harsher truths of effective rule.3 This raises the possibility that Machiavelli’s objection to the Cyropaedia is that Xenophon’s nuanced presentation of Cyrus’ political success is just too subtle for less perceptive readers like Scipio. They see in Xenophon’s Cyrus only those virtues to which their decent and morally serious characters are already inclined. But if this were Machiavelli’s only objection, it would imply that the novelty of his writings depends less on his substantive political insights than on the boldness of his teaching.4 And it would undermine his unambiguous claim to genuine innovation in Prince 15: “I may be held presumptuous, especially since in disputing this matter I depart from the orders of others.” There are, in fact, more fundamental substantive differences between Xenophon and Machiavelli’s understanding of the necessary relationship be-

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tween political and moral virtue—differences that cause the one to understate, and the other to exclaim (and perhaps overstate) the harsher truths of political success.5 The roots of this serious, though not necessarily antagonistic, disagreement can be traced to the different conceptions of human nature underlying Machiavelli and Xenophon’s teaching on humane and prosperous rule. It is with this in mind that we turn to the account of Cyrus Machiavelli offers in his own name (i.e., with no reference to Xenophon) in Prince 6. In what proves to be a cornerstone of his radical redefinition of the essence and origins of glorious rule, Machiavelli praises Cyrus as one of the four “greatest examples” of new princes in new states (the others being Moses, Theseus, and Romulus). As one of these armed prophets (profeti armati), Cyrus rose to greatness because of his virtue of spirit (virtú dello animo)—that particular combination of audacity, strength of will, and prudence that makes possible the judicious use of both force and fraud. This virtue enabled him to institute the “new modes and orders” that became the moral and political basis of the great Persian empire. Cyrus’ success in establishing these new laws and institutions secured for him the enduring glory and reverence that is reserved only for founders of the greatest regimes. Machiavelli reminds us, however, that the founding of a new regime, no matter how great or virtuous, presupposes the destruction of a previous one. This means that from the perspective of the old regime, a founder’s actions are not glorious, but vicious. The “criminality” of founding a new regime is reflected in Machiavelli’s troubling presentation of the similarities between the most glorious founders and the most infamous tyrants. It turns out that founders like Cyrus differ from tyrants like Hiero of Syracuse6 (whom Machiavelli refers to as a “captain,” a “prince,” and even a “king,” but never a tyrant) only by “proportion.” Even more unsettling is Machiavelli’s ambivalent criticism of the more infamous Agathocles the Sicilian in Prince 8. If one “considers the virtue (virtú) of Agathocles in entering into and escaping from dangers, and the greatness of his spirit in enduring and overcoming adversaries, one does not see why he has to be judged inferior to any most excellent captain.”7 Taken together, Machiavelli’s discussion of the four greatest founders and his account of these two tyrants suggest that magnificent as well as corrupt regimes originate from nefarious and even vicious deeds. Nevertheless, Machiavelli does not erase completely the difference between the crimes of the tyrant and the heroics of the glorious founder. The basis of his distinction, however, is not necessarily consistent with conventional moral and political wisdom. According to Machiavelli, what sets the founder apart is his ability to transform the political institutions and moral

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understanding of his people so completely that they come to see him not as a destroyer of the old ways, but as the one who gave birth to the right and true way. Despite Agathocles’ success in defending Sicily against the Carthaginians, “his savage cruelty and inhumanity, together with his infinite crimes, do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent men.” Faithlessness, cruelty, and impiety “can enable one to acquire empire, but not glory.” Agathocles did not lack the cunning, strength, or ambition of the four greatest founders, but he did lack that specific excellence that would have enabled him to transform himself from a criminal into a prophet. According to Machiavelli, Cyrus and the other great founders succeeded where Agathocles failed not necessarily because they acted any less violently or fraudulently, but rather because they went much farther than Agathocles in utilizing such criminal tactics to effect a complete transformation of the moral outlook of their peoples. Since human beings fear “adversaries who have the law on their side,” the new prince can expect to have only “lukewarm defenders” (Prince 6). To be successful, therefore, founders must not only eliminate their enemies, but also institute new laws that provide the institutional support the old laws provided the old regime. In effect, through their victory, greatest founders commit the greatest act of fraud: the totality and awesomeness of their victory recast as virtues those qualities that were vices under the old moral code. “[I]n the actions of all men, and especially princes, where there is no court to appeal to, one looks to the end. So let a prince win and maintain his state: the means will always be judged honorable, and will be praised by everyone” (Prince 18). As regards the role of force in both the founding and maintenance of a regime, Prince 6 is clear: even the four greatest founders would not have endured in their rule had they not supplemented their orders with the judicious use of force.8 “[T]he nature of people is variable; and it is easy to persuade them of something, but difficult to keep them in that persuasion. And things must be ordered in such a mode that when they no longer believe, one can make them believe by force. Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus would not have been able to make their people observe their constitutions for long if they had been unarmed.” For Machiavelli, the necessity of force—and hence its legitimacy as a tool for maintaining one’s state—is determined by human nature itself. Human beings are “ungrateful, fickle, pretenders and dissemblers, evaders of danger, eager for gain” (Prince 17). They are “desirous of new things, so much that most often those who are well off desire newness as much as those who are badly off” (Discourses III 21.2). There is no inherent stability in the relationship between the people and the prince. If the ruler is to preserve himself, he

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must first realize that people “are driven by two principal things, either by love or by fear.” Hence, “whoever makes himself loved commands, as does he who makes himself feared.” In the end, however, Machiavelli indicates that of the two modes the latter is more often the better choice—considering the near-impossibility of the (admittedly more preferable) combination of being both loved and feared. “[W]hoever makes himself feared is more followed and more obeyed than whoever makes himself loved” (Discourses III 21.2, Prince 17). The people love at their own convenience, but they “fear at the convenience of the prince” (Prince 17). The people love the prince only so long as he has the power to benefit them, or more precisely, the power to satisfy their selfish needs and impulsive desires. When the prince is no longer useful to them, their loyalty disappears. Paradoxically, therefore, the weaker the prince becomes, the more he needs the support of the people, but the less he can count on their assistance. Machiavelli thus exposes the folly of presuming the existence in political life of justice understood as gratitude and beneficent reciprocity (the foundation of the republican virtue of Old Persia). The people, as human beings, possess no inherent or reliable moral compass upon which the prince can depend. Thus the prudent or “virtuous” course in most instances is dictated not by ideal principles of justice, but rather by the effective truth of fear as a political tool: the most stable authority is based on “a dread of punishment that never forsakes [the prince].” This open praise of force represents an ambitious break from traditional definitions of legitimate rule, but Machiavelli nevertheless places important qualifications on its use. The necessity of force does not give rulers license to prey upon their subjects. For example, Machiavelli indicates that to maintain their authority, to help ensure that the crimes they commit in securing their state redound to their glory rather than their infamy, new princes must avoid the hatred reserved for criminal tyrants. While a prince may not be able to avoid being feared, he nevertheless can “make himself feared in such a mode that if he does not acquire love, he escapes hatred, because being feared and not being hated can go together very well” (Prince 17). And what makes a prince hated above all “is to be rapacious and a usurper of the property and women of his subjects” (19, 17, see also 9 and Discourses II 2). But he must also recognize the importance, when he needs to take the life of a subject, of doing so only with manifest cause. The prince must at a minimum avoid the appearance of ruling in an arbitrary, unrestrained fashion. Or to speak again in terms of the most successful rulers, the prince’s use of force should always be cast as necessary for the good of the state, which in turn should appear inseparable from—or should at least conceal—his own interests.

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Yet it is not sufficient to characterize Machiavelli’s virtuous prince simply as one who refrains from wanton viciousness. Nor is it correct to look at the preservation of the state as simply a vehicle for princely glory. To be sure, much of Machiavelli’s presentation of genuine political virtue is in the form of cold-hearted and ruthlessly practical maxims designed to instruct ambitious princes; but this ought not obscure the genuine—though certainly stern and circumscribed—humanity underlying even or especially his most notorious political lessons. Machiavelli’s discussion of Hannibal and Scipio in Prince 17 provides a particularly clear illustration of this humanity vis-à-vis the traditional understanding of the necessary relationship between politics and virtue. Contrary to conventional moral opinion, Machiavelli praises the cruelty that made Hannibal such an effective military commander.9 “Among the admirable actions of Hannibal” was his ability to maintain his great and diverse army “in bad as well as good fortune.” This could not have come from “anything other than his inhuman cruelty (inumana crudeltà) which, together with his infinite virtues (con infinite sua virtú), always made him venerable and terrible in the eyes of his soldiers.” This assertion that Hannibal’s success resulted from a combination of his cruelty and virtue is surprising enough; but Machiavelli does not stop there: not only does he subsequently cease altogether to distinguish between Hannibal’s virtues and vices, but he even intimates that Hannibal’s cruelty was itself a virtue. Without cruelty, “his other virtues (l’altre sua virtú ) would not have been sufficient” (emphasis added).10 Of course, cruelty cannot be considered a virtue in the conventional sense of moral goodness; but Hannibal’s cruelty is for Machiavelli an example of human excellence insofar as it enabled him to flourish by overcoming the difficulty of maintaining the unity and good order of his forces. To support his claim that Hannibal would not have succeeded without the “virtue” of cruelty, Machiavelli offers the example of Scipio. Machiavelli acknowledges the glorious reputation Scipio’s goodness gave him: he was “very rare not only in his own time, but in the entire memory of things known.” Still, because of his “excessive mercy,” he allowed his soldiers “more license than is fitting for military discipline,” which led his armies to rebel against him in Spain. Because Scipio was unwilling or unable to adopt the kind of cruelty that served Hannibal so well, he compromised his ability to secure the obedience of his army, thus putting his command in unnecessary jeopardy. Scipio’s principled, unshakable attachment to mercy as a good in itself, as an object of unhesitating devotion, is in the final analysis a “damaging quality” that rendered his authority dependent on factors other than his own prudence and strength. In contrast to the autonomy Hannibal enjoyed as a

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result of his cruelty, Scipio’s authority and hence his fate were ultimately dependent upon the disposition and actions of those around him.11 But perhaps more importantly, in calling Scipio the “corruptor of the Roman military,” Machiavelli implies that Scipio’s mercy was harmful not just because it compromised his own authority, but because of the effect it had on his subordinates. Specifically, because of his “agreeable nature,” Scipio refused to avenge the Locrians after they were pillaged by his legate Pleminius. This failure or unwillingness to extract vengeance was in effect a cruel neglect of the welfare of those whose fate was completely in his hands. His inaction tacitly condoned the crimes of the ruthless against the weak; in effect, he left the weak no recourse but to imitate the lawlessness and disobedience of their tormentors.12 In contradistinction to Scipio’s de facto cruelty, Hannibal’s apparent cruelty, the harsh orders he imposed on his soldiers, was actually humane to the extent that such severity, by maintaining discipline among the soldiers, protected them from both their enemies and each other. Likewise, Cesare Borgia “was held to be cruel; nonetheless his cruelty restored the Romanga, united it, and reduced it to peace and faith.” The lesson Machiavelli draws from this latter example is that “if one considers this well, one will see that he was much more merciful than the Florentine people, who so as to escape a name for cruelty, allowed Pistoia to be destroyed.” Even when speaking of the notorious Agathocles, who enjoyed a long and secure rule despite his “infinite betrayals and cruelties,” Machiavelli asserts that cruelties “can be called well used (if it is permissible to speak well of evil)” if they are done “at a stroke, out of the necessity to secure oneself, and then are not persisted in but turned to as much utility for the subjects as one can” (Prince 8, emphasis added). Agathocles’ highest concern was not the good of his subjects, but they nonetheless benefited, to a limited degree, from the civic order that his cruelty helped to ensure. The novelty of Machiavelli’s account of great rule is not limited to his striking presentation of political virtue. Underlying and informing his discussion, especially of the most excellent armed prophets, is a radical understanding of human nature itself. If Machiavelli’s emphasis on the necessity of force reflects the capricious selfishness of human nature, his emphasis on the efficacy of force speaks to its malleability. The success of the four greatest founders presupposes that human beings can be induced (or forced, depending on your partisan loyalties) to substantively alter their fundamental understanding of themselves as a people united by a common conception of right and wrong. This in turn implies a remarkable potential in the strongest, most ambitious individuals vis-à-vis the world as it manifests itself to human beings. In

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Prince 6, Machiavelli asserts that we live in a fundamentally hostile and uncompromising world ruled by Fortuna, which provides nothing more than “opportunity.” Yet it is precisely the indeterminate character of opportunity that “gave [the greatest founders] the matter enabling them to introduce any form they pleased.” The radicalism of this last assertion can hardly be understated: it is the familiar scholastic formula for describing God’s power to transform nature ex nihilo—and Machiavelli transfers this power to a human ruler.13 To be sure, as we will discuss in further detail below, Machiavelli recognizes there are limits to our ability to conquer fortune—we are not gods after all. That does not, however, diminish the boldness of Machiavelli’s call to arms, or its intended effect on conventional assumptions about the moral boundaries of our political strength. Machiavelli proposes to his most ambitious readers an almost open-ended political project that calls forth the creative genius essential to the best rulers. Human beings are inextricably selfish and driven by their desires; but the most excellent prince has the freedom and power to shape the moral and political institutions that guide, constrain, and give meaning to those desires.14 Imposing his form on this matter, he has the ability to determine the course of a nation, of a people, to his (hopefully) everlasting glory. Compare Machiavelli’s assessment of the potential of the most talented human beings to the apparent conservatism of Xenophon’s writings, or more precisely, to Xenophon’s circumspect endorsement of traditional notions of moral virtue. Machiavelli himself seems to invite such a comparison in his discussion of Xenophon in Discourses II 13. This passage shows Machiavelli’s respect for Xenophon’s shrewd political wisdom. But in light of Machiavelli’s own presentation of Cyrus in Prince 6, his praise of Xenophon appears qualified. We gather from Machiavelli’s comments in Discourses II 13 that he believes Xenophon would appreciate the efficacy and necessity of the kind of grand political fraud discussed in Prince 6; yet, he makes no claim that Xenophon has a similar understanding of the importance of force.15 This tacitly suggests that Xenophon does not appreciate fully or teach sufficiently (not even covertly) the role of force in the establishment and maintenance of great regimes. This critique becomes more explicit in Discourses III 20, which concludes with Machiavelli’s suggestion that Xenophon’s classic account of princely virtue effectively teaches that Cyrus’ manifest virtues obviated his need for arms.16 In this passage Machiavelli offers four examples of rulers who succeeded (at least according to his initial assertion) because of their humanity: Camillus, Fabricius, Scipio, and Xenophon’s Cyrus. The key question, however, is how this humanity and success are related to the use of force. Machi-

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avelli begins by telling us how Camillus, while besieging the city of the Falisci, was approached by the schoolmaster “of the noblest children” who thought “to gratify Camillus and the Roman people” by leading the children “to the camp before Camillus, saying that through them the town would give itself into his hands.” Camillus did indeed take the town, and even did so through the children, but not in the precise manner suggested by the schoolmaster. Instead, Machiavelli tells us, Camillus “stripped the master and bound his hands behind him, and [gave] each one of those children a rod in hand, [and] had him accompanied to town with many beatings from them.” The citizens of the town were so “pleased” by the “humanity and integrity” of Camillus that, “without wishing to defend themselves more,” they decided to give him the town. The implications of Machiavelli’s account stand out when we see how his interpretation of events differs from Livy’s, his ostensible authority on Roman history. According to Livy, it was not Camillus’ humanity and integrity that overawed the Falisci, but the “honesty of the Romans, and the justice of their general” (Livy V 27.6–11, emphasis added). Livy also tells us that Camillus, in a grand display of “magnanimity,” condemned and subsequently punished the schoolteacher for violating the “fellowship which nature had implanted” in both the Romans and the Faliscans (emphasis added). Further, Camillus refused to accept a victory that was not won according to the “rights of war,” and through “courage, toil, and arms” (V 26.10, emphasis added). What these lines suggest is that Livy’s Camillus was far more concerned with upholding universal, natural standards of justice and virtue than with simply guaranteeing victory for his army. Although Camillus’ virtue was essential to his victory, his desire for victory did not determine his adherence to the moral principles underlying his virtue. His actions were guided primarily by an overarching and prior commitment—manifest in his magnanimity or awareness of his own excellence—to the inherently choice-worthy virtues essential to the classical gentleman or statesman. Returning to Machiavelli’s account in Discourses III 20, we see that not only does he replace the “magnanimity” and “justice” Livy attributes to Camillus with “humanity,” but he praises Camillus’ humanity only to the extent it helped to ensure Camillus’ victory. Unlike Livy’s discussion of Camillus’ justice, Machiavelli’s account of Camillus’ humanity gives no indication that this virtue was motivated by any belief in its inherent choice-worthiness. Nor was it circumscribed by a strict notion of moral goodness. Indeed, though Machiavelli concludes that this example reveals how much more a “humane act full of charity is able to do in the spirits of men than a ferocious and violent act,” it is clear that for Machiavelli Camillus’ humanity was perfectly

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consistent with the brutal beating of the schoolmaster. According to Machiavelli, Camillus’ prudent and politic humanity is admirable, in this instance, to the degree it served as a replacement for arms. Camillus was able to capitalize on the fact that there is a certain equivalence between arms and virtue when both are used according to judicious consideration of the contingent good of oneself and others in a given situation. With this in mind, it is significant that just as Machiavelli makes no reference to Camillus’ magnanimity and justice, so he makes no reference in this passage to nature. Camillus’ humanity is both effective and salutary despite and even because of the fact that it does not take its bearings from an inflexible, fixed hierarchy of human virtues that is rooted in natural and universal moral truths. The subsequent three examples of humane rulers Machiavelli offers, however, are meant to illustrate different, non-Machiavellian, ideas about the kind and degree of strength embodied in traditional virtue. Immediately following the “true example” of Camillus, which shows that humanity accomplished more than arms, Machiavelli asks us also to consider that a single act of “mercy,” “chastity,” or “liberality” has at times succeeded in opening “those provinces and those cities that arms, warlike instruments, and every other human force have not been able to open” (emphasis added). Though Machiavelli seems to suggest continuity between the example of Camillus’ humanity and these other examples of virtue, there is nothing in his account of Camillus that suggests an outright failure of arms. What this implies is that the three subsequent examples—which Machiavelli conspicuously fails to call “true”—increasingly emphasize the belief in virtue as an omnipotent end in itself, ultimately to the exclusion of arms and other human contrivances. In the second example, Machiavelli indicates that the “liberality” of Fabricius was able to expel Pyrrhus from Italy when Roman arms failed. His liberality consisted of informing Pyrrhus of an offer made to Rome by one of Pyrrhus’ familiars to poison him. In this example, virtue (liberality) accomplished what arms could not. The third example tells us that it was less Scipio’s capture of New Carthage than his chastity (manifest in his having returned a wife to her husband untouched) that gave him such great fame and “made all Spain friendly to him.” Here, virtue ultimately proved more powerful than arms. We might also say that virtue succeeded against arms: Scipio’s mercy and chastity negated the ill feelings generated by the violence of his military victory. In the final example, Machiavelli invites us to consider the account of Cyrus offered by Xenophon, who “strains very hard (affatica assai) to demonstrate how many honors, how many victories, how much good fame being humane and affable brought Cyrus, and not giving any example of himself as proud, or as cruel, or as lustful, or as having any other vice

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that stains the life of men.” Xenophon’s Cyrus, according to Machiavelli, appears to have succeeded without the use of arms at all: his moral virtues were sufficient for his political greatness. Notice, however, Machiavelli’s emphasis on the deliberateness of Xenophon’s portrait of Cyrus’ virtues. This is consistent with an earlier assertion of his that writers tailor their work to the moral prejudices of their audiences: one sees how much “this part [virtue] is desired in great men by peoples, and how much it is praised by writers, and by those who describe the life of princes, and by those who order how they should live.”17 Machiavelli’s exposition of Xenophon’s intentional emphasis on Cyrus’ apparent virtues intimates that whatever else Xenophon’s carefully crafted account of Cyrus may teach us about the truth of political rule, its overarching effect is nonetheless to confirm and fuel humanity’s longing to believe in the sufficiency of virtue as the guarantor of good rule. The implication is that the political insights of Xenophon and other classical writers are obscured by their characteristic reserve in questioning established notions of virtue; they tend to adopt a conservative tone that appears to flatter rather than challenge conventional beliefs. Instead of learning that the utilitarian, judicious, and hence humane use of virtue is a political tool that can serve the prince in much the same way as arms (as it did in the case of Machiavelli’s Camillus), those who have been informed by the apparent moral idealism of ancient texts like the Cyropaedia have only been strengthened in their belief in moral virtue as an omnipotent and self-sufficient good. In the Cyropaedia Xenophon suggests that for even the shrewdest ruler moral and political virtue is, to varying degrees, essential for political greatness. At the same time, of course, it quietly exposes the tensions within and insufficiencies of traditional notions of virtue. And as Cyropaedia I 6 in particular demonstrates, the articulation and cultivation of true human excellence ultimately calls into question the choice-worthiness of the political goods sought by ambitious men like Cyrus. Thus, Xenophon’s quietly equivocal account of the peak of political virtue ultimately shows the near-impossibility of establishing a regime that satisfies fully all of the moral and political expectations we as human beings attach to political life. Yet, it is precisely because of these difficulties that Xenophon genuinely, if qualifiedly, endorses a conservative political teaching that places a ceiling on political ambition and innovation by preserving the salutary half- or incomplete truths of existing regimes. The stability traditional political virtue promotes is essential to the survival and welfare of humanity on the whole. The political community is the foundation of our earthly existence and survival; its requirements, however severe or problematic, cannot be taken lightly by anyone concerned with the safety and improvement of humanity.

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But Xenophon does not flatter conventional notions of virtue simply for the sake of political expediency. His conservatism is not just rhetorical. While incomplete, such notions of virtues are true to the extent they reflect a desire—intrinsic to human nature itself—to commit ourselves to causes and goods that take their bearings from a natural, cosmic order, the strength and universal beauty of which transcends our mundane everyday experience. One of the most important lessons Xenophon conveys through his presentation of Cyrus is that the success of any regime that tests the boundaries of conventional political morality remains dependent, to a crucial degree, on its ability to address (if not fully satisfy) the essential longings underlying our attachment to traditional ideas of virtue. To put the matter in terms of Machiavelli’s discussion of love and fear, Xenophon does not dismiss the importance of virtue in his assessment of political rule because the keystone of great rule is the reverence, or love, for a ruler from the ruled. This love is based on the people’s desire for the noble and good, which, they believe, manifests itself in the magnificence, benevolence, and glory of the ruler. In comparison, Machiavelli’s writings represent a far more open and ambitious attempt to instruct actual or potential rulers in the substantive means to successful rule—without conceding the limitations imposed by traditional morality. Through a bold and enticing rhetoric that captures the spirit and vigor of the deeds it is intended to inspire, Machiavelli strives to elicit and nurture in the most talented members of the species a desire for worldly glory combined with a confident, but not unrealistic, assessment of their own strength. His account of Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus demonstrates that it is possible to manufacture, as it were, a solid, practicable foundation for a distinctly human excellence that preserves the political goods crucial to human welfare. He lays the groundwork for a new understanding of the virtues or qualities necessary to fulfill humanity’s most essential wants and needs. His concept of human flourishing does not take its bearings from the transpolitical virtues espoused by classical political philosophy, but from humanity’s innate drive for worldly glory, material prosperity, and security. Machiavelli’s reduction of good rule to its technical or practical components is a radical denial that humanity is guided by a fixed moral compass that restricts our capacity for the pursuit of temporal greatness, which requires the use of force in the service of political innovation. He denigrates the power and necessity of love in politics, and replaces Livy’s celebration of Camillus’ magnanimity and intractable commitment to justice with a celebration of his pragmatic and stern humanity. In so doing, Machiavelli suggests that the classical tradition significantly overestimates the degree to which humanity and human moral institutions are defined and constrained

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by a natural drive to participate in a transcendent moral order. Classical political thought underappreciates the necessity and humanity of political rule that takes its bearings solely from the contingent, ever-changing conditions of peoples’ daily pursuit of selfish, worldly, often prosaic, but nevertheless fundamental and pressing needs and aspirations. Above all, classical political theory unnecessarily limits its capacity to serve humanity when it seeks to articulate the profound political limits implied in our highest, but unattainable, moral longings; it fails to appreciate and embrace the potential inherent in our malleable understanding of and attachment to virtue.

Notes 1. See also Discourses III 20.1, 22.4, 5; consider also Cicero Tusculan Disputations II 26.62. 2. Wood (1964, 42–47, 50–60), Newell (1988). 3. Machiavelli acknowledges the existence of such implicit lessons in the works of ancient historians: “[I]t is necessary for a prince to know well how to use the beast and the man. This role was taught covertly to princes by ancient writers, who wrote that Achilles, and many other princes, were given to Chiron the centaur to be raised, so that he would look after them with his discipline” (Prince 18, emphasis added). 4. This is the position taken by Angelo (1969, 173). 5. Xenophon’s Simonides reveals his credentials as a teacher of tyranny by failing to observe traditional moral complaints, Machiavelli establishes his authority as a teacher of tyrants more by, in a manner of speaking, “protesting that he does not fear hell nor the devil . . . [and] expressing immoral principles” (Strauss 2000, 56). Consider also F. Gilbert (1939, 478–83) and Newell (1988, 109). 6. This Hiero (II), who ruled Syracuse from c.271 to 216 B.C.E., is not the Hiero (I) of Xenophon’s Hiero or On Tyranny, who ruled from 478 to 466 B.C.E. 7. Cf. Price (1973, 331) with Wood (1967) and Mansfield (1996, 6–52); and see Quadri (1971, 55–58). 8. Consider F. Gilbert (1965, 154, 179). 9. On Hannibal’s infamous cruelty as perceived by the Romans, see Cicero On Duties I 13.38; on his deviousness as a successful military commander, see I 30, 108. 10. Some scholars attempt to avoid the troubling implications of such a literal reading of this passage by attributing Machiavelli’s conflation of Hannibal’s cruelty and his virtues to an unfortunate sloppiness in Machiavelli’s writing style; see, e.g., Lisio (in Machiavelli 1921, 100 n.15); cf. Codevilla (in Machiavelli 1997b, 63 n. 283). Compare the dedicatory letter of The Prince, where Machiavelli reminds Lorenzo de’ Medici of “the greatness that fortune and [his] other qualities promise [him]” (emphasis added). 11. Machiavelli acknowledges in Prince 17 that Scipio was not completely destroyed by his mercy. Machiavelli asserts that “such a nature would have in time sullied Scipio’s

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fame and glory if he had continued with it in the empire; but while he lived under the government of the Senate, this damaging quality of his was not only hidden, made for his glory” (Prince 17, recall Discourses III 21.2). The Senator who wished to excuse Scipio for his failure to correct the “insolence” of the officer who had destroyed the Locrians argued that there “were many men who knew how not to err than to correct errors.” This Senator, and apparently the majority of the Senate, seems to have been satisfied knowing that Scipio did not err intentionally, that the unfortunate results of his actions were not the result of malicious or criminal intent (cf. Livy Histories XXIX 20.8–9, 3). In other words, Scipio appears to have been excused because of his good conscience. In disclosing this, Machiavelli hints at the difficulty he faces in trying to introduce his radical moral teaching into a world (i.e., the Christian world) dominated by trust in the omnipotence of goodness. 12. According to Livy, Fabius Maximus claimed that “after the manner of a foreign tyrant” Scipio “gave free reign to the excesses of his soldiers and was also cruel to them” (Livy Histories XXIX 19.4–5); see Orwin (1978, 1226). 13. I am indebted to Waller Newell for this observation. In this same vein, consider Machiavelli’s use of the terms forza and materia in Discourses I 17.3. 14. Consider Parel (1991, 334). 15. Newell (1988, 125–27); see also Strauss (1970, 12). 16. See Mansfield’s discussion of this chapter (1978, 374–76). 17. In fact, Machiavelli cleverly gives us a taste of such flattery in his own account of Scipio’s chastity. We become aware of this when we consider Livy’s description of Scipio’s victory at New Carthage (Histories XXVI 46–50). Machiavelli’s retelling alters or conspicuously omits a number of details of Livy’s presentation, with the result that Machiavelli’s version places far more emphasis on the importance of Scipio’s chastity, or more precisely, the political efficacy or strength of Scipio’s chastity. Livy’s focus is more on Scipio’s military tactics and the havoc wreaked by the Roman soldiers who, once inside the walls, “scattered in all directions to slay the townspeople” and “did not spare any adult who met them.” (46.7, 9–10). According to Livy, even the man whose betrothed the chaste Scipio returns acknowledges the importance of arms in Scipio’s success. (Granted, this man praises Scipio as “a god–like youth, conquering everything by arms and especially by generosity” [50.13]—but we have to take into account his personal interest in continuing to flatter Scipio’s virtue.) The point is that while Livy’s account certainly speaks to Scipio’s famous good character, it is difficult to conclude from Livy’s account that Scipio’s virtue succeeded against arms. His virtue certainly complemented (after the fact) his effective use of arms, but it is not so clear that this virtue was more effective than these arms in conquering the enemy. In deliberately overemphasizing the importance of Scipio’s chastity, Machiavelli ironically presents an idealized version of Scipio’s victory in Spain. With this in mind, Machiavelli appears to be flattering an audience that desires confirmation of the temporal strength of moral virtue.

C H A P T E R

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Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince

Despite the practical and theoretical significance of Machiavelli and Xenophon’s disagreement about the relationship between transcendent virtue and politics, it does not sufficiently explain why Machiavelli is as bold as he is in exposing the harsher truths of political rule. It does not explain fully why Machiavelli is so insistent on encouraging rulers to disregard traditional moral boundaries in vigorous pursuit of political glory. Xenophon’s morally responsible and politically conservative teachings may have the effect of moderating the ambition of some of his most talented readers. The doubts and questions he raises about the pursuit of glory may even induce some to forsake politics altogether for the contemplative life represented by Socrates. But we can hardly claim that his writings undermine altogether humanity’s capacity and respect for the active virtues embodied in the classical statesman or general—and certainly not to the extent that someone like Machiavelli would need to construct an entirely new moral foundation for political excellence. For Xenophon, the fact that political virtue is a flawed manifestation of human excellence does not make it an inessential one. The urgency and audacity of Machiavelli’s redefinition of virtue and its relationship to politics, including his challenge to classical political philosophy, was also or primarily necessitated by the rise of Christianity. In Machiavelli’s analysis, the problems with the classical understanding of political virtue, while significant in their own right, are exacerbated by Christianity’s unambiguous denigration of wordly excellence. Ancient political thought

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becomes decisively problematic insofar as it is vulnerable to being misconstrued or misinterpreted by Christian readers who see in the classical emphasis on transpolitical virtue only justification for their own faith in the omnipotence of otherworldly virtue. In Discourses III 21.1 we find that in addition to chastity, affability, humanity, and liberality, Machiavelli adds mercy and humility to the list of admirable qualities Scipio learned from Cyrus (see also III 20, 22.4). What is striking about this list is that not only are all six of these virtues perfectly consistent with Christian morality, but they—especially the latter two—are arguably closer to transpolitical ideals of Christian goodness than to the classical conception of the magnanimous gentleman or robust citizen-warrior. In effect, Machiavelli likens the moral goodness Scipio saw in Xenophon’s Cyrus to the specifically Christian prejudice against political excellence.1 The classical concern with moral virtue, inasmuch as it has been successfully assimilated by Christian theology, not only cultivates the deleterious idleness that accompanies the philosophical pursuit of virtue, but discourages the kind of vigorous spirit and bold political action that Machiavelli deems necessary for humanity to defend its earthly estate.2 Machiavelli’s response is an attempt to revive humanity’s capacity for political excellence through a radical innovation—promulgated through an equally bold rhetoric—in our understanding of moral virtue as a necessary component of political success. To understand the whole of Machiavelli’s novel teaching on virtue, from its deepest roots to its most profound implications, we must turn our attention to Machiavelli’s critique of the political effects of Christian spirituality and its appropriation and corruption of the classical moral tradition. We begin by returning to Discourses II 2. This key chapter takes up the question why ancient peoples loved freedom more than those in modern times. The cause, Machiavelli suggests, is the same as what makes modern people lack strength. “[This] I believe is the difference between our education and the ancient, founded on the difference between our religion and the ancient. For our religion, having shown the truth and the true way, makes us esteem less the honor of the world, while the Gentiles, esteeming it very much and having placed the highest good in it, were more ferocious in their actions” (II 2.2). In contrast to the humility and delicacy of Christian sacrifices, ancient sacrifices were magnificent, full of “blood,” “ferocity,” and “vigorous action”; and the “terrible” sight of animal sacrifice rendered men “similar to itself.” As a result, ancient religion promoted the active virtues necessary to defend civic freedom. It placed the highest good “in greatness of spirit, strength of body, and all other things capable of making men very strong.” It honored—or, to use Machiavelli’s term, beatified—only those

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who were full of worldly glory, such as “captains of armies and princes of republics.” Christianity, in contrast, glorifies those who are “humble and contemplative,” placing the “highest good in abjectness and contempt of things human.” To say that Christianity celebrates meekness, however, is not necessarily to deny its strength as a religion or the greatness of its victory. Later in the same passage, Machiavelli, in an apparent qualification of his initial charge that Christianity is responsible for the sorry state of contemporary politics, suggests that the reason why “not as many [freedom-loving] republics are seen in the world as were seen in antiquity” is less that ancient republics were destroyed by the Christian education than “that the Roman Empire with its arms and greatness, eliminated all republics and all civil ways of life.” Certainly on one level, this passage, along with Machiavelli’s suggestion that the hardest slavery is submission to an imperialistic republic (II 2.4), underscores the political price republican imperialism exacts on other cities. Yet one could also say that the Roman Empire prepared the way for Christianity’s awesome victory over the ancient world by destroying freedom and political virtue in the cities it conquered. When the Roman Empire dissolved, freedom did not rise again (except in “a few places”). The reason is that the Roman Empire itself was superseded, or more precisely conquered, by Christianity, which not only kept the servile people servile, but succeeded in overcoming Roman virtue and disarming even that great empire. With this in mind, there appears to be a deeper connotation to Machiavelli’s reference—in this paragraph largely dedicated to an explicit discussion of Christianity—to the “rare and extreme” and “excessive” Roman virtue that was able to overcome the “very armed and very obstinate” enemies of the Roman people. Machiavelli is alluding to the spiritual arms with which Christianity has overcome the proud and powerful on behalf of the meek and humble. But this brings us back to the problem of the enervating effect of Christianity on the people it ostensibly defends. Machiavelli addresses this problem in Discourses III 1.4. “Our religion,” he argues, would have been “altogether eliminated” had not Saint Francis and Saint Dominic drawn it “back towards its beginnings” with their “poverty and with the example of the life of Christ.” At first glance, it appears these reformers, whose authority was grounded on their otherworldly virtue as opposed to temporal strength, were acting on behalf of the meek and humble by preventing the “dishonesty of the prelates and the heads of the religion” from ruining the true essence of Christianity. Yet it is difficult to tell from Machiavelli’s subsequent discussion how or even whether these reforms addressed this corruption of the clergy. Indeed, Machiavelli gives no indication of what, if any, effect these reformers

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had on the clergy; he speaks only of the effect they had on the people they were supposed to protect. For all intents and purposes, they only further weakened the people’s ability to oppose the corruption of their oppressors. “Living still in poverty and having so much credit with the peoples in confessions and sermons,” and convincing the people to give up their claim to earthly justice, the reformers taught them “to understand that it is evil to say evil of evil, and that it is good to live under obedience to them and, if they make an error, to leave them to God to punish.” The effective truth of this teaching is that the better Christians the people become and the more they trust in divine intervention, the more vulnerable they become to the corrupt clergy. This “renewal,” which “has maintained and maintains this religion,” ultimately does not appear to be anything more than a renewal of its corruption.3 The reformers, no less, and perhaps more, than the corrupt clergy, have betrayed the people. They have given those who “do not fear the punishment they do not see and do not believe” even more license “to do the worst they can.”4 Machiavelli thus illustrates the enormous political price humanity pays for Christianity’s ostensible spiritual liberation of the soul. In a sense, Christianity is like the tyranny Machiavelli describes Discourses II 2.1 in that it cannot honor the temporal strength of the faithful. Christianity’s very strength comes at the expense of humanity’s worldly vigor. It keeps humanity divided between this world and the next, and fosters the belief that we are powerless to influence the course of human affairs; if it asks us to have strength in ourselves, it is only for the sake of enduring suffering. Having convinced humanity that it is impossible—and wrong—to imitate those ancient peoples who took “extraordinary revenges against those who have seized their freedom,” Christianity “seems to have rendered the world weak and given it in prey to criminal men” (II 2.2).5 It has made humanity effectively unable to resist enslavement by the powerful.6 Most contemporary scholars recognize the tension between the hard edge of Machiavelli’s substantive teaching on the “effective truth” of the politics of thriving cities, on the one hand, and the transcendent, yet powerful, spirituality of Christianity, on the other. Isaiah Berlin is particularly attentive to this difficulty. “If men practice Christian humility, they cannot be inspired by the burning ambitions of the great classical founders of cultures and religions; if their gaze is centered upon the world beyond—if their ideas are infected by even lip-service to such an outlook—they will not be likely to give all that they have to an attempt to build a perfect city” (1980, 45, 47, 49, 50, 57, 66, 69).7 The problem, however, with Berlin’s and many other interpretations of Machiavelli’s response to this tension is that they

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fail to do justice to the significance and depth of Machiavelli’s challenge to both the Christian understanding of virtue and the traditional conflation of moral virtue and goodness. A considerable number of scholars adhere to the seemingly commonsensical view that in the course of enumerating his pragmatic political teaching, Machiavelli divorces politics from all questions of morality. Politics becomes a values-free scientific or technical subject.8 The difficulty is that many of those who hold this view generally fail to recognize that if, as they say, Machiavelli feels so compelled to set aside moral concerns in order to embrace the nefarious deeds necessary for effective rule, he not only implicitly concedes the superior authority of Christian morality, but tacitly condemns such deeds from the traditional moral perspective. Separating the spheres of Christian morality and politics essentially leaves Christian morality intact and renders his embrace of shrewd politics fundamentally immoral according to his own judgment. In trying to show how Machiavelli avoids questions of morality in his political teaching, scholars who hold this position unwittingly underscore what looks to be a hidden morality to Machiavelli’s thought.9 Benedetto Croce to some extent acknowledges this difficulty when he argues that Machiavelli is a realist with an “austere and sad moral conscience,” who only with great reluctance accepted that inasmuch as political success depends on evil actions, it is necessary to divorce politics from ethics (1925, 60–62, 66).10 But if we were to accept this analysis, we would be forced to concede that because Machiavelli’s attempt to liberate politics by separating it from morality leaves him in such an anguished state, his practical political teaching is in the most important sense an exercise in tragic futility. Another prominent interpretation of Machiavelli’s treatment of Christianity is that his praise of ancient Roman virtue represents an attempt to recover an independent, civic-minded pagan moral (as opposed to scientific) alternative to Christianity. Berlin proposes that Machiavelli’s writings reflect a differentiation between “two incompatible ways of life, and therefore two moralities”: Christianity and the moral universe of the pagan polis, whose ultimate ends are political as opposed to spiritual (1980, 45–46, 50, 53–59, 60, 63–64, 68–69, 70–71).11 Berlin is careful, however, to establish that as “notoriously wicked” as Machiavelli’s advice may appear, he “does not wish to deny that what Christians call good is, in fact, good, and what they call virtue and vice are in fact virtue and vice” (1980, 46, 48–50). Yet in arguing that Machiavelli’s thought is merely an alternative to, rather than a replacement for, Christian morality, Berlin fails to grasp that Machiavelli’s response to the tension between earthly politics and transcendent spirituality extends

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far beyond determining which of the “existing moralities,” namely pagan or Christian, is more conducive to political excellence.12 He does not credit Machiavelli with the simple insight that to remedy the bad political effects of Christianity’s spiritual victory over ancient virtue, it is not sufficient simply to recommend the imitation of the ancient virtues and institutions that proved inferior in strength to Christian morality in the first place. Machiavelli’s critique of the consequences of Christian otherworldliness certainly suggests that he desires to revive in modern people a civic spirit and vitality reminiscent of ancient republics and their leading citizens. But his project cannot be understood simply as an attempted return to civic-minded pagan virtue. Before he can demonstrate the possibility and desirability of reviving any aspect of ancient virtue, he must aggressively confront the overwhelmingly powerful Christian moral prejudice against the pursuit of temporal greatness. Overcoming the victory of Christianity thus requires a much more insidious strategy to actively undermine and supplant—not just evade or limit—the moral authority of the Chuch and the distinction it makes between spiritual salvation and worldly glory. It is not surprising, then, the emphasis Machiavelli places on the difference between the ancient education and the Christian one with respect to politics. In Discourses I pr. 2, Machiavelli asserts that although his modern contemporaries have in front of them ancient historical writings describing “the most virtuous work” of “ancient kingdoms and republics, . . . kings, captains, citizens, legislators, and others who have labored for their fatherland,” they do not believe such greatness can be imitated. Indeed, he suggests, these works are “so much shunned by everyone in every least thing that no sign of that ancient virtue remains with us.” Machiavelli’s description of the cause, however, is notably ambiguous. This arises, I believe, not so much from the weakness into which the present religion has led the world, or from the evil (male) that an ambitious idleness (ambizioso ozio) has done to many Christian provinces and cities, as from not having a true knowledge of histories, through not getting from reading them that sense nor tasting that flavor that they have in themselves. From this it arises that the infinite number who read them take pleasure in hearing the variety of accidents contained in them without thinking of imitating them, judging that imitation is not only difficult but impossible—as if heaven, sun, elements, men had varied in motion, order, and power from what they were in antiquity.

At first, Machiavelli appears to downplay the weakness and idleness fostered by Christianity as the cause of modern peoples’ false knowledge of an-

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cient history. But this causal relationship is actually stronger than Machiavelli seems to suggest. With the advent of the Christian belief in the special creation of the universe, heaven and its influence on human affairs in effect has changed for modern people.13 Consequently, any attempt to resurrect ancient virtue by appealing to “true knowledge of histories” would have to begin with an attempt to convince modern people of the fundamental similarity between themselves and the ancients regarding the relationship between the heavens and human flourishing. To say the least, this reeducation would call into question the modern belief in the singularity and sufficiency of the Christian moral dispensation. This of course does not prevent Machiavelli from outlining what such an education would entail. The problem, we are somewhat surprised to learn, is not necessarily with Christianity itself: although the world “appears to [have been] made effeminate and heaven disarmed,” such weakness comes more from the “cowardice of the men who have interpreted our religion according to idleness and not according to virtue.” The truth, according to Machiavelli, is that Christianity actually “permits us the exaltation and defense of the fatherland . . . [and] wishes us to love and honor it and to prepare ourselves to be such that we can defend it.” Machiavelli thus seems to present himself as a reformer intent on returning Christianity to its “true” principles. But what are those principles? Machiavelli, again with deliberate ambiguity, leaves us questioning whether his reformations really suppose that such a reconciliation between Christianity and patriotic defense of the fatherland is possible, or even desirable. First, he gives no indication how or whether Christianity actually aids in this defense; he suggests only that it need not be an obstacle. Second, his reinterpretation is less a return to Christianity’s original spiritual roots than an expansion or modification of Christianity to include the virtues of political activism.14 Finally, and most importantly, if Machiavelli really intends to reconcile Christianity with healthy politics, it is on terms that seem to be at least as great a perversion of Christianity’s original spirituality as the machinations of corrupt priests: inasmuch as he never withdraws his original insistence on the primacy of worldly strength and political vigor—over “idleness and cowardice”—Machiavelli’s proposed reformation tacitly dismisses Christianity’s fundamental subordination of worldly security to transcendent spirituality. That is, the “Christianity” Machiavelli preserves is hardly Christian.15 From this, it is not unreasonable to conlude that Machiavelli’s intention is less to reconcile Christianity with pagan political vigor than to wholly transform—to “paganize”—Christianity. Machiavelli is saying to us . . . that it remains open to us as a civilization (or to some enterprising innovator within our civilization) to reinterpret Christianity

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in such a way that it secures the political advantages that the Romans were so adept at exploiting through a judicious manipulation of religious beliefs and practices. To blame the evils wrought by Christianity on a faulty interpretation is to invite a new interpretation, more consonant with the cultural demands of neo-pagan politics. Here Machiavelli states his program with unmistakable clarity: by speaking of the Christian quest for otherworldly salvation as if it were a product of misinterpretation, Machiavelli indicates that Christianity can and ought to be reinterpreted as if it were not Christianity, specifically, as if it were a brand of paganism. Christianity has to be paganized. (Beiner 1993, 624)16

But as brazen as the kind of “reformation” Beiner proposes would surely be, this formulation still does not capture the full extent of the problem posed by Christianity or the radicalness of Machiavelli’s response. It is not simply that Christianity triumphed over pagan civil and religious practices, i.e., pagan “culture”; its assimilation of classical thought also fundamentally undermined certain crucial theoretical foundations of the classical-philosophic understanding of virtue. Christianity, in exhorting us to praise weakness over strength, humility over magnanimity, meekness over spiritedness, teaches us to deny the virtues that were for the ancients the consequence of the celebration of our natural, uniquely human strengths. Christianity’s transcendent spirituality challenges the classical-philosophic belief in humanity’s dependence on a natural moral order that is reflected in conventional moral and political institutions. This brings us back to Machiavelli’s teaching on the malleability of human nature, and the possibility that it was Christianity’s spiritual victory over the ancient world that first brought to Machiavelli’s attention the deficiencies of classical political theory as deficiencies. Christianity’s success entailed a radical transformation in humanity’s understanding of the world, of its moral universe. Virtue came to be seen not as the perfection of our (merely) human nature, but as the complete transcendence and denigration of that nature, or at least the complete subordination of that nature to the divine realm. In other words, Christianity’s successful campaign against humanity’s earthly desires, and the attendant upheaval in the hierarchy of human virtues and aspirations, constitute a de facto “proof” that human nature is more malleable than classical thought anticipated. Christianity not only challenged the active political virtues promoted by classical thought and pagan morality, but it also fundamentally changed the way we think about morality— severing its connection to our essential “human” nature. What this suggests is that Machiavelli’s post-Christian political teaching, his attempt to revive humanity’s capacity for temporal greatness, must be

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more than simply a collection of substantive political maxims. It necessarily involves a revolution in the manner we approach the study of politics. It requires a wholly new, distinctly modern political science that entails a complete theoretical reformulation of the way we conceive of human excellence, such as cannot be found either in pagan religion or classical political philosophy. It demands a revolution in the way we experience and cultivate, on a public and private level, the virtues that constitute the core of our moral identity.17 With this in mind, we return to chapter 15 of The Prince and Machiavelli’s most famous—or infamous—statement on how a prince should behave to maintain his rule. But since my intent is to write something useful to whoever understands it, it has appeared to me more fitting to go directly to the effectual truth of the thing than to the imagination of it. And many have imagined republics and principalities that have never been known to exist in truth; for it is so far from how one lives to how one should live that he who lets go of what is done for what should be done learns his ruin rather than his preservation. Hence it is necessary for a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity.

We now see that this is not just a repudiation of classical political and moral idealism, but also or especially a deliberate effort to undermine the spiritual foundation of Christian morality, the Christian conscience. The radical and insidious nature of this passage comes fully to light only when we realize that Machiavelli does not immediately dismiss or destroy the traditional distinction between virtue and vice. Following this passage, Machiavelli lists eleven apparent virtues and their corresponding vices.18 And he acknowledges the popular desire for moral virtue in the Christian prince. “[E]veryone will confess (confesserà) that it would be a very laudable thing to find in a prince all of the abovementioned qualities that are held good.” However, inasmuch as there is a clear disparity between what is done and what should be done, there is a fundamental difficulty with humanity’s “confessed” desire for moral perfection, and hence with Christian spirituality in general: it necessarily divides humanity between what is morally desirable and what is temporally necessary and possible.19 The effective truth of human existence is that humanity is compelled by its own restless nature to want political goods (e.g., glory, security, wealth) the procurement of which often violates God’s commands. The Christian prince, therefore, is divided between his desire for political success and his desire for moral goodness.

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Hence, he is incapable of satisfying either desire. So long as he is guided by transcendent notions of moral goodness, he cannot wholly devote himself to what he must do to flourish in this world; and so long as he is compelled by worldly needs and threatened by earthly dangers, he cannot fulfill his obligation to God. This struggle within the Christian soul manifests itself in the bad conscience. Because Christian virtue and the desire for worldly prosperity conflict, humanity is in effect commanded by God to confess a belief in virtues whose goodness and inherent desirability it cannot always see. Humans are thus necessarily sinners not only in deed but in thought. They will always be burdened by a guilty conscience insofar as they remain aware of their inability to possess all of the virtues God commands, and insofar as they remain aware that God’s commands do not necessarily serve their own apparent good. Machiavelli’s new definition of genuine virtue as the ability “not to be good” in the pursuit of political success must therefore be understood as an attempt to remove goodness, the struggle for a pure heart, from political discourse.20 Discourses I 27 contains Machiavelli’s starkest presentation of the unChristian implications of this attempt to free ourselves from the debilitating effects of the bad conscience. In this chapter, Machiavelli tells us how Pope Julius II, having taken an oath against all tyrants, went to Bologna to deprive its tyrant Giovampagolo Baglioni of his rule. Although the pope’s “intent and decision [were] known to everyone,” the pope did not enter the city with his army, but entered “unarmed, notwithstanding that Giovampagolo was inside with many troops that he had assembled for his protection” (I 27.1). The prudent men who were with the pope, including Machiavelli himself, noted the “rashness” of the former and the “cowardice” of the latter; but they were otherwise “unable to guess” why the tyrant did not, “to his perpetual fame, crush his enemy at a stroke and enrich himself with booty, since with the pope were all the cardinals with all their delights.” Giovampagolo could have created an “eternal memory” of himself by displaying his spirit in a way that “everyone would admire.” “One” could not believe that it was out of either goodness or conscience: “for into the breast of [this] villainous man, who was taking his sister for himself, who had killed his cousins and nephews so as to reign, no pious respect could descend.”21 But wasn’t his cowardly refusal to kill the pope itself a kind of pious respect? The only reason an armed—and otherwise remorseless—man would not “dare” assault an unarmed man to his perpetual honor and fame is if he were held back by his conscience, his fear of divine retribution. Machiavelli concludes that this failure to act “arose from men’s not knowing how to be honorably wicked or perfectly good” (emphasis added). Giovampagolo may have been more detestable than most, but he neverthe-

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less shared with his contemporaries the burden of a guilty conscience. He was unable to recognize the good in the one honorably wicked deed that would have “surpassed all infamy, every danger, that could have proceeded from it.” Lacking trust in his own worldly strength, and lacking the courage to free himself from the spiritual authority embodied in the pope, he was unable to realize the morally neutral self-sufficiency that is the true foundation of human greatness and glory. In Machiavelli’s account of virtue, earthly political success and glory emerge as the primary, if not sole, measure of a prince’s excellence. In focusing on glory, the outward manifestation of a prince’s prudence in acting according to the demands of the situation, Machiavelli tacitly dismisses the interior struggle between virtue and sin that is essential to Christian morality. “Consciousness of excellence on the part of excellent men must take the place of consciousness of guilt or sin” (Strauss 1978, 190). Machiavelli seeks to replace the desire for spiritual perfection and its attendant divine rewards with a desire for that enduring worldly glory that comes only from political success. “That man is mortal does not mean that he should regard himself as dust and ashes; it means in the case of the best men that they should seek immortal glory” (ibid.). To do this, the prince must let go of his desire to possess all of the traditional, especially Christian, moral virtues as ends in themselves. True human excellence depends not on ideal standards of moral goodness or badness, but on that combination of prudence, cunning, and strength of will that enables the prince to overcome the obstacles of political reality. When Machiavelli advocates the use of vicious but politically expedient modes, it is not because he divorces politics from morality, or introduces an alternative pagan ethos, but because he subordinates the conventional definition of and opposition between virtue and vice to the pursuit of political glory. Our understanding and judgment of virtue and vice must take its bearings from the requirements of politics.22 According to Machiavelli, it is not simply that a prince may have to use vicious means for morally good ends, but that those vices, when they are used well or prudently in the pursuit of political glory, become virtues themselves. “[I]f one considers everything well, one will find something that appears to be a vice, which if pursued would be one’s ruin, and something else appears to be a vice, which if pursued results in security and one’s well-being (il bene essere suo)” (Prince 15).23

Aristotle and the “Middle Way” The extent of Machiavelli’s redefinition of what it means to be good and bad can be seen in his novel understanding of the “middle way.” Although

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our focus is on the distinction between Machiavelli and Xenophon, Machiavelli’s account of virtue must also be understood in the context of Aristotle’s classic expression of virtue as “the mean between two vices, the one an excess and the other a deficiency” (Nicomachean Ethics 1107a1-9).24 As we have seen, Machiavelli undermines the humility and remorsefulness of the Christian conscience; at the same time, however, he does counsel a certain moderation in the prince through his insistence on the prudent use of cruelty. More specifically, he indicates that however useful cruelty may be, a virtuous ruler nevertheless must avoid the excesses of both cruelty and mercy. This initially seems to be an admonishment to a kind of “middle way” between extreme cruelty and extreme mercy. But a closer look at Discourses III 21— which is particularly relevant to us since it invites us again to compare Hannibal with the moral, Cyrus-emulating Scipio—reveals Machiavelli’s presentation of the middle way as it applies to princely excellence to be a substantial departure from, if not also a parody of, Aristotle’s formulation.25 Reminiscent of what we have already learned from Prince 17, Discourses III 21 shows a prince can succeed through merciful as well as cruel modes. Machiavelli reminds us that one of Scipio’s most memorable accomplishments is having made Spain friendly to him with his “humanity and mercy”—though he quickly adds that Hannibal produced the “same effect” with “cruelty, violence, robbery, and every type of faithlessness” (III 21.1). More important than this suggestion that both cruelty and mercy can bring political success, however, is Machiavelli’s suggestion how prince can avoid coming to ruin as a result of “those errors that are made so as to make oneself loved too much or to make one feared too much.” Excesses of either threaten the security of the prince’s state: too much mercy makes one despised and too much cruelty makes one hated. But in response to this dilemma, Machiavelli does not encourage the prince to seek an Aristotelian mean between the two; he does not counsel seeking the virtue that comes from simultaneously moderating one’s inclinations to both extremes. To be sure, as Machiavelli readily admits, such a “middle course” between excessive mercy and excessive cruelty would be desirable. But holding it is difficult, if not impossible; for “our nature does not consent to it” (III 21.3). Finding and maintaining a consistent mean between opposing vices is beyond our abilities given the capricious nature of humanity and worldly affairs. Instead, Machiavelli counsels one to seek the middle path—not between two vices—but rather between virtue and vice. More precisely, for Machiavelli true virtue is knowing how to proceed in both humane and inhumane modes. “Thus you must know that there are two kinds of combat: one with laws, the other with force. The first is proper to man, the second to beasts; but because the first is often not enough, one must have recourse to the second.

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Therefore it is necessary for a prince to know well how to use the beast and the man” (Prince 18).26 One must be able to alternate between virtue and vice as the situation demands.27 Consequently, Machiavellian virtue cannot be reduced to a specific set of qualities or consistent standards of conduct. For it consists in the ability to instantly adopt those qualities recommended by the prudent recognition of the effective truth of a given situation. To protect himself against the difficulties of excessive mercy, for example, the prince must be able and willing to employ cruelty—even beastly, “excessive” cruelty—as the situation demands—but only as much and as long as is necessary.28 As it turns out, Machiavelli credits both Scipio and Hannibal with utilizing “excessive virtue” to cancel “all those errors” that the former might have made “so as to make [himself] loved,” and that the latter might have made to “to make [himself] feared” (Discourses III 21.3). Machiavelli draws particular attention to how this virtue manifested itself in the merciful Scipio: to remedy the inconveniences of his excessive mercy (i.e., the rebellion of his friends and soldiers), Scipio was ultimately forced to the opposite extreme, and had to use “part of that cruelty he had fled from.”29 We must pause, however, and question whether Scipio is a wholly appropriate model of such Machiavellian virtue, especially considering the emphasis Machiavelli places on Scipio’s reluctance to use the cruelty he tried so hard to avoid. It is doubtful that Scipio looked upon his necessary cruelty in a favorable light, much less as a virtue. If Scipio saved himself through an act of Machiavellian virtue (i.e., the appropriate and timely use of cruelty), it appears to have been in spite of his own moral beliefs, and against his conscience. Well-intentioned, moral rulers like Scipio may indeed accomplish great things—but they do not fully understand, and hence cannot fully utilize, those qualities that are the true cause of their success. They are unable or unwilling to take that decisive step to free themselves from their faith in the necessary goodness of virtue.

Glory and the Limits of Human Excellence Machiavelli’s bold political teaching suggests that with the proper encouragement and education humanity can adequately satisfy its longing for a distinctly human excellence—manifest in the glory of political greatness—that allows it to become a worthy and capable guardian of its own welfare. The last paragraph of Prince 25 exhorts new princes to exploit the strength they might not know they have against the dangers they feel they cannot face. It is, as it were, a call to arms for the “young,” those who are most ferocious, impetuous, and audacious. “I conclude, then, that when fortune varies and men remain obstinate in their modes, men are happy while they are in accord, and as they

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come into discord, unhappy. I judge this indeed, that it is better to be impetuous than cautious, because fortune is a woman; and it is necessary, if one wants to hold her down, to beat her and strike her down.” Dramatic as this passage is, however, Machiavelli’s call for humanity to indulge its natural desire for earthly glory, to realize the full scope of its strength, is not without important qualifications. Machiavelli’s open praise of the quest for political greatness and his enumeration of an understanding of virtue that facilitates this quest is indeed the bedrock of a strikingly novel political and moral teaching; yet, Machiavelli’s promise of glory to those willing to heed his call to arms does not exhaust his understanding of human excellence. We must not mistake Machiavelli’s call to talented individuals to seize and master fortune for an indication that fortune can actually be wholly conquered. Fortune favors the strong and audacious—they succeed “more” than “those who proceed coldly,” but only to the degree that fortune “lets herself be won.” Though Machiavelli makes it clear that Christian and classical thought fail to exploit fully human potential within the political arena, he also makes it clear that even the most excellent rulers will always be subject to factors beyond their control—including their own mortal weakness in the face of the overwhelming force of natural necessity. This apparent concession to human weakness, it must be stressed, does not necessarily undermine the intended effect of Machiavelli’s teaching, the renewal of human vitality. Actually, it is Machiavelli’s very acceptance of our limitations that establishes the practicality and efficacy of his approach to cultivating genuine human excellence. He teaches us to see that the contest between individuals, armed only with their native capacities, and the world around them (which is made up of both natural and political forces) is the sole determinant of success or failure. And so he emphasizes the pursuit of worldly glory, and hence the necessity of subordinating all distinctions between traditional virtue and vice to the shrewd calculation and unhesitating acceptance of what must be done to secure that glory. Yet Machiavelli remains fully aware that the political victories on which this glory is built are necessarily contingent and insecure given the variability of the world and the shortcomings of “our natures.” On this point, Machiavelli does not appear to disagree with classical political philosophy and Christianity, both of which cite the contingency of human or political affairs as an indication of the ultimate limitations of human potential. From this, however, the latter two traditions conclude that political excellence is to be viewed as a limited, if not degraded, form of human virtue.30 Hence they conclude that our highest aspirations lead us, or should lead us, beyond the political world—to the life of detached philosophic contemplation in the one case, and to the Heavenly Kingdom in the other. Machiavelli counters

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by forcing us to confront our unrealistic beliefs in the omnipotence of universal, transcendent (or at least transpolitical) virtue. Such delusions give us false confidence in the power of virtues that we cannot have, at the price of the excellence we can. We can neither secure the greatest virtues articulated by ancient political philosophy in its quest for what is good for humanity as such; nor can we trust in our ability to acquire, through Christian virtue, the divine grace capable of protecting us from vagaries of fortune. We realize our full potential only when we stop longing for such lofty goods and lower our gaze toward the vigorous pursuit of human autonomy in full light of the effective truth of the temporal realm. Once we accept our inability to be complete masters of our fortune, we are freed to pursue that very real, if limited, excellence manifest in the resilience, spirit, and ingenuity of the most talented members of the species. Indeed, those who recognize their limitations possess an inner freedom or selfsufficiency that, precisely because it prevents them from attaching undue significance to their successes and failures, liberates them from delusions about their strengths—delusions that would otherwise compromise their sober assessment of their actual abilities regarding the vital struggle for autonomous political dominion. [G]reat men are always the same in every fortune; and if it varies—now by exalting them, now by crushing them—they do not vary but always keep their spirit firm and joined with their mode of life so that one easily knows for each that fortune does not have power over them. Weak men govern themselves otherwise, because they grow vain and intoxicated in good fortune and by attributing all the good they have to the virtue they have never known. (Discourses III 31)

Notes 1. According to the classical understanding, both unwarranted vanity (cauænoß) and humility (mikroyukiva lit. “smallness of soul”) are contemptible qualities antithetical to the magnanimous (“great-souled”) gentleman (see, e.g., Aristotle’s discussion in Nicomachean Ethics 1123a34–1125a35). Also suggestive of the connection between Christian virtue and the admirable qualities Machiavelli attributes to the Xenophontic Cyrus is the fact that the word Machiavelli uses for Cyrus’ mercy, pieta, also means piety. (The Latin pietate, which Machiavelli uses in the title of Prince 17, also carries this dual meaning.) It would not have been difficult for Machiavelli’s contemporaries to draw such connection between Xenophon’s Cyrus and Christian virtue. Allan Gilbert points out that according to the texts commonly read in Machiavelli’s time, the virtues generally thought to be cultivated by the Cyropaedia were considered indispensable for the Christian prince (1968, 13). Berlin argues that Machiavelli defends “energy, boldness, practical skill, imagination, vitality, self–discipline, shrewdness, public spirit, good fortune, antiqua virtus, virtu—firmness in adversity, strength of

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character, as celebrated by Xenophon or Livy” (1980, 60). Yet he overlooks the Christian element of the virtues Machiavelli actually attributes to Xenophon’s Cyrus. 2. According to Aristotle leisure (scolhv) is the condition of contemplative virtue; for Machiavelli, it becomes the corruption of political virtue (Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics, 1177b4–27; Mansfield 1996, 14). See also Rebhorn (1988, 193–98) and Hulliung (1983, 206). 3. Consider Fontana (1999, 656). 4. By the end of this passage Machiavelli’s ambiguous use of pronouns makes it difficult to determine when he is speaking of the reformers and when he is speaking of corrupt clergymen. 5. Thus we see how the epochal events ancient historians attribute to great rulers are for modern readers merely various “accidents,” not the result of any imitable human virtue (Discourses I pr.2). 6. Sullivan (1996, 5, 12, 50–55, 75, 120), Berlin (1980, 47, 57, 69), Skinner (1978, 167), Bonadeo (1973, 5–6), Strauss (1978, 49, 180, 187–88). 7. See also Hulliung (1983, 66, 68), Skinner (1978, 129–34), Strauss (1978, 20). 8. Butterfield (1962, 15–36, 80–85, but cf. 85), Olschki (1945, 38 ff.), Walker (in Machiavelli 1950, 82–83, 92–93), Cassirer (1946, 157 ff.), de Sanctis (n.d., vol. 2, ch. 15). 9. Orwin (1978, 1218). 10. Meinecke (1965) discusses Machiavelli’s hidden morality; Ridolfi (1963, 253), his underlying Christian conscience. 11. See also Villari (1968, vol. 2, 92–93), Olschki (1945, 18), and Parel (1972, 51–52, 61). Skinner offers another important, yet more confused, formulation of this general thesis. Like Berlin, he holds that Machiavelli endorses the conventional civic–humanistic assumption that “virtú is the name of that congeries of qualities which enables a prince to ally with Fortune and obtain honor, glory and fame” (2000, 44; 1981, 39–40). But like Butterfield and Walker, he also asserts that Machiavelli differs from others insofar as he “divorces the meaning of the term from any necessary connection with the cardinal and princely virtues.” He argues instead that the defining characteristic of a truly virtuoso prince will be a willingness to do “whatever is dictated by necessity—whether the action happens to be wicked or virtuous—in order to attain his highest ends. So virtú comes to denote precisely moral flexibility in a prince” (1981, 39–40, 62–64; 2000, 42–44; 1978, 131, 135–38). The weakness of Skinner’s argument lies in his failure to consider the full significance of (even though he vaguely acknowledges [cf. 2000 pr., 41]) the fact that such “moral flexibility” is alien or inimical to the classical and humanist understanding of virtue (even in its most politically savvy manifestations). Consider also F. Gilbert (1965, 195–6) and Pocock (1972, 169). 12. Cf. Hulliung who challenges Berlin’s account on the grounds that Machiavelli wishes to “destroy part of the pagan tradition (Stoicism) and all of Christianity” (1983, 251, 189–218); see also Coby (1999a, 219–20). Geerkin rightly takes issue with Berlin’s dichotomization of morality as either Christian or pagan–heroic; how-

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ever, his argument that Machiavelli seeks a “middle ground between pagan and Christian alternatives” (1999, 595) still fails to capture the depth of Machiavelli’s challenge to both traditions. 13. Strauss (1978, 86). 14. F. Gilbert (1965, 195–6). Colish (1999) argues that Machiavelli’s intention is to integrate Christianity “well-used” into the civic and military institutions of free republics. Geerkin asserts that Machiavelli’s account of the politically astute Moses and the “warrior God of Exodus” provided him with “means helpful for reforming contemporary religion” (1999, 592). 15. Strauss (1978, 179–80), Sullivan (1996, 120–21). See also Fontana (1999). Cf. the position taken by a number of Italian scholars that Machiavelli’s pragmatic or politicized interpretation of religion does not preclude genuine belief on his part, but is rather a reflection of his anticlericism. Alderioso (1930, 48–50, 105–6, 127–30, 133, 137–40, 171–91, 217–56), Cantimori (1987, 11–16, 20–21, 24, 26–28, 30, 35–36, 48–49, 52), Sasso (1980, 93–95, 107, 115, 197–205, 422–27, 429, 512–16, 600). See also Colish (1999). Others go so far as to suggest that for Machiavelli political success depends on divine grace, e.g., De Grazia (1989, 30–87, 376–84), Nederman (1999), and Teneti (1969, 715, 724–27, 730–39, 746). 16. Geerkin claims that Machiavelli perverts Christian teachings, replacing the Golden Rule, and the Sermon on the Mount, for example, with his own political teachings and maxims (1988, 28–32). On Machiavelli’s “secularization” of religion, see Cassirer (1945, 130, 137 ff., 154). Cf. Coby (1999a, 274, 342–43 n. 84), Rebhorn (1988, 133), Hulliung (1983, 208–9, 235–37). See Strauss’ discussion of Machiavelli’s “posthumous” conquest (1978, 83, 105, 154, 165, 169, 297). 17. On the indented scope of Machiavelli’s teaching on virtue, see Mansfield (1996, 262–63) and Strauss (1978, 179). 18. Viz., liberality and meanness; giving and rapacity; cruelty and mercy; faithlessness and faithfulness; effeminacy/pusillanimity and ferociousness/spiritedness; humanity and pride; lasciviousness and chastity; honesty and cleverness; hardness and agreeability; gravity and lightness; religiosity and disbelief. 19. Machiavelli’s assertion that goodness and political success do not necessarily coincide is not a new insight. Machiavelli himself points out that even his most ardently moral predecessors recognize this fact about political life when they first acknowledge Hannibal’s success in maintaining the order and stability of his army, and then condemn the basis of his success, his inhuman cruelty. “And the writers, having considered little in this, on the one hand admire his action but on the other damn (dannano) the principal cause of it” (Prince 17). See Berlin (1980, 26), Orwin (1978, 1218), and our own discussion of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and Hiero; cf. A. Gilbert (1968, 77–83). 20. Strauss (1978, 242, 188), Orwin (1978, 1219). 21. Compare Machiavelli’s official account this same incident in his letter of 13 September 1506, where he attributes Giovampagolo’s failure to his “good nature and humanity” (in Machiavelli 1964 [Legazioni e commisari], vol. 2, 980).

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22. Consider Sullivan (1996, 162). 23. This phrase can also mean “one’s being good.” Ramsay’s difficulty with the implications of Machiavelli’s position is typical of that of many scholars. She is not necessarily wrong in saying that for Machiavelli “the quality of mercy might be cruelty in disguise—we may have to be cruel to be kind” (1995, 179). But she goes too far in suggesting that for Machiavelli the judicious use of vice is sometimes “morally necessary . . . to achieve the desired results” (183, emphasis added). According to her formulation, Machiavelli’s teaching still takes its bearings from the supremacy of traditional notions of moral goodness. 24. Machiavelli himself invites such a comparison. Consider his allusion to Aristotle’s presentation of liberality in Prince 15: consistent with Aristotle’s account in the Nicomachean Ethics (1119b20–1122a17), Machiavelli (initially) characterizes liberality as a mean between stinginess and rapine. Though he eventually departs from this understanding of liberality, he invites us to view that departure in Aristotelian terms. 25. Aristotle does not consider mercy (“a kind of pain following the sight of evil” Rhetoric 1385b [II 8.1]) a virtue to be admired, but a passion to be regulated by virtue. Consider Nicomachean Ethics 1105b29–28: “The virtues and vices cannot be emotions, because we are not called good or bad on the basis of our emotions, but on the basis of our virtues and vices.” And our virtues or vices are characteristics, the goodness or badness of which are determined by how we react to, or moderate, our emotions—the goal being to allow ourselves to be swayed neither too much nor too little by our emotions. See also Aristotle’s Rhetoric where he presents the consideration of suffering (pavqh th:ß yuch:ß) as unessential (ouj periv tou: pravgmatoß) to rhetoric (1354a [I 1.4]), which is ultimately an offshoot of “ethical” or “political” studies (1356a [I 2.7]). These observations suggest that Machiavelli deliberately uses the idiom of Aristotle’s definition of virtue to discuss what is primarily a Christian virtue, with the intention of highlighting the assimilation of ancient philosophy by Christian theology. 26. See also Strauss (1978, 241). 27. Cf. III 9.1: “I have often considered that the cause of the bad and of the good fortune of men is the matching of the mode of one’s proceeding with the times. For one sees that some men proceed in their works with impetuosity, some with hesitation and caution. And because in both of these modes suitable limits are passed, since one cannot observe the true way, in both one errs. But one comes to err less and to have prosperous fortune who matches the time with his mode, as I said, and always proceeds as nature forces you.” See also II 23; Prince 25, end. 28. Consider Danél (1997, 189–97). 29. Machiavelli does not give a clear example in this passage of how Hannibal’s cruelty hurt him. See Mansfield (1979, 377). 30. See Pangle and Ahrensdorf (1999, 128).



Conclusion The Philosopher and Politics

This book began with the observation that Machiavelli is for many contemporary communitarian scholars a crucial link in the Atlantic republican tradition. As such, his writings have the potential to lead us to a more meaningful “public philosophy,” and help us resurrect our capacity for the moral and political virtues necessary for healthy self-government. Our question, however, was whether Machiavelli is in fact a reliable guide in the cultivation of such virtue. Those who place Machiavelli in the middle of this republican tradition may recognize certain tensions and discrepancies between Machiavelli’s thought and that of the classical tradition, but they do not fully articulate their significance. As we have attempted to show in these pages, if Machiavelli praises the vigor of ancient republics, he does not do so in the same terms as ancient political theorists. Machiavelli’s republicanism, for all intents and purposes, rejects the classical view that humanity’s selfish nature and the malignancies of factional strife must or even can be overcome through the self-denying civic virtue fostered by the fixed constitutions of such traditional regimes as Xenophon’s Old Persia and Sparta. In praising Rome over Sparta, Machiavelli emphasizes not the citizens’ moral and political virtue—which is understood by the classical tradition to be grounded on a belief in the intrinsic goodness of self-sacrificial obedience to the regime as such—but Rome’s “accidental qualities.” He praises Rome’s continual institution of orders that were able to accommodate and redirect, as opposed to overcome, the selfish interests of its citizens as both individuals and political partisans. At the very least, it is doubtful that a resurrection of Machiavellian

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republicanism would be sufficient for fostering the solidarity and selfless devotion to civic virtue that is missing in the contemporary liberal ethic of individual liberation. But there is another, more important sense in which Machiavelli’s thought poses a challenge to those seeking to articulate the connection between vigorous citizenship and our fulfillment as moral beings inclined to the pursuit of human excellence. As we have seen, Machiavelli’s break from traditional republicanism is guided not simply by his candid assessment of the substantive requirements of healthy cities, but by a much more complex and comprehensive reevaluation of the necessary relationship between human excellence and traditional notions of moral goodness. Machiavelli’s critique of Xenophon is an integral part of his attempt to articulate a wholly new understanding of human virtue that supplants the teachings of classical political philosophy and undermines the moral authority of Christian spirituality. Because the classical understanding of virtue as a transcendent good in itself has been assimilated by Christian spirituality, with its denigration of temporal strength and human vigor, classical political thought—even Xenophon’s sympathetic exploration of political glory—can no longer serve as a viable guide for effective politics. Machiavelli’s redefinition of virtue is intended to change both the ends to which politics is explicitly directed, and the manner in which those ends are pursued. His reevaluation of human excellence encourages the pursuit of temporal glory and prosperity as the most tangible form of genuine human flourishing. And he encourages humanity to pursue such worldly goods with a moral freedom not possible under traditional ideals of virtue, particularly the Christian notion of the guilty conscience. The question, however, is whether the unprecedented practicality of Machiavelli’s teaching of the “effective truths” of political life (the “public” quality of his philosophy) does not ultimately stand as an obstacle to a full appreciation of our condition as human beings and citizens. Machiavelli is far more optimistic than Xenophon and the classical tradition as a whole regarding the political philosopher’s ability to have a direct, salutary influence on human welfare. Sandel tacitly points to the significance of this aspect of Machiavelli’s thought when he suggests that “if theory never keeps its distance but inhabits the world from the start, we may find a clue to our condition in the theory that we live” (1996, ix–x). In light of this suggestion, we might surmise that this makes Machiavelli’s work, as opposed to that of his predecessors, most capable of leading us to understand the moral and theoretical foundations of our political existence. In the end, however, the effect of Machiavelli’s political teaching is a deliberate shrinking of the moral horizon within which we deliberate about what is good for human beings as po-

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litical animals, as individuals capable of perfecting ourselves through the cultivation of our highest intellectual faculties. What is missing from Machiavelli’s account of political life, but which one finds even in Xenophon’s most “political” writings, is a consideration of the sufficiency of political excellence as regards human excellence as such. Machiavelli’s political philosophy explicitly avoids questions of human excellence that would encourage the politically ambitious to consider, and possibly to become enamored with, the transcendent virtues articulated in Socratic philosophy. In Machiavelli’s writings political excellence never points beyond itself to the transpolitical intellectual goods alluded to in both Xenophon’s Hiero and Cyropaedia. No less significant is the fact that Machiavelli’s reformulation of virtue according to standards of political success challenges and eventually undermines the spiritual truths of Christianity, the deepest roots of its abiding moral authority. If we fail to appreciate how Machiavelli’s teaching, as public philosophy, is intended to limit the theoretical and religious dimensions of our care for virtue, we risk being unable to recognize what we might be required to sacrifice (if we have not done so already) for the sake of politically expedient public morality. Most importantly, we risk being unable to mount a theoretically sound defense of a more morally engaging republicanism, and of political life as a necessary expression of human virtue. But we must not go too far in dismissing the philosophical aspects of Machiavelli’s work. Machiavelli’s substantive political teaching may indeed have helped narrow the scope of public discourse, but this is not because Machiavelli himself had a narrowly technical or philosophically unsophisticated understanding of humanity’s place in the world.1 To say that Machiavelli’s teaching may have led subsequent generations to a more limited notion of the relationship between philosophy, politics, and morality is not to suggest, of course, that Machiavelli himself was unaware of the full range of questions necessary for the study of politics as a manifestation of our human wants and needs. We cannot deny the significance of Machiavelli’s emphasis on the human potential embodied in the active political virtues. However, we cannot conclude from this that Machiavelli does not appreciate the distinction Xenophon draws between political and intellectual excellence. Nor can we deny that he might even share some of Xenophon’s reservations about the ultimate choice-worthiness of political life. Two observations in particular suggest that for Machiavelli the search for human excellence is not exhausted by the search for the substantive requirements of effective politics. Recalling Machiavelli’s sober assessment in Discourses III 31 of the limits of humanity’s capacity to conquer fortune, we see

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that his understanding of human excellence is grounded not simply on expert knowledge of politics, but on a more fundamental knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of human nature itself. And though we might be distracted by Machiavelli’s bold exhortations to political glory, his substantive political teaching does not fully account for his own excellence as the thinker behind the Discourses and The Prince.2 Despite Machiavelli’s lucid articulation of a practicable foundation for the human autonomy manifest in political glory, his acceptance of the limitations of such greatness in the face of worldly events and conditions beyond human control reflects an intellectual freedom and excellence on his part that is not strictly tied to or defined by active participation in political affairs. This suggests a deeper kinship between Machiavelli and Xenophon as philosophers, which most scholars have overlooked in their focus on the practical bent of Machiavelli’s works. As a political philosopher, Machiavelli engages in a politically disinterested exploration of the human condition that is akin to that undertaken by Xenophon and other Socratic philosophers. This suggests an added dimension or significance to the public character of Machiavelli’s political teaching. We already know that Machiavelli’s attempt at practical and popular dissemination of his political wisdom implies a novel understanding of the extent to which wise men such as himself are capable of influencing the course of human affairs. And we know that underlying his harsh political teaching is a sternly benevolent concern with securing the political goods necessary for human flourishing. But it remains a question whether and to what extent such involvement in political affairs is beneficial to the philosopher as such. Might not the unprecedented pragmatism of Machiavelli’s writings suggest that while transpolitical contemplative virtue may be crucial to the full realization of human excellence in the broadest sense, it is somehow incomplete in itself, and must be supplemented or completed by the philosopher’s direct involvement in political affairs? On one level, Machiavelli’s pragmatism is tied to a prudential consideration of the relationship between philosophy and the city. As reflected in Xenophon’s understated style and apparent conservatism, classical philosophy enjoyed only a tenuous existence at the margins of society. The pursuit of knowledge entails questioning the traditional moral and political beliefs that are the foundation of civic life. But what if the philosopher could establish himself as a more effective guide than conventional moral and political institutions in securing the political goods most essential to human flourishing? In this sense, the practical character of Machiavelli’s writings provide a model for future philosophers, showing them the path to becoming essential advisors to the ambitious, and stern benefactors to humanity in general.

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By freeing the pursuit and articulation of political wisdom from the constraints of traditional morality, Machiavelli seeks to create an environment in which individuals like himself can flourish, unafraid of the kind of persecution embodied especially in the Church’s attempt to purge society of the intellectual challenges to its moral (and political) authority. Machiavelli’s concern for and involvement in political affairs is also motivated by the requirements of knowledge itself. As a philosopher, Machiavelli shares with his classical predecessors a desire for as fundamental and complete an understanding of human nature as possible. Such knowledge necessarily includes a full recognition of the limitations of the human faculties. But humanity’s limitations expose themselves only in the light of the effective truth of the human condition, including or especially the effective truth of political life. As Machiavelli’s critique of the classical and Christian emphasis on transcendent virtue makes clear, such knowledge is in danger of becoming obscured once one succumbs to the longing for ideals of human perfection. Hence, to confirm his superior understanding of humanity’s potential and limitations, the philosopher must demonstrate the effective truth of his teaching. Though the philosopher’s wisdom not only encompasses, but surpasses, the more contingent knowledge of princes and peoples, this wisdom is valid only to the extent that it remains capable of articulating and realizing the limited goods that are the objects of the rest of humanity. To understand the people, one must be, in a sense, a prince in the mold of Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus. That is, philosophers understand humanity only when they understand how to shape it, when they recognize humanity’s malleable nature and its receptivity to the most extreme form of political rule, the wholesale redefinition of virtue. For Machiavelli, understanding and making are intractably linked: to understand humanity is to be able to change humanity.3 Finally, Machiavelli’s attempt to assume a greater role in political affairs suggests he believes that philosophers’ intellectual activity does not completely satisfy their longing for full expression of their capacities and strengths as human beings. Machiavelli may very well share with the classical tradition the belief that philosophic reflection—which for Machiavelli consists in the time he spends “in the courts of ancient men . . . [feeding] on the food that alone is mine and that I was born for” (Letter to Francesco Vettori [December 10, 1513])—comprises the highest excellence of which human beings are capable. But Machiavelli’s critique of classical thought, especially Socratic philosophy, suggests that it goes too far in its estimation of the degree to which human fulfillment consists in the transcendence of political affairs; it does not do complete justice to the powerful allure of political greatness for

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even the “exceptional, that is, accidental members of the species, who as such share, if in a highly refined way, the sub-theoretical needs and satisfactions that absorb their fellows” (Pangle and Ahrensdorf 1999, 130). We are thus led to suspect that Machiavelli’s ambitious attempt to change the moral foundations of political life is not simply a reflection of a disinterested philosophic understanding of human nature and politics, but also a reflection of Machiavelli’s qualified desire for the honor and glory bestowed upon those who succeed in effecting the greatest substantive benefits for the general welfare. We cannot help but wonder whether Machiavelli’s famous smile comes from contemplating the postmortem glory of his harsh yet beneficent vision of human potential.

Notes 1. Cf. Fleisher (1972, 143–45), Berlin (1980, 44), and Parel (1972, 148). 2. Machiavelli’s high regard for the contemplative life can be seen in his Letter to Francesco Vettori of December 10, 1513, as well as in the dedicatory letter to The Prince. 3. See Strauss, 1978, 244.



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———. 1983. Xenophon’s Anabasis. In Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy. Edited by Thomas L. Pangle. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Originally published in Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy 4, number 3 (1973). ———. 1998. Xenophon’s Socratic Discourse: An Interptetation of the Oeconomicus. Reprint, South Bend, Ind.: St. Augustine’s Press. Original edition, Ithaca, N. Y.: Cornell University Press, 1970. ———. 2000. On Tyranny, rev. and exp. ed. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Sullivan, Vickie B. 1992. Machiavelli’s Momentary ‘Machiavellian Moment’: A Reconsideration of Pocock’s Treatment of the Discourses. Political Theory 20: 309–18. ———. 1996. Machiavelli’s Three Romes: Religion, Liberty, and Politics Reformed. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press. Tarcov, Nathan. 1988. Skinner’s Method and Machiavelli’s Prince. In Meaning and Context: Quentin Skinner and his Critics. Edited by James Tully. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Tatum, James. 1989. Xenophon’s Imperial Fiction: On the Education of Cyrus. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Teneti, Alberto. 1969. La religione di Machiavelli. Studi storici 10: 709-48. Too, Yun Lee. 1998. Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Disfiguring the Pedagogical State. In Pedagogy and Power: Rhetorics of Classical Learning. Edited by Yun Lee Too and Niall Livingstone. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Villari, Pasquale. 1968. The Life and Times of Niccolò Machiavelli. 2 vols. Augmented and revised ed. , translated by Linda Villari. New York: Goodwin Press. Originally published: 1892. London: T. Fisher Unwin. Viroli, Maurizio. 1990. Machiavelli and the Republican Idea of Politics. In Machiavelli and Republicanism. Edited by Gisela Bock, Quentin Skinner, and Maurizio Viroli. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1998. Machiavelli. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 1999. Republicanism. New York: Hill and Wang. Vlastos, Gregory. 1991. Socrates, Ironist and Moral Philosopher. Ithaca, N.Y. : Cornell University Press. Wood, Neal. 1964. Xenophon’s Theory of Leadership. Classica et Mediaevelia 25: 33–66. ———. 1967. Machiavelli’s Concept of Virtù Reconsidered. Political Studies 15: 159–72. ———. 1972. The Value of Asocial Sociability: Contributions of Machiavelli, Sidney, and Montesquieu. In Machiavelli and the Nature of Political Thought. Edited by Martin Fleisher. New York: Atheneum. Xenophon. 1855. Cyropaedia or Institution of Cyrus and The Hellenics or Grecian History. Edited and translated by J. S. Watson and Henry Dale. London: Henry G. Bohn. ———. 1890. The Cyropaedia of Xenophon. Edited and translated by Hubert A. Holden. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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———. 1900-1920. Xenophontis Opera Omnia. Edited by E. C. Marchant. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 1968. Xenophontis Institutio Cyri. Edited by W. Gemoll. Leipzig: B. G. Teubneri. ———. 1979. A History of My Times. Translated by G. Cawkwell. Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books. ———. 1983. Cyropaedia: Text and Translation. Edited and translated by Walter Miller. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 2001. The Education of Cyrus. Translated and annotated by Wayne Ambler. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press.

Index

acquisitiveness, 22, 26. See also honor; self-interest Alderioso, Felice, 129n15 ambition. See honor American founding, xi–xii Anderson, John Kinloch, xvi n16 Aristotle, 44, 123–24; Nicomachean Ethics, 31n10, 124, 127nn1–2, 130nn24–25; Politics, 13n1, 14n13, 31n6, 31n10, 47nn3–4; Rhetoric, 130n25 Berlin, Isaiah, xiii n6, 120, 127n1, 128n12 Bonadeo, Alfredo, 30n1, 128n6 Bracciolini, Poggio, xv Bruell, Christopher, 4, 13n1, 79n10, 97n19 Bruni, Leonardo, xv Cantimori, Delio, 129n15 Cassirer, Ernst, 129n16 Cawkwell, G., 13n4

Christianity, xx–xxi corruption of the clergy and, 115–116; and political strength, 114–15, 116, 118–19, 121–23. See also virtue; human nature Cicero: xxiv n12; On Duties, 111n9; Tusculan Disputations, 111n1 civic republicanism. See republicanism class conflict. See partisan conflict Coby, Patrick, 30n1, 31n12, 32n15, 128n12, 129n16 Codevilla, Angelo M., 111n10 common good. See virtue; partisan conflict compulsion. See force Colish, Marcia L., 129n14 Croce, Benedetto, 117 Cyrus: consolidation of authority, 71–76; decline of Cyrus’ empire, 51–53, 76–79; dubious tactics of, xvi–xviii, 45, 72–76; political reforms, 57–65, 64–65. See also honor; virtue De Grazia, Sebastien, 129n15

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146



Index

education: Persian, 5–7 philosophic, 81–82 expansion, 21–23 Fischer, Markus, 31n9 force, 6; obedience through, 11–13, 44, 88, 102–3, 105–9 foreign policy. See expansion; justice friendship. See love Geerkin, John H., 128n12, 129n14, 129n16 Gera, Deborah Levine, xxiv n17, 14n7, 48n13, 79n6, 79n9 Gilbert, Allan H., 127n1 Gilbert, Felix, xxiv n10 Glenn, Gary D., 38 Herodotus, 31n13, 79n10 Higgins, W. E., 13n4 Hobbes, Thomas, xii honor, 11–12, 35–36, 54–55, 62, 82–83; Cyrus’ love of, 45–47, 85–86 Hulliung, Mark, 128n12 human nature: Christianity and, 120; politics and, 16, 19–20, 26, 102–3, 105–6, 110–11 imperialism. See expansion; justice Jefferson, Thomas, xii justice: and equality, 59–61, 62, 64; as gratitude, 6; as helping friends and harming enemies, 9, 11; imperial aggression and, 22–23, 53; and meritocracy, 59, 64; tyranny and, 38–39; as what is fitting, 10 law: rule of, limits, 10–11, 15–18, 25, 27, 45, 62 legitimacy, political, 44–45; Cyrus’, 56–57, 80n15, 62, 64–65. See also tyranny

Lisio, Guiseppe, 111n10 Livy: Histories, 107, 112n12, 112n17 Locke, John, xii, 29 love: erotic longing, 41–43, 45; and fear, 103; friendship, politics, and, 37, 74–76, 89–90 Machiavelli: Letter to Francesco Vettori, 135, 136n2; modern scholarship on, xi–xiv, 116–120. See also virtue Mansfield, Harvey C., Jr., 112n16, 129n17 Nadon, Christopher, xxiv n17, 80n20, 96n8, 97n17 necessity: politics and human, 86 Nederman, Cary L., 129n15 Newell, W. R., 41, 112n13 obedience, 87–90, 88. See also force Pangle, Thomas L. and Ahrensdorf, Peter J., 136 partisan conflict, 16–21, 23–24, 57–60, 65–66 philosophy: Socratic, 93–95, 134; tension between the city and, 95–96, 132–34 Pitkin, Hanna Fenichel, 30n1 Plato: Republic, 13n2, 14n9, 47n5, 93 Pocock, J. G. A., xi–xiii, xv, xxiv n10, 3 Polybius, 47n2 punishment. See force Ramsay, Maureen, 123 religion: political rule and, 56–57, 64, 84, 91–93. See also Christianity republicanism: civic republicanism/ civic humanism, xi–xii, 131–32; Machiavelli’s critique of classical, 24–26; republican freedom, 18–20

Index

Sage, Paula Windsor, 13n4 Sallust, xv, xxiv n12 Salutati, Coluccio, xv Sandel, Michael J., xxiii n1, 132 Sasso, Gennaro, 129n15 self-interest: 28–29; economic, 37–38; tension between justice and, 11, 13–14. See also acquisitiveness; virtue Skinner, Quentin, xi–xiii, xiv n10, xv, 3, 28n14, 120n11 Socrates, 14n7, 14n9, 93–95. See also philosophy Sparta, 3–4; Machiavelli’s discussion of, 15, 18–19 Strauss, Leo, 83, 96n5, 97n19, 123, 129nn16–17, 135 Tatum, James, xxiv n17, 79n8 Teneti, Alberto, 119n15 Thucydides, 47n2 tyranny: injustice of, 35–36; Machiavelli’s assimilation of republicanism, monarchy, and, 26–30, 101–2. See also justice; virtue



147

Viroli, Maurizio, xxiv n10, 30n5 virtue: Christian, 114; corruption of under Cyrus, 76–78; cruelty and mercy, 104–5; Cyrus’, 44–47; in Cyrus’ empire, 60–61, 65–76; Machiavelli’s redefinition of, 101–6, 121–25, 132; of Persian Republic, 4–8; philosophic, 83, 93; political, limits of, 6–7, 91, 126–27; politics and moral, 24–26; self-interest and, 54–55, 66–71; self-sacrifice and, 53–56; tyranny and moral, 43; tyranny and political, 39–40 Vivanti, Corrado, 31n11 Xenophon: Anabasis, xxiv n11, 80n13, 96n9, 97n19; Apology of Socrates to the Jury, 94; conservatism of, xix–xx, 78–79, 109–10; differences with other classical philosophers, 34; Lacedaemonian Constitution, 4; Memorabilia, 14nn8–9, 14n12, 47n5; 84; modern scholarship on, xvi–xvii, 52; Oeconomicus, 14n10, 80n13, 96n11–13, 93, 95



About the Author

Paul J. Rasmussen holds a Ph.D. in political theory from the University of Toronto. He has taught at Baruch College, the University of MichiganDearborn, and California State University–San Bernardino. He is currently working on a book about the history of patriotism.

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